Steel rang in the yard long before the sun had cleared the eastern clouds.
The storm had passed in the night, leaving the flagstones slick and the air heavy with salt. Puddles gathered in the shallow depressions of the courtyard, reflecting broken fragments of sky, and the banners that had strained so fiercely the evening before now hung sodden and dark against the walls. Storm's End did not look wounded. It never did. It simply endured whatever came for it.
Ser Harbert Morrigen stood in the center of the yard with a blunted longsword in hand and the patience of a man who had seen too many boys mistake strength for skill.
"Again," he said.
Robert did not wait to be told twice.
He lunged with a roar that seemed to echo against the stone itself, his wooden blade sweeping in a wide arc meant to overwhelm rather than outmaneuver. His size gave him an advantage even now, broad shoulders and thick arms lending force to every swing. The other boys, sons of minor stormlords and landed knights, shuffled back instinctively when he advanced, their boots scraping against wet stone.
Orys stepped forward when his name was called.
His blade was the same length as Robert's, but he held it differently, the tip angled lower, shoulders loose rather than rigid. His hair, cut short and practical, clung damply to his temples. He did not shout.
Robert grinned at him. "Try not to hide behind the shield this time."
"I won't need to," Orys said.
Ser Harbert gave the signal.
Robert came hard and fast, as he always did, boots splashing through puddles as he drove forward. The first blow crashed against Orys's shield with enough force to jar his arm, and the second came before the first had fully settled. The yard filled with the sound of wood striking wood, of breath forced from lungs, of boys cheering for violence they did not yet understand.
Orys yielded ground at first.
Not much. A half step. Then another.
Robert pressed the advantage eagerly, swinging high, then low, attempting to batter aside the guard entirely. A third blow would have split Orys's stance had he met it squarely.
He did not.
Instead, he pivoted.
The movement was small, barely more than a shift of weight, but it carried him inside Robert's arc. His shield caught the next swing not head-on, but at an angle, deflecting it just enough to disrupt the rhythm of Robert's advance. Before Robert could reset, Orys stepped forward and struck once, cleanly, against Robert's ribs.
The blow would not have broken bone. But it would have drawn blood.
The yard went quiet.
Robert stared at him for a heartbeat, rainwater still clinging to the ends of his hair.
Then he laughed.
"Again," Robert said, and came at him twice as hard.
The second bout lasted longer.
Robert adapted quickly, abandoning the broad, dramatic swings in favor of tighter strikes. He was not a fool, whatever others might think, instinct taught him faster than study ever would. The two boys circled one another across wet stone, boots slipping and correcting in equal measure.
This time, when Robert drove forward, Orys did not retreat.
He absorbed the impact through his legs, let the force travel through him rather than against him, and countered low, catching Robert's thigh. Robert stumbled. Orys followed, not with fury, but with precision, bringing the flat of his blade up against Robert's collarbone.
Ser Harbert raised a hand.
"Enough."
Robert exhaled sharply and shoved Orys away, not in anger, but in restless energy. "You wait too long," he said. "You let me hit you."
"I let you tire," Orys replied.
Robert scoffed. "I don't tire."
Orys did not answer that.
Around them, the other boys resumed their murmuring. A few cast sidelong glances at Orys, measuring him differently than they had the year before. He did not bask in it. He bent to retrieve his shield and wiped the rain from its surface with his sleeve.
From beneath the covered walkway, another figure watched in silence.
Stannis stood apart from the others, hands clasped behind his back, jaw set in its habitual line. He did not cheer for Robert's ferocity, nor did he smile at Orys's restraint. His eyes moved between them with careful assessment, as though weighing something unseen.
When the morning's drills ended, the boys dispersed toward the kitchens in search of bread and watered ale. Robert went first, still flushed from exertion, boasting loudly of how he would have crushed Orys had the bout continued. Laughter followed him.
Orys lingered behind, retrieving practice blades and stacking them neatly along the rack.
"You fight like you're already older," Stannis said without preamble.
Orys glanced up.
"Older than what?"
"Than him."
Robert's voice echoed faintly from within the hall. Stannis did not look toward it.
"He fights to win now," Stannis continued. "You fight to win later."
Orys set the final blade in place. "Later matters more."
Stannis studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether to argue. In the end, he only gave a short nod and turned away.
Left alone in the yard, Orys allowed himself a slow breath.
His arm ached where Robert's first blow had struck. A bruise would bloom there by nightfall. He pressed his thumb briefly against the tender spot, feeling the memory of impact, the lesson in it.
The storm from the night before had left small fractures in the outer stones of the yard wall, barely visible unless one looked closely. Orys crossed toward them and traced the line of one crack with his fingers.
It would widen, given enough time.
Everything did.
Behind him, the sea continued its assault against the cliffs, tireless and indifferent. The walls held...for now.
Orys stepped away from the crack and followed the others inside.
There would be more storms.
And he meant to be ready for them.