GO GIVE YOUR POWER STONES TO MY NEW STORY, IF YOU CAN. "A BLADEMASTER IN WESTEROS."
xxx
With a wooden sword across my knees, I sat by the fountain in one of the smaller practice yards of the castle, watching the dark grey sky slowly brighten. The Red Keep was quieter at this hour, the usual bustle of servants and guards still in a low simmer. In this small corner of the keep, all I could hear was the distant sound of the sea and the occasional call of gulls wheeling overhead.
The morning air was cool but not so much that my breath misted. I'd been here since before dawn properly broke, running through stretches and forms to get my blood moving. The yard was mine alone for now, though I knew that wouldn't last. Soon enough the knights and men-at-arms would arrive for their morning practice, and the peace would be shattered by the clash of steel and shouted instructions.
Movement caught my eye. A figure emerged from the direction of the Tower of the Hand, crossing the upper courtyard. Soft light of dawn washed across the upper half of his face and eyepatch until he climbed down the stairs onto the yard proper, passing into the shade of the eastern walls.
Gerion Lannister, late for first day in class.
"You're late," I called out.
He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "It's dawn. I can see the sun rising right now."
"If you can see the sun, you're late."
I stood in one fluid motion, scooping up the second practice sword I'd brought. Then I threw it toward his left side in a gentle arc.
Gerion fumbled the catch completely. His hand reached out too far, fingers closing on empty air while the wooden blade clattered to the stones beside him. He stared down at it, then up at me, chagrined.
His depth perception was truly gone, then. I'd suspected as much, but seeing it confirmed made my chest tight. The poison had taken more from him than just an eye. It was a tough world to be even half disabled. His nephew would attest to that in a few years.
I'd decided on wooden swords today and no padding. The whole point was dexterity, getting him used to moving differently. Heavy armor would only slow him down and hide the adjustments he needed to make.
"Really?" he asked, looking down at the fallen sword.
A memory came to mind, and I couldn't help the cheeky smile that spread across my face.
"Tomorrow, you will catch it, boy."
Gerion glared. I could see his Lannister pride flare up through the muscles of his jaw, teeth grinding. Somewhere in the Tower of the Hand, likely still in his dreams, Tywin Lannister was having a conniption about someone disrespecting his blood.
Bending down with deliberate carefulness, Gerion retrieved the practice sword. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"Not yet," I said. "But I will be."
xxx
We started slow. Basic forms, getting him warmed up. I watched how he moved, cataloging the differences from before.
His stance had shifted slightly. Weight more centered now, trying to compensate for the lost field of vision. His head turned more frequently, quick jerking motions as he tried to check his blind side. It was instinctive, but inefficient. Wasted energy and telegraph.
"Stop turning your head so much," I said. "You're showing everyone exactly where you can't see."
"How else am I supposed to—"
I stepped left and thrust. The wooden blade caught him in the ribs before he could react. Not hard, just a tap. But the point was made.
"Feel it instead," I told him. "Your peripheral vision is gone, but your other senses aren't. Listen to footsteps. Watch shadows. Feel the air move."
"Easy for you to say," Gerion muttered, rubbing his side.
"It is easy for me to say. That's why I'm saying it." I circled right this time, staying in his blind spot. "Again. Don't turn your head. Tell me where I am."
He hesitated. I could see him fighting the urge to look directly at me. His sword came up in a guard position, but it was facing the wrong direction by a few degrees.
"Left," he said. "You're on my left."
"Good. How far?"
"Five feet? Six?"
"Close enough." I thrust again, this time giving him warning by scraping my boot on the stone. He parried, barely, the impact jarring both our swords. "Better. But you need to trust your ears more. I practically stomped that time."
We ran through it again. And again. Each time I moved to his left side, forcing him to compensate. Sometimes I gave him auditory cues. Sometimes I stayed silent, making him work for it.
After about fifteen minutes, he was starting to anticipate better. Not perfect, but improving.
"Now we add movement," I said.
I came at him properly then, wooden sword leading. He backpedaled, his guard coming up, and for a moment it was like old times. The easy flow of steel on wood, the rhythm of attack and defense.
Then I feinted high and cut low from his left. He saw the feint but missed the follow-through completely. The practice sword cracked against his thigh hard enough to make him grunt.
"Fuck," he hissed.
"You're dropping your guard when you track my blade," I said. "Follow the motion with your sword, not your eye."
"Hard to do when I only have one eye to track with."
"Exactly. So stop relying on it so much."
