91 AC
Training Yard, Red Keep, Spring
The clang of steel against steel rang out through the Red Keep's private training yard. Sparks flew with each strike as Prince Daemon and Prince Aegon exchanged blows beneath the morning sun.
Both were clad in light armor, polished steel breastplates and vambraces over padded tunics. The weight no longer slowed them, the result of years of rigorous training under Ser Clement Crabb.
Daemon charged forward, blade arcing down in a fast diagonal. Aegon pivoted smoothly to the left, his feet light and precise, and let the strike sail past him.
Before Daemon could recover, Aegon snapped his blade out, a clean strike to the side of Daemon's torso that, had it not been dulled, would have left a long gash.
Daemon growled and stepped back, regaining his stance. "Again."
Aegon didn't speak, he simply advanced, letting the rhythm of the spar guide him. Daemon struck thrice in quick succession: a high feint, a low stab, and then a backhand sweep.
Aegon saw through it. He dodged the feint, parried the stab, and ducked under the sweep. As Daemon spun to reposition, Aegon lunged forward with a sudden feint of his own, then reversed the blade's direction and tapped Daemon's chest twice, a clear victory.
Daemon stumbled back, armor scuffed and his breath short. "Fuck. That's three defeats in a row... and by someone three years younger."
Aegon lowered his sword, grinning. "Could be worse. I can defeat Viserys in two blows, and he's four years older than you."
Daemon blinked, then burst into laughter. "I'll take the loss with grace then."
Despite the banter, Aegon watched his brother carefully. Daemon was proud and often hot-tempered. Aegon had made a habit of offering praise where it was due, nudging Daemon's confidence back up without being patronizing.
"Your counters were sharper today," Aegon added, nodding. "You almost caught me with that second feint."
Daemon smirked, swiping sweat from his brow. "Almost."
Ser Clement stepped forward from where he'd been observing, arms crossed, helm under one arm. His expression was firm, but there was unmistakable pride in his voice. "Marvelous strikes, my princes. It seems I have nothing more to teach either of you."
The brothers turned and bowed lightly to the knight.
"You've trained us well, Ser Clement," Aegon said with sincerity. "We wouldn't be half as skilled without your guidance."
"I learned more from you than the others put together," added Daemon. "Even if you still beat me with that blasted training stick."
Ser Clement chuckled. "The beatings served their purpose. I'll inform the King of your completed training. I trust you'll continue to refine your skills. A sharp sword dulls if left unused."
"We won't stop," Aegon said. Daemon nodded beside him.
With a respectful nod, Ser Clement turned and left the training yard, boots crunching on the gravel path as he vanished around the corner.
Aegon sheathed his practice sword, then tilted his head toward the balcony that overlooked the yard. "Look over there," he said, smirking.
Daemon turned to look.
A dozen young maids and several noble ladies leaned over the stone railing, clearly having watched the match from start to finish. Some clapped softly. Others giggled behind their hands when they saw the boys looking.
Daemon's grin spread. He raised a gloved hand and gave a flamboyant wave, followed by an exaggerated wink and mock bow. More giggles followed.
"Seems we've got admirers," Daemon said smugly.
Aegon rolled his eyes, amused. "Keep your armor on. You'll scare half of them off."
They shared a laugh, sweat glistening under their armor, the clang of their sparring still echoing in the quiet yard.
Sunlight filtered through the high arched windows of the Small Council chamber, casting sharp lines across the polished stone floor.
The chamber was quieter than usual today, no crisis from the Crownlands, no dispute from the Reach or Dorne, just the steady creak of wood as council members adjusted in their chairs, and the faint scratching of Lord Beesbury's quill as he annotated ledgers beside him.
At the center of the long oaken table sat King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Conciliator. His expression was calm, measured, but the spark in his eyes had not dulled with age.
Beside him was Queen Alysanne, her gaze sharper than his, her hands folded neatly on the table. Prince Baelon, seated to the King's left, leaned back slightly, arms crossed, while Prince Aemon, always composed, sat to his right.
On the far end, Lord Corlys Velaryon, newly returned from Driftmark, sat as the Master of Ships.
The tall, armored figure of Ser Clement Crabb stood near the foot of the table. His armor had been polished for the occasion, but he wore no cloak or flourish. A seasoned knight in his fifties, Ser Clement had spent years training the younger generation of Targaryens. Today, he had come with purpose.
Jaehaerys looked up from the parchment he had been reading. "You wished to speak, Ser Clement?"
Ser Clement bowed. "Aye, Your Grace. I come today to formally report on the training progress of your grandsons, Prince Daemon and Prince Aegon."
There was a murmur of interest around the table. Queen Alysanne leaned forward, attentive.
"Their training under my guidance has concluded," Ser Clement continued. "Both have surpassed the expectations I set for boys of their age. Their swordsmanship is refined. Their footwork, balance, and judgment in sparring are at the level of squires many years older. If not more."
"Daemon's always been a fast one with a blade," Prince Baelon said, with a proud half-smile.
Ser Clement nodded. "Indeed, Prince Daemon has spirit and aggression, well-honed into discipline. But it is Prince Aegon who has shocked me most."
That drew attention.
"He is only seven, Your Grace," Ser Clement said respectfully, turning toward the king. "But he fights with the precision and patience of a trained knight. His strikes are measured. His movements are calculated. And he has already bested Prince Daemon several times in fair sparring."
A few eyebrows rose around the table. Lord Beesbury's quill paused mid-scratch. Prince Aemon looked toward Queen Alysanne, whose eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Ser Clement continued, "It is my firm belief that, with continued training, both princes are ready for knighthood when they come of age. Their fundamentals are strong, and their discipline is commendable."
