102 AC
The morning air was cool as Daemion Waters made his way through the inner ward of the Red Keep, boots striking stone in a steady rhythm. The castle was already awake. Servants hurried with baskets and buckets, pages ran messages between towers, and somewhere a bell rang to mark the hour.
At his side walked Ser Steffon Darklyn of the Kingsguard.
The white cloak flowed behind the knight with each step, its cloth spotless despite the dust of the yard ahead. His armor was plain, unadorned save for the sigil of the Kingsguard upon his breast, and his sword hung easy at his hip, as if it were merely another limb.
Daemion had never seen Ser Steffon without the calm.
"You walk too stiff," the knight said without looking down at him.
Daemion blinked. "I do?"
"You're expecting the ground to give way beneath you," Ser Steffon replied. "It won't."
Daemion loosened his shoulders at once, trying to mimic the easy confidence of the knight beside him. "Yes, ser."
Ser Steffon allowed himself a small nod. "Better."
It was an odd thing, being both guarded and guided by the same man. To the world, Ser Steffon was his sworn shield, assigned by royal command to ensure no harm came to the king's bastard. To Daemion, he was also master, teacher, and—when no one was listening—something close to a steady presence he could rely on.
They passed beneath an archway, the sounds of steel on steel growing louder with every step.
The training yard was already alive.
Knights and squires moved across the packed dirt, blades flashing in the sun, shields ringing as they met. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and oil. A pair of boys not much older than Daemion struggled with wooden swords near the fence, while a seasoned knight barked corrections at them.
Daemion felt his pulse quicken.
"You will watch first," Ser Steffon said, reading him easily. "Then you will train."
"Yes, ser."
"And you will not try to prove anything."
Daemion frowned. "I wasn't going to."
Ser Steffon finally looked down at him then, one brow lifting. "You always are."
Daemion said nothing.
They moved to the edge of the yard, where a rack of practice weapons stood. Ser Steffon selected a blunted sword and held it out, hilt-first.
"Take it."
Daemion did, gripping the leather-wrapped handle with practiced ease.
"Again," Ser Steffon said. "Your grip is too tight. A sword isn't an enemy. It's a tool."
Daemion adjusted his hand.
"Better," the knight said. "Remember that."
As they crossed into the open yard, eyes followed them.
Daemion felt it at once.
Some of the looks were curious. Some were amused. Others were sharp and measuring. He heard a whisper—Waters—and another voice hush it quickly.
The white cloak at his side did not waver.
"You hear them," Ser Steffon said quietly.
"Yes, ser."
"Good. Learn from it. Words are lighter than steel, but they cut deeper if you let them."
Daemion nodded, jaw set.
A knight stepped forward then, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair already thinning despite his strength. "Ser Steffon," he said with a grin. "You're starting him young."
"Someone must," Ser Steffon replied coolly. "The world won't wait for him to grow."
The knight's gaze slid to Daemion. "Got your father's look."
Daemion met his eyes without flinching.
"So I'm told," he said.
Ser Steffon said nothing, but his presence shifted—subtle, unmistakable.
The knight chuckled and stepped away.
"Well done," Ser Steffon said once they were alone again. "You didn't bow. You didn't bristle. Remember that balance."
Daemion exhaled slowly. "Yes, ser."
Ser Steffon drew his sword then, the blunted steel catching the light.
"Come," he said. "Show me your stance."
Daemion raised his practice blade, feet planting themselves in the dirt.
For the first time that morning, he smiled.