c5: The Attack
Since it was His Highness the prince's own request, Sir William Darry did not refuse.
Viserys had spoken truthfully steel would always be of use in the years to come. The realm was no longer at peace beneath the Iron Throne in the Red Keep. After the fall of Prince Rhaegar at the Trident and the rising banners of Robert Baratheon, every surviving Targaryen would need more than noble blood to endure.
Sir William had once trained Rhaegar Targaryen, guiding the silver-haired prince from bookish youth to formidable knight. He remembered the day Rhaegar had set aside his harp and declared he must become a warrior. Now fate placed Rhaegar's younger brother before him.
If he survived this rebellion, perhaps both dragon princes would call him teacher. It was a fragile source of pride in a collapsing world.
Still, this was only a brief halt on a rain-soaked roadside in the Crownlands. There was little time for formal lessons. Yet whether a knight fought from horseback in tourney lists or from muddy ground in ambush, the fundamentals of swordsmanship did not change.
After a moment's hesitation, Sir William drew his blade.
Clang
The bright steel flashed in the dim evening light. The sharp sound carried across the resting column. Several soldiers looked up from their stones and tree trunks. Even Queen Rhaella whom some in private still mistakenly addressed as Leila paused within her damaged carriage. Beside her, the infant Daenerys Targaryen stirred faintly beneath her blankets.
Through the narrow opening, the queen saw her son beneath a broad oak tree, struggling to steady the longsword nearly as tall as his arm.
"Viserys," Queen Rhaella called softly, concern threading her voice. "Ser Willem is weary. Do not trouble him further."
Her pale violet eyes followed the boy's unsteady movements. She feared not embarrassment, but injury. Though the sword was not impossibly heavy, it required strength and balance uncommon in a seven-year-old child, even one of Valyrian descent.
This was the beginning of a knight's discipline—calloused hands, aching shoulders, relentless repetition.
"It is no trouble, Your Grace," Sir William answered at once, turning to bow respectfully.
"It is but a small thing. Every boy in Westeros must one day learn to lift steel."
A ripple of rough laughter passed among the men-at-arms.
"That is true, Your Grace," one of them added. "Even princes must bleed."
They were loyal guards of the Red Keep—men who had seen the madness of Aerys II Targaryen with their own eyes. More than once, Queen Rhaella's quiet pleas had spared prisoners from wildfire and torture. The soldiers respected her deeply, though fear of the king had once silenced them.
Sir William had served as master-at-arms for many years; he had instructed Rhaegar in these very motions within the castle yard overlooking Blackwater Bay. After a brief hesitation, Queen Rhaella inclined her head and fell silent. She trusted the old knight's judgment.
In this harsh age, even a prince could not remain soft.
Sir William turned his attention back to Viserys. The boy gripped the leather-wrapped hilt awkwardly, elbows stiff, blade tip wavering.
The knight's faint smile faded into seriousness.
"Your Highness," he said evenly, "a prince of seven would normally begin with a wooden blade. That is how your brother began before he learned to hold a real sword steady."
He adjusted Viserys's stance with a firm but careful hand, nudging his feet wider apart in the mud.
"But these are no ordinary days. We do not have the luxury of the training yard within King's Landing. I can only lend you my steel."
Viserys swallowed but nodded.
"First, balance," Sir William instructed. "A sword is not swung by arms alone. It is carried by the legs and guided by the shoulders. If your footing fails, so do you."
He stepped back, allowing the boy to attempt a simple downward cut.
The blade dipped clumsily, but it did not fall from Viserys's grasp.
Around them, the wind shifted.
What began as a faint rustle in the trees soon became something sharper—the distant crack of a snapped twig, the subtle rhythm of hooves pressing cautiously through wet undergrowth.
One of the outer guards straightened abruptly.
Sir William's head lifted at once. Years of battlefield instinct overrode the lesson.
"Form up!" a soldier suddenly shouted from the tree line.
An arrow whistled through the damp air—
Thud.
It struck the trunk of the oak only inches from Viserys's shoulder.
The laughter vanished instantly.
Steel rang out as swords were drawn in earnest this time, not for practice but survival. Horses shrieked in alarm. Another arrow flew, then another, this time finding flesh. A man-at-arms cried out and collapsed into the mud.
Sir William seized Viserys by the collar and thrust him backward toward the intact carriage.
"Inside! Stay with your mother!" he commanded.
From the edge of the woods, mounted figures emerged through the mist hard-eyed riders bearing no clear sigils, their cloaks darkened by rain. Not noble knights in bright armor, but hardened sellswords or rebel outriders hunting Targaryen prey along the road to Dragonstone.
The attack had come swiftly, just as Sir William had feared.
The lesson in swordsmanship was over.
Now, the prince would witness the true meaning of steel.
