Practice Makes Perfect

“Bannermen to Dragonstone, with their arms. Begin.” Aerion, practice-sword hanging easily from one hand, circled his squire. It had been a dry month, in a dry year, and their feet kicked up dust from the packed dirt on which they trained. Cedryk had promise, else Aerion would not have taken him – but he thought too much, remembered movements with his mind that ought to have been ingrained in his body. Viserys would never have developed such a trait, he knew. Aerion’s mission was to fix the flaw, and he set about it with a determination that frightened and frustrated the squire. The sun was just beginning to crest over the seaward wall.

“Velaryon. Silver seahorse on a sea green field.” Cedryk began cautiously with his own family’s arms, practice-sword held parallel to his body. Both hands clutched the hilt, both eyes fixed on Aerion, trying to anticipate the inevitable attack. For a moment there was silence, but for their footsteps. “Celtigar,” he went on, and cursed as Aerion lunged forward at an absolutely unfair speed. The wood of their false blades collided, and it was all Cedryk could do for a moment to defend himself.

“Celtigar,” Aerion reminded him, but he did not give quarter.

“Red crabs,” the boy gasped, “scattered on white.”

Before Cedryk had bitten off the ‘t’ at the end of ‘white,’ Aerion’s sword rapped his helm. “Your footwork’s sloppy. Continue.”

Cedryk survived Bar Emmon and Sunglass, and Aerion favored him with a curt nod. The prince was encouraged to see his methods working, though this would have been of little comfort to Cedryk. By the time the sun was cresting above them, they were halfway through the lords of the Vale and Cedryk was surviving the recitation of five or six coats of arms at a time. Aerion was prepared to march through the heraldry of the entire seven kingdoms, and Dorne too, but Cedryk was waning. He died thrice from taking the time to glance up at the angle of the sun, certain Aerion would have to stop soon for lunch. He met the prince’s purple gaze resentfully after a particularly painful jab to his ribs. “Royce,” the youth called out, scowling. “Black portcullis over white crescent moon,” breath and parry, “all on a purple field.”

“Which Royce?” Aerion asked with a grin. The momentary confusion engendered by the question allowed him to land another blow to Cedryk’s shoulder, and that was enough for the squire to break. He threw down the practice sword, his helm not far behind.

“We’ve been at it half the day, Highness!” He declared, seeming quite certain that this fact had somehow escaped Aerion’s notice.

“Which Royce?” The prince repeated.

Cedryk wanted to storm off, Aerion could see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the way his body angled away. He did not, however. Once he’d tried, and Aerion had told him he might as well pack his bags. Now the squire was fairly certain that the prince would not dismiss him out of hand, but ‘fairly certain’ was never enough to gamble on when dealing with Prince Aerion Targaryen. “Royce of the Gates of the Moon,” he answered more calmly.

“How long do battles last, Cedryk?”

“As long as they have to,” he replied dutifully.

“Will the Princes of Dorne indulge you if you throw down your helm at noon and demand a lunch break?” The prince inquired, smiling at his own turn of phrase.

“No, Ser.”

“You must be prepared to fight for as long as you have to, as if each blow could kill you. Else you will die.” There was a finality to his tone that sobered Cedryk, banished the sullen turn of his mouth. The hardest thing about training someone to be a knight in times of peace, Aerion reflected, was that they forgot the desperation of war. But there were substitutes – the death of honor in place of the death of the self, for example. “How long do Tourneys last, Cedryk?” He asked, and watched the hopeful grin blossom on the youth’s face.

“Until someone surrenders. All day, sometimes.” He practically bounced, new excitement energizing tired limbs. “Highness, do you really mean to – “

“We shall see,” Aerion interrupted him. “Regardless, you will not wish to dishonor your lord or my teachings at such an event, will you?”

“No, Ser.” He was beaming, taking Aerion’s words as a promise. They would attend the tourney at Queensgate! Aerion could practically see thoughts of fair maids and glory buzzing about his squire’s head.

The Prince set down his practice sword, then. “Well. It’s noon, perhaps we’d ought to stop for a time. You’re tired.” He wasn’t truly scornful. The youth had fared well, and Aerion knew he was far more demanding than most teachers. Still, he put derision in the words. Cedryk, predictably, scurried for his fallen helm.

“I can go on a bit longer, if you’ll have of me, Highness,” he chirped eagerly.

“Very well.” The practice sword was hefted once again, and Aerion smiled his approval. “Another hour, then. Begin with Royce of Runestone.”

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