I pressed the attack, varying my approach. Sometimes I'd come from the right, giving him easy blocks to build confidence. Then I'd switch angles, slipping into his blind spot and making him work for it.
Feint right, thrust left. He blocked wild, too late.
High cut from the left, dropping to sweep his legs. He jumped back, but not far enough. I tapped his shin.
Quick succession of strikes from alternating sides, forcing him to spin and pivot and keep his guard mobile. He managed two, missed the third, took the fourth on his shoulder with a meaty thwack.
"You're getting predictable," I told him. "Every time I attack from the left, you overcompensate. Your guard goes too wide."
"Because you keep attacking from the left!"
"And you keep falling for it." I grinned. "What are you going to do when you fight someone who actually wants to hurt you? Ask them politely to stay on your right side?"
He glared at me with his good eye. "You can be a right bastard, you know that?"
"I've been called worse."
We circled each other now, both of us getting properly into it. The yard was starting to fill with other early risers, a few guards changing shifts, a servant hurrying across with a basket of linens. None of them paid us much attention.
I lunged forward, a straight thrust aimed at his chest. Gerion parried, the crack of wood on wood echoing off the walls. I pressed the advantage, driving him back with a series of quick strikes. Right, right, left—he blocked the first two, missed the third. The blade caught him in the ribs again, harder this time.
He stumbled back, sucking air through his teeth.
"Your reaction time is slower on that side," I said. "By maybe half a second. Doesn't sound like much, but in a real fight…"
"I'd be dead. Yes, I'm aware." He straightened, rolling his shoulder. "Again."
We went again. And again. I varied the patterns, never letting him settle into a rhythm. Sometimes I'd favor his blind side heavily, other times I'd barely touch it, keeping him guessing.
The sun climbed higher. Sweat began to darken Gerion's shirt, plastering it to his back. A bruise was forming on his forearm where I'd caught him with a particularly solid crack. Another on his collarbone. His breathing was coming harder now, ragged at the edges.
But he was learning. Slowly, painfully, but learning.
His footwork started to shift. Instead of standing square and trying to track me with head movements, he began angling his body. Kept his right side forward more, his blind side back. It limited his reach on that side, but it also reduced the angle of attack I could use.
"Good," I said when I noticed. "That's better. You're thinking."
He didn't respond, too focused on keeping his guard up. I tested the new stance with a few probing attacks. Harder to exploit now, though not impossible. I could still slip through if I was patient.
I committed to a full combination. High feint, mid thrust, low sweep. He blocked the first, parried the second, and actually managed to hop over the third. Then he countered with a wild overhead swing that I sidestepped easily.
"Don't overextend," I said. "You're off-balance on the recovery."
"Noted," he gasped.
We'd been at it for close to an hour now. The yard had filled up properly, knights and men-at-arms running through their own drills. I caught a few of them watching us between exercises, probably wondering why a Lannister was getting his ass handed to him by some Stormlander nobody.
Gerion was covered in sweat and bruises. His shirt was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead. He moved more slowly now, his guard drooping between exchanges. Exhaustion making everything harder.
I'd worked up a light sweat myself, but I still felt fresh as a daisy. One of the benefits of youth and an absurd amount of recent combat experience. My body was used to going hard for hours at a time.
We circled each other again, wooden swords raised. Gerion's chest heaved with each breath. His good eye tracked me with determination, jaw set.
"You feel good hitting a cripple?" he asked between gasps.
I laughed. "Best feeling I've had in weeks."
"That right?" A sly grin spread across his face despite the exhaustion. "Long time since you've been to a brothel, then?"
I must've hesitated for a second too long. By the time I blinked at the question, Gerion was lunging forward, his wooden blade driving straight into my diaphragm. Hard.
All the air left my lungs in one explosive wheeze. I doubled over, sword clattering from my hands as I dropped to my knees. Tried to breathe and couldn't. Just this awful empty sucking sensation, my chest spasming uselessly.
Gerion stood over me, breathing hard but chuckling. "Well, then. At least I know how to rattle you now."
Half-kneeling on the ground and with one hand pressed to my chest, I gave him the dirtiest look I could manage while trying not to die.
He raised an eyebrow. "What? You're going to tell me you've never been to a brothel?"
I shook my head. Still couldn't get enough air to speak. My lungs were beginning to remember how breathing worked, small gasps turning into slightly larger ones.
"Wow." Gerion's expression shifted from amusement to genuine surprise. "Sometimes I forget how young you are." He paused, tilting his head. "Wait. Have you ever been with a woman?"
A good mix of fury and embarrassment gave me strength. I surged up from my knees, snatching my practice sword off the ground and swinging at him in one motion.
