The knight immediately dropped his practice dummy and hurried over, bowing respectfully. "Your Grace?"
"Draw your sword," Alaric ordered flatly. He pointed a finger at the twelve-year-old girl standing in the dirt. "Fight her. Live steel. Do not hold back, and do not treat her like a lady. If I see you pulling your strikes, I'll have my Blood Knights break your arms."
The Tyrell knight blinked, looking between the massive, imposing King and the tiny Northern girl. He swallowed hard, but he didn't dare disobey. With the sharp ring of steel, he drew his broadsword.
Arya didn't hesitate. She didn't complain about the unfairness of the matchup. She immediately dropped into a low, balanced stance, raising her own blade.
The fight was brutal, exactly as Alaric intended.
The Tyrell knight swung with the heavy, practiced force of a seasoned soldier. Arya was fast, but she was still small. She parried the first strike, but the sheer kinetic force sent a violent shudder up her arms, nearly knocking the blade from her grip. She stumbled backward, and the knight followed up with a vicious backhand from his gauntlet.
It caught Arya right in the jaw. She spun hard into the dirt, tasting copper as blood filled her mouth.
Alaric didn't move. He just watched her. Stay down, the knight's eyes seemed to say, horrified by what he had just done to the King's sister-in-law.
But Arya didn't stay down. She spat a mouthful of blood into the dirt, her eyes narrowing into dangerous, hateful slits.
She scrambled back to her feet, her breathing heavy but completely steady. That was where the hundred daily push-ups, the sit-ups, and the endless running around the city perimeter came into play. She wasn't just quick anymore; she had forged a foundation of iron-clad stamina.
For the next ten minutes, Arya took a beating. She was clipped by the flat of the knight's blade, bruised, and knocked into the dust three more times. But every time she fell, she got back up faster.
Slowly, the heavy armor and the midday heat began to take their toll on the Tyrell knight. His swings grew wider, his footwork sloppier. He was gasping for air. Arya, breathing heavily but still fundamentally sound, saw her opening.
As the knight committed to a heavy, downward cleave, Arya didn't try to block it. She sidestepped with fluid, water-like grace, letting the heavy steel bury itself an inch into the dirt.
Before the knight could yank it free, Arya lunged. She completely bypassed his guard, stepping inside his reach and slamming the edge of her live steel directly against the unarmored gap at his throat.
The knight froze, his chest heaving, a single drop of blood welling up where Arya's blade pressed into his skin.
"Enough," Alaric's voice cut through the yard.
Arya immediately stepped back, lowering her sword. She wiped a mixture of sweat and blood from her bruised cheek, her chest heaving as she looked up at Alaric, waiting for his judgment.
A slow, genuine smirk spread across Alaric's face. She hadn't fought with honor. She had fought to survive, letting her opponent exhaust himself before going for a lethal, pragmatic strike.
"You didn't quit," Alaric noted, walking over to her.
"You told me not to," Arya replied, her voice raspy.
Alaric raised a hand and accessed his System inventory. A ripple of blue light warped the air, and a weapon materialized in his grasp. It was a beautifully crafted, dark-steel shortsword. The blade was a masterwork, perfectly balanced and light enough for her frame, but forged from a systemic metal that could sheer through standard iron like butter.
He flipped it effortlessly and offered her the hilt.
"You passed," Alaric said. "You're my student now. But I don't have time to hold your hand in the yard every day. You want to learn how to rule and fight? You start by learning the battlefield."
Arya took the dark-steel sword, her eyes widening at the perfect, weightless balance of the weapon.
"You are going to act as sansa. You stand at her shoulder during meetings. If a dockmaster or a merchant steps out of line, you remind them exactly whose family they are talking to. Clear?"
Arya looked up from the blade, a fierce, predatory grin breaking across her bruised face.
"Crystal."
By the time night fell, the Ivory Cloud Palace was bathed in the soft, flickering light of silver braziers. The air was cool, the city below completely quiet under the blanket of darkness.
Alaric walked down the pristine marble corridors of the eastern wing, leaving his heavy armor and the day's politics behind. He wore a simple, dark tunic, his footsteps completely silent thanks to his heightened stats. He reached the heavy oak doors of the guest chambers and pushed them open.
The room was warm, heated by the subterranean magic of the palace. Myrcella Lannister was standing by the massive, transparent crystal window, looking out over the sprawling, rebuilt city.
She wasn't the dirty, terrified prisoner from the dungeons anymore. She wore a beautiful, pale gold silk dress that fit perfectly in the royal court. Her blonde hair was washed and brushed, falling softly over her shoulders.
Hearing the door click shut, she turned. The moment she saw Alaric, a bright, genuine smile lit up her face.
"Your Grace," Myrcella said, offering a deep, respectful curtsy. There was no fear in her green eyes anymore, only a warm, nervous anticipation.
She stepped away from the window, closing the distance between them. "I heard the news this afternoon," she said, her voice soft and genuinely happy. "I wanted to congratulate you. It is wonderful to hear that Sister Margaery and Sister Roslin are both with child."
Alaric raised an eyebrow, a hum of amusement vibrating in his chest. Sister Margaery. Sister Roslin. It seemed Margaery's plan to integrate the Lannister princess into the household had worked flawlessly over the three-week timeframe.
Instead of treating her like an enemy, Sansa, Margaery, and Roslin had taken the girl under their wing. They had given her a place to belong, completely severing her emotional ties to the toxic legacy of Cersei and Tywin. She saw herself as part of their pack now.
"They are," Alaric agreed smoothly, closing the remaining distance until he was standing right in front of her. "Which means they need their rest."
Myrcella's cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. She understood exactly why he was here. She looked up at him, her heart beating a rapid, fluttering rhythm against her ribs. She didn't pull away. She tilted her chin up, offering herself completely.