As master-at-arms of the Red Keep, Sir William Darry's skill was beyond question. For decades he had drilled squires in the shadow of the Iron Throne, shaping boys of noble birth into hardened warriors. He had personally overseen the martial training of Rhaegar Targaryen, guiding the silver-haired heir from scholar and harpist into one of the finest lances in the Seven Kingdoms.
It was precisely for that reason that Viserys had asked for his instruction.
No man in their diminished company was better suited to teach a Targaryen prince how to survive steel and treachery.
Viserys listened carefully, though his thin arms trembled as he struggled to keep the longsword level. The tip wavered, dipping toward the mud before he forced it upright again.
Sir William observed without mockery. After a moment, he gave a small nod of approval.
"By the Seven," he muttered under his breath, invoking the Faith of the realm as any knight sworn before the Starry Sept once would have done, "the boy has the right spirit."
In truth, Viserys was not inferior to his elder brother in attitude. Rhaegar had possessed quiet intensity; this boy carried pride edged with hunger.
Sir William reached down and drew another longsword from the belt of a seated soldier beside him.
"Whether spear, lance, or sword," he began calmly, "all weapons share one truth. There is one motion that is simplest and most deadly."
He shifted his stance, boots firm in the damp earth, and without flourish drove the blade straight forward.
Whoosh
The thrust cut the air cleanly, the steel point stopping precisely at an invisible target's throat height.
"Always remember," he said, eyes fixed on Viserys, "use the pointed end."
Fast. Direct. Merciless.
"A well-placed thrust ends a fight before it begins. It slips between ribs, finds the gap in mail, or pierces a man's throat beneath his helm. It wins battles more surely than any spinning cut."
He withdrew the blade and sheathed it in one smooth motion before handing it back to its owner. Then he turned to the young prince.
"Have you learned it, child?"
Viserys nodded once.
"Is it simple?" Sir William pressed.
He knew boys. In the training yard overlooking Blackwater Bay in King's Landing, he had seen countless noble sons grow impatient. They wished to become legends overnight another Barristan the Bold, another Arthur Dayne without years of bruises and repetition.
Yet true mastery was forged slowly. Even now, after decades, Sir William still practiced the same thrust daily, refining speed and precision rather than indulging in elaborate flourishes suited only for tourneys.
Viserys hesitated.
He understood the trap in the question. If he answered "yes," he would be lectured on arrogance. If "no," he might seem foolish.
"It is not simple," he said at last.
"Then you are wr"
Sir William stopped himself mid-sentence. He blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"Was I wrong?" Viserys tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence.
A pause hung between them.
"No," Sir William admitted with a grunt, patting his own breastplate as if steadying his breath. "You are correct. It is not simple. It only appears so."
From the nearby carriage, Queen Rhaella watched in silence, her pale features drawn but composed. In her arms rested the infant Daenerys Targaryen, unaware that her brother was being shaped for a war that had already consumed their house.
One of the queen's maids young Renys, bright-eyed despite the hardship of flight peered through the narrow window. Her lips curved into a quiet smile.
She was certain the prince had answered that way on purpose.
Ser Willem clapped Viserys lightly on the shoulder.
"Again," he ordered. "Practice the thrust. Do not swing wildly. Keep your elbow close. Strengthen your wrist."
Viserys obeyed, boots sliding slightly in the mud as he attempted the motion. The blade wobbled, but each repetition grew steadier. Though his arms shook, he refused to lower it.
Satisfied for the moment, Sir William adjusted his sword belt and stepped away toward the treeline. The presence of the queen required a measure of modesty; he intended only to relieve himself beyond sight.
He had taken no more than a few strides when something caught his attention.
A sudden burst of motion overhead.
A flock of crows exploded from the trees in the direction from which they had traveled, their harsh cries cutting through the damp evening air.
Ser Willem froze.
"Hmm."
An old soldier's instinct tightened in his chest.
Then he felt it
A faint tremor beneath his boots.
At first it was subtle, like distant thunder rolling over the Narrow Sea toward Dragonstone. But it grew steadily stronger.
The sound followed.
A low, rumbling rhythm.
Hooves.
Many hooves.
The vibration intensified, shaking droplets from branches overhead. Resting soldiers shot to their feet, hands scrambling for spears and shields.
"What is that?"
Before the question could be finished, a voice rang out from the small rise where a sentry had been posted.
"Enemy attack!!!"
The shout cracked across the clearing like a whip.
In an instant, the brief lesson in swordsmanship was forgotten. Steel rasped from scabbards. Horses screamed in alarm. Viserys instinctively tightened his grip on the sword he had only just begun to learn to wield.
From the misty road behind them, dark shapes burst into view mounted riders charging hard through mud and rain, their banners indistinct in the failing light.
The hunt for the last dragons had begun in earnest.
....