A long silence followed, broken only by the soft hiss of the brazier fire.
Then King Jaehaerys smiled, not wide, but with genuine pride. "You give fine praise, Ser Clement. And I thank you for your service to the crown and to our family."
"It was an honor, Your Grace."
Queen Alysanne turned to the king. "Aegon surprises us more with each moon's turn. He's grown faster and sharper than we expected."
"Aye," Prince Aemon added. "I saw them spar once. I thought it was play-fighting. Then Aegon disarmed Daemon with a pivot I've only seen knights use."
Prince Baelon grunted. "They'll make fine warriors when the time comes."
Lord Beesbury, always exact, spoke up. "It's rare to see such early skill in boys their age. Perhaps the blood of the dragon flows stronger in this generation."
Ser Clement gave a small bow, then stepped back. "If there is nothing more, Your Grace, I shall take my leave."
"Go with our thanks, Ser," said Jaehaerys warmly.
As the knight left the chamber, the tension in the room loosened. The meeting continued, but the mood was lighter now, suffused with a sense of optimism. Grandsons growing strong. Heirs learning quickly. The realm felt secure.
And the King, though old, could smile with the knowledge that the future of House Targaryen was in skilled, if still young, hands.
The long table in the royal dining hall was set lavishly with roast venison, honeyed carrots, and fresh-baked bread. Candlelight flickered along silver goblets, catching the glint in the eyes of the assembled Targaryens and their close kin.
The King and Queen sat at the head of the table, with Prince Baelon to the King's left and Queen Alysanne to his right. Down the table sat Prince Aemon and his wife Lady Jocelyn, and across from them were the royal grandchildren; Viserys, Daemon, and Aegon.
The usual clatter of cutlery and soft conversation filled the chamber until King Jaehaerys cleared his throat. The room settled quickly.
"I have heard of your impressive training sessions," the King said, his voice calm but carrying authority. "Both of you - Daemon and Aegon, have made remarkable progress. Tell me, is there any reward you desire for your hard work?"
Daemon, never one to hesitate, leaned forward slightly in his seat, face alight. "I would like a Valyrian steel sword, Grandfather."
There was a moment of silence, followed by a few raised eyebrows.
Prince Baelon, seated next to the King, let out a short chuckle. "A Valyrian steel sword is a rare and precious gift, boy. Perhaps a finely crafted steel blade would suit you better for now."
Daemon scowled lightly, but said nothing further, hiding his disappointment behind a sip of watered wine.
Then all eyes turned to Aegon. He had been quiet through the meal, focused more on the honeyed duck on his plate than the discussion. Wiping his mouth with a cloth, he looked up and spoke, his tone steady and sincere.
"I would like to join the City Watch. I want to learn more about the realm and its people."
The dining hall fell silent for a heartbeat. Even the servants paused briefly.
Queen Alysanne tilted her head, brows lifting slightly. "That is an unusual request for someone of your age," she said, her tone more curious than disapproving. "What draws you to the City Watch?"
Aegon met her gaze without hesitation. "I believe that understanding the people and their lives will make me a better leader. The City Watch sees the realm from a different perspective. I want to learn from that, from the ground up."
King Jaehaerys studied his grandson for a long moment, his fork resting idle against the edge of his plate. At last, he nodded.
"Your desire to understand the realm is commendable," the King said. "We shall discuss this further and see how best to accommodate your request."
Across the table, Daemon muttered just loud enough to be heard, "What's fun in the City Watch?"
Without missing a beat, King Jaehaerys turned to him, his tone even. "You'll be joining Aegon."
Daemon blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
The King raised a brow. "You could stand to see more of the city yourself. It will do you good."
Prince Baelon stifled a laugh, glancing at his younger son. Daemon leaned back in his chair with a groan but did not argue.
Then the King's gaze turned further down the table. "And you, Viserys. You've been neglecting your training."
Viserys looked up from his plate, caught mid-bite. "I've been... busy."
"He's building Old Valyria again," Daemon added dryly, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.
That earned him a firm smack on the back of the head from Baelon.
"Ow!"
Viserys cleared his throat. "They're models. I've been studying architecture. And... I've been focusing more on court politics. Learning the responsibilities of rule."
There was a faint murmur of acknowledgement from Queen Alysanne, who gave Viserys an approving nod. "That is not without value."
"But you'll return to training as well," the King said firmly. "A Targaryen prince should not be soft of body, even if his mind is sharp."
Viserys nodded reluctantly, his fork poking at a piece of carrot. "Yes, Grandfather."
At the far end, Aegon had resumed eating, largely uninterested in the back-and-forth now that the attention had shifted. He chewed quietly, satisfied that his request had been taken seriously. He did not need to press further. The City Watch would come, in time.
The conversation moved on to other matters, trade ships arriving in Driftmark, grain reserves in the Reach.
Back in his chambers, Aegon was surprised to find a new loose trait budding from the stem of his class tree:
[Trait: Squire's Instincts
(+10% weapon handling efficiency )
(+5% bonus to balance and grip when riding)
(+ 5% Less likely to flinch or fall when struck or unseated)]
The appearance of this trait confirmed a suspicion he had long held, that traits could be cultivated not only through class advancements or mystical events, but through consistent training and lived experience. The class tree, it seemed, accounted for all forms of growth.
Even more striking, his accumulated experience had quietly reached the threshold to level up [Heir of Old Valyria] to Level 10, the final stage.