It was clumsy. Unbalanced. Telegraphed so badly a blind man could have dodged it.
Gerion stepped back easily, laughing. "Seven Hells. You're a virgin. A virgin knight." He shook his head in wonder. At least his voice was low enough he wasn't announcing it to the rest of the yard. "I need to take you down to the Great Sept of Baelor. The Most Devout would love you. You're like the perfect knight come to life."
Just to snuff out his sudden joy at my expense, I came at him properly then. He tried to defend, but he was too tired, too worn down from the hour of drilling. I battered his guard aside with three quick blows, then swept his legs out from under him.
He hit the ground hard, practice sword flying from his grasp. Before he could recover, I had the tip of my wooden blade pressed against his throat.
"Yield?" I asked. My breathing was back under control now, though my chest still ached.
Catching his breath, Gerion smiled up at me. That same cheeky grin. "You've truly never been to a brothel, then?"
I clicked my tongue. "No."
It was a good thing I could hide under the alias of religion and youthful piety. But really, I just didn't want to deal with whatever medieval prostitutes had going on beneath their skirts. God bless them, truly, for the valuable work they provided. I mean, talk about putting a shift in. But just thinking about the average level of hygiene in these lands set my skin crawling.
And with what sex workers had to deal with? The sheer number of unwashed bodies they saw in a day? No. I did not want little Galladon catching some kind of dragon pox or whatever the fuck whores in King's Landing were carrying around.
I'd read enough historical accounts of venereal diseases to know that pre-modern prostitution was basically Russian roulette with your genitals.
I reached down and offered Gerion a hand. "And should you be frequenting brothels now? What would the High Septon think?"
"He'd probably ask that I pick up his tab," Gerion said, taking my hand. I pulled him to his feet in one smooth motion. "Used to see him at Chataya's until recently, but I've been trying to abstain. It's not easy, I can tell you that much."
I nodded. "Best I not start, then. Can't miss something I've never had."
Gerion moved toward the weapon racks to return his practice sword, limping slightly from where I'd tagged his thigh earlier. But I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
He frowned, turning back. "Back to the Tower. I haven't even broken my fast yet. I'm starving."
My smile turned wicked. "Oh no. Oh no, my friend. That was just a warm-up."
Gerion's face went pale. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" I gestured back toward the center of the yard. "We're not leaving here until noon. That was basics. Now we work on real combat scenarios. Someone comes at you in a hallway. In a crowd. From behind while you're drinking. You need to know how to fight with that blind spot in every situation."
"Galladon—"
"Would you rather figure it out here, with wooden swords and a friend?" I met his eye. "Or in some dark alley when someone with a real blade decides a one-eyed Lannister looks like easy prey?"
That stopped him. His jaw worked, and I could see him wrestling with his pride versus his pragmatism. Finally, he sighed.
"You're a right bastard," he said again.
"So you've mentioned." I tossed him his practice sword. This time I aimed for his right side. He caught it cleanly. "See? Progress already. Now, let's say you're walking through a crowded market..."
Gerion groaned, but he took his stance. And we began again.
By the time I finally let him go—I took pity on him and let him go before the sun was anywhere near its zenith—Gerion could barely stand upright. He was one massive bruise wrapped in a Lannister-themed sweat-soaked shirt, limping toward the Tower of the Hand like a man thrice his age.
But he'd improved. Noticeably. By the end he was compensating for his blind spot almost instinctively, his body adapting to the new reality of his vision.
I watched him go, feeling satisfied with the morning's work. Then I noticed a small crowd of knights and men-at-arms had gathered at the edge of the yard during our later sessions. They dispersed quickly when I looked their way, suddenly very interested in their own practice.
Word would spread, as it was wont to do in this castle. The one-eyed Lannister getting beaten bloody by the Tarth knight. Some would see it as humiliation. Others might recognize it for what it was, a friend helping a friend relearn how to survive.
I didn't particularly care which version made the rounds. Let them talk. I had too much occupying my mind to care.
I picked up my practice sword and headed toward the racks. My stomach was growling, reminding me I hadn't eaten since yesterday evening. Time to find some food and find a quiet spot to enjoy the king's hospitality.
xxx
Reminder not to give Power Stones for this story! Go help me get back in the TOP 10 with "A Blademaster in Westeros"
Read ahead if you want. Chapters on [PATREON] are longer than on Webnovel, which are divided in 2 or 3. Patreon is roughly 25-30 Webnovel chapters ahead, or 10 regular (longer) chapters.
- patreon(dot)com/pathliar