Training did not begin with swords.
It began with observation.
On their first morning, Viserys and Daenerys were not taken to the training grounds, nor handed weapons, nor tested outright. Instead, they were led to one of the upper terraces overlooking the lower levels of the citadel.
Arthas stood beside them, silent.
Below, the Scourge moved.
Rank upon rank of undead soldiers drilled in perfect synchronization. Shields rose as one. Blades struck as one. Lines advanced, halted, and reformed without a single command spoken aloud.
No hesitation.
No error.
No individuality.
"They don't think," Viserys said after a long moment.
"They do," Arthas replied. "Just not the way you do."
Daenerys frowned slightly.
"Then what drives them?"
Arthas' gaze remained fixed on the formations below.
"Purpose," he said. "Given, not chosen."
A pause followed.
"And that's the difference between them… and you."
That was when training truly began.
The First Lessons: Control Before Strength
They were taken to the training halls shortly after.
Unlike the chaotic brutality one might expect from an undead army, the training grounds were structured with near-military precision. Separate sections were designated for different forms of combat—swordsmanship, archery, mounted drills, and even tactical simulations.
The Death Knights oversaw it all.
Each one was a presence unto themselves—tall, armored in blackened steel etched with faintly glowing runes, their eyes burning with cold blue light.
Where lesser undead moved with mechanical obedience, the Death Knights moved with intent.
Awareness.
Judgment.
They watched Viserys and Daenerys closely as they entered.
Not with hostility.
But evaluation.
"They're measuring us," Daenerys murmured.
"Yes," Arthas said simply. "And they'll continue to do so until you prove yourselves worth their attention."
Viserys scoffed lightly.
"I don't need the approval of the dead."
Arthas glanced at him.
"No," he agreed. "But you'll need their respect if you expect them to follow you into war."
That quieted him.
Viserys trained first.
A Death Knight stepped forward, unsheathing a blade with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Show me," it said.
Its voice was hollow, echoing faintly beneath its helm.
Viserys drew his own sword, stepping into position with practiced familiarity.
They clashed.
The difference was immediate.
Viserys was skilled—fast, controlled, trained in the fundamentals of noble combat. But the Death Knight… was relentless.
It did not tire.
Did not hesitate.
Every strike carried weight, precision, and an unnerving inevitability.
Within moments, Viserys was on the defensive.
He parried, stepped back, adjusted—but each movement felt like a reaction, not a decision.
The Death Knight disarmed him cleanly, sending his blade skidding across the stone floor.
Silence followed.
Viserys clenched his jaw, frustration flashing across his face.
Arthas stepped forward.
"You rely too much on expectation," he said. "You assume your opponent will behave like a man."
Viserys retrieved his sword slowly.
"And they don't?"
"No," Arthas said. "They behave like something that cannot fail."
That settled heavily.
"Again," Arthas instructed.
And so they began.
Forging Endurance
The training did not stop at technique.
If anything, that was only the beginning.
Viserys was pushed relentlessly.
Strike after strike.
Hundreds of repetitions.
Then footwork.
Then endurance drills—running the length of the citadel's inner walls, climbing icy stairways, sparring without rest.
"You're slowing," Arthas observed during one session.
"I'm tired," Viserys snapped.
"Your enemy won't care."
There was no cruelty in the words.
Only truth.
Viserys forced himself forward.
Again.
And again.
Something in him began to change—not just physically, but mentally. The arrogance that once defined him sharpened into something more focused.
More disciplined.
The Death Knights noticed.
They did not praise him.
But they stopped holding back.
That, in itself, was acknowledgment.
....
Daenerys' training began differently.
She was not thrown into combat.
Not immediately.
Instead, Arthas worked with her personally.
"You're not weak," he told her on the first day. "You're untrained."
That distinction mattered.
He placed a blade in her hands.
Too heavy.
Too unfamiliar.
She adjusted her grip awkwardly.
"It feels wrong," she admitted.
"It should," he said. "You're not used to it yet."
He stepped behind her, adjusting her stance—feet apart, weight balanced, shoulders aligned.
"Don't fight the weight," he said quietly. "Let it guide your movement."
His hands were cold against hers—but steady.
Reassuring, in a way she didn't expect.
She followed his instructions.
Raised the blade.
Brought it down.
Too slow.
Again.
Too unsteady.
Again.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
She improved.
Not dramatically at first—but steadily.
And Arthas noticed everything.
"You hesitate before striking," he told her one day.
"I don't want to make a mistake."
"You will," he said. "So stop fearing it."
That changed something.
Her movements became sharper.
More decisive.
The Bow and the Mind
It was the bow that changed everything.
Unlike the sword, it came naturally to her.
Her posture aligned easily. Her aim steadied quickly.
Within days, she was striking targets consistently.
Within weeks, she was outpacing even some of the undead archers.
Arthas watched her closely during one session as she loosed arrow after arrow with increasing confidence.
"You're adapting," he said.
She smiled slightly.
"I like this better."
"It suits you," he admitted.
There was something different in his tone.
Approval.
Genuine.
And that… mattered more than she expected.
....
Training did not end with combat.
Evenings were reserved for something else entirely.
Strategy.
Arthas introduced them to it through chess.
At first, it seemed simple.
It wasn't.
Every move was analyzed.
Every mistake dissected.
"You're thinking too far ahead," he told Viserys once. "You're ignoring what's in front of you."
"And you're not thinking far enough," he told Daenerys. "You react well—but you need to anticipate."
They learned.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But effectively.
Over time, their approach changed.
Viserys became more calculated—less impulsive.
Daenerys became more confident—less reactive.
Arthas watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.
Earning the Attention of the Dead
Months passed.
The citadel changed around them—not physically, but perceptually.
Where once the Scourge had ignored them, now they acknowledged them.
Undead soldiers made way as they passed.
Death Knights observed them not as curiosities—but as potential.
Even the monstrous constructs seemed to pause when they entered certain areas, their massive forms shifting subtly as if recognizing their presence.
"They see you now," Arthas said one evening.
Daenerys tilted her head.
"See us?"
"As more than intruders," he clarified.
Viserys crossed his arms.
"And what do they see?"
Arthas considered that.
"Leaders," he said.
That word lingered.
A Different Kind of Bond
It was not just skill that had grown.
Something else had formed.
Unspoken.
Subtle.
Arthas no longer watched them as distant assets.
He corrected them personally.
Spoke to them more often.
Listened when they questioned him.
Even—on rare occasions—offered insight without being asked.
"You don't have to become like me," he told them once.
The statement came without warning.
Daenerys looked at him.
"Then what should we become?"
Arthas paused.
For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes.
Memory.
Regret.
"…better," he said at last.
It was the closest thing to honesty he had given them.
By the end of those months, the difference was undeniable.
Viserys stood taller—not just in posture, but in presence.
Daenerys moved with confidence, her once soft demeanor replaced with quiet strength.
They were no longer survivors.
No longer exiles.
They were becoming something else.
Something forged in ice and discipline.
And at the center of it all—
Was a king who, despite everything he had become…
Was teaching them not just how to conquer—
But how to rule.
End of Chapter.