The sun had barely risen above the horizon when the clash of steel shattered the camp's stillness.
Jorah Mormont stepped back two paces, digging his heels into the damp sand. Before him stood Maegor, gripping a training spear far too large for his age—yet his stance was firm… unnaturally firm for a child.
"My lord, that's enough for today," Jorah said, breathing heavily. "Your body is still—"
"No," Maegor replied coldly. "My father said you were not to hold back."
Jorah clenched his teeth.
Damn it… that child shouldn't be able to move like that.
The Knight of the Bear tightened his grip on the training sword and advanced without restraint. His strike came down hard, aimed straight at the shoulder.
Maegor did not retreat.
He twisted the spear, deflecting the blow with a sharp, efficient motion, then stepped in immediately, driving the shaft into Jorah's chest.
The impact was brutal.
The air burst from the grown man's lungs in a choked gasp.
"Ugh!"
Jorah dropped to his knees.
Around them, the soldiers froze. No one spoke. No one breathed.
"Get up," Maegor ordered.
Jorah looked up. There was no arrogance in the boy's eyes. No emotion.
Only calculation.
"This is no longer training," Jorah growled as he forced himself to stand. "This is—"
"Survival," Maegor interrupted. "If you can't withstand me, you will die in a real war."
Jorah roared and charged.
The sword whistled through the air—fast, lethal.
Maegor released the spear, rolled beneath the swing, and hurled himself forward with his entire body. His small fist slammed directly into Jorah's stomach.
The sound was dry.
Something broke.
Jorah was sent flying several meters, rolling across the sand until he came to a stop on his back, coughing blood.
Absolute silence.
One of the Dothraki took a step back, superstitious.
"That…" another murmured. "That is not human strength."
Maegor walked slowly toward Jorah, stood over him, and tilted his head.
"You didn't hold back," he said, with a hint of disappointment. "And yet you're still weak."
Jorah tried to rise. His arms trembled.
This child… is a monster.
From a distance, Kerse watched with his arms crossed. He did not intervene. He did not shout. He showed no surprise.
Good, he thought. He didn't hold back.
Maegor stepped back and resumed his stance.
"We continue."
Jorah let out a bitter laugh as he spat blood.
"By the Seven… no. By the old gods… not even them." He coughed and looked up. "You are… worthy of respect, boy."
Maegor did not respond.
He attacked.
What followed was hell.
Blows that would have killed an ordinary man. Bones cracking. Sand stained red. Each time Jorah fell, Maegor waited. Each time he rose, the child attacked again.
There was no unnecessary cruelty.
Only absolute demand.
At last, Jorah fell one final time, unable to move.
Maegor watched him in silence for several seconds.
"Today you learned something," he said at last.
"Yes," Jorah replied with a broken smile. "That there are things… that should not be born."
Maegor turned on his heel and walked away without looking back.
From the shadows, Kerse smiled.