The world came back slowly.
At first, it was just heat — the heavy press of the sun beating down on him, the stifling weight of armor trapping every breath against his skin.
Aemon blinked against the light, his eyes burning, his mouth dry as sand. The taste of dust coated his tongue. His cheek was pressed against packed dirt, still warm from a day's worth of drills.
For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't even try.
Every muscle in his body ached. His arms felt like iron bars strapped to his sides. His legs were a little better — stiff and leaden, pinned under the weight of steel plates. Even breathing hurt, chest rising and falling shallowly under the crushed heat of his breastplate.
It took a long minute before he managed to turn his head, grimacing as the leather of his collar pulled against sweaty skin. His wooden shield lay a few feet away, battered and forgotten in the dust. His bastard sword — the heavy wooden training blade — was half-buried in the dirt beyond it, its worn grip jutting up like a crooked flag of defeat.
Slowly, Aemon pushed himself up onto one elbow, grunting with effort. His gauntleted hand scrabbled for leverage, slipping once before he planted it firmly and sat up.
The world swam briefly — the yard blurring into gold and gray — but he closed his eyes, breathing through the dizziness.
When he opened them again, he recognized the cracked stone walls of the yard, the dummies lined up along the far edge, the weapon racks in their neat, brutal rows.
And he remembered.
The duel.
The relentless clash of wood against wood. The burn in his arms. The pounding of his heart.
Barristan's blade flashed faster than he could follow.
The final strike.
The world spins out from under him.
Aemon groaned and scrubbed a gloved hand down his faceplate, muttering under his breath, "Ah, fuck."
He'd been knocked out cold. In full view of half the training yard, no less.
Groggy, sore, and still trapped inside his dented armor, Aemon shifted onto his knees. His body protested every inch of movement — his shoulders screamed, his thighs trembled — but he set his jaw and pushed through it.
One foot planted.
Then the other.
With a heavy grunt, he rose — battered, sweating, bruised — but standing.
He swayed slightly, the plates clanking against each other, but he steadied himself. He was still breathing and on his feet.
A soft chime flickered at the edge of his vision.
S.E.R.A.'s voice came online, far too calm for his current state.
[You have been unconscious for thirty-five minutes and forty-five seconds.]
Aemon exhaled through his nose and didn't bother replying. He was too tired to argue with a disembodied voice in his head.
Another pause, then S.E.R.A. added, almost sympathetically:
[It appears you have lost the battle. Recording outcome: defeat. Analyzing current condition—]
A moment later, a detailed report flashed faintly in his mind:
[Physical Status: 47% combat readiness.
Heart rate: Elevated (resting at 122 BPM).
Contusions: 14 minor, 3 moderate.
Muscle fatigue: Severe.
Bruises sustained: Numerous. Recommend immediate hydration and rest.]
Aemon grunted, still half-swallowing a groan. "Wonderful," he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Really cheering me up, S.E.R.A."
He caught a sound then—a low, rhythmic scrape. Metal against stone.
Turning his head stiffly, he spotted the source.
Ser Barristan sat on a low stone bench near the weapon rack, still clad in the light mail from earlier, methodically running a whetstone along the edge of his castle-forged steel sword. The blade gleamed faintly in the harsh afternoon sun.
The white knight didn't look over right away. He kept working, steady and unhurried, before finally lifting his gaze.
"You woke up," Barristan said, setting the whetstone aside with a quiet clack. His voice was dry but not unkind.
"I thought it might take longer."
He gave a light, approving nod — a flicker of pride, a hint of amusement — as if getting back on his feet had been the true test all along.
Ser Barristan rose from the bench with a small grunt and crossed the yard toward Aemon.
"Hold still," he said.
Without waiting for a reply, he reached for the clasps at Aemon's shoulders. His hands were quick, practiced—unbuckling the worn straps, loosening the dented plates. Piece by piece, he stripped the heavy armor off himself.
Chestplate first. Then, the arm guards. The weight dropped away in chunks, each piece landing with a heavy clank on the dirt. Aemon barely moved, grateful to stay upright while Barristan worked.
When the last piece came free, Barristan handed him a waterskin.
"Drink," he said.
Aemon took the waterskin with unsteady hands and drank deeply. The water slipped down his throat like a blessing.
Barristan waited until he finished, then jerked his chin toward the bench.
"Sit."
Aemon didn't argue. He staggered over and dropped onto the bench with a thud, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted back to catch what little breeze there was.
Barristan sat down near him, setting the sword and whetstone aside.
For a few moments, neither of them said anything. The yard around them hummed quietly with the distant clash of other squires training, but it felt almost still.
Finally, Barristan spoke.
"You did better than most full-grown men would've, wearing thirty-five pounds of steel and leather," he said, tone even. "You lasted nearly half an hour against someone trying to break you down."
Aemon gave a rough, tired laugh. "Couldn't tell. Felt like I was getting slapped around."
Barristan cracked a rare, faint smile. "You were. But you fought back."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, speaking more like a coach now than a knight.
"You held your stance well for the first ten minutes. Shield work needs tightening—too many wide blocks. Waste of energy. You want the shield close. Minimal movement. Let the enemy's strikes glance off."
He mimed it with his own arms—short, controlled motions.
"And footwork," he added. "You're fast, but you get flat-footed when you're tired. That's when good men die. Stay light. Always moving."
Aemon nodded slowly, absorbing it.
"And don't get greedy," Barristan said, glancing sideways at him. "When you pressed after losing the shield—you got too aggressive. That opened you up. Against someone slower, maybe you'd get away with it. Not against someone who knows how to bait you."
He paused.
"But you didn't quit. You didn't fold."
Barristan straightened up, studying him with a frank, assessing look.
"There's no shame in losing when you fight like that."
Another beat of silence.
"Remember how this feels," he said. "Exhausted and defeated. Next time, you'll last longer."
Aemon exhaled, still catching his breath, but a small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Next time," he said quietly, "I'll drop you flat on your ass."
Barristan gave a low chuckle—just once—and shook his head.
"I'll look forward to it."
Barristan let the smile linger a moment longer, then clapped Aemon lightly on the shoulder. "Now, get yourself cleaned up. You reek,"
Aemon huffed out a tired breath that might've been a laugh and followed as Barristan turned and led him toward the White Sword Tower.
The tower rose slender and unyielding against the sky, built into a sharp angle of the Red Keep's outer wall, overlooking the gray sweep of Blackwater Bay. No gold banners fluttered here, no carved statues watched from above — only weathered white stone and clean, austere lines. A monument to knights who needed no ornament to prove their worth.
It climbed four stories high, stark and spare, with winding steps spiraling through its spine. At its heart lay the Round Room — a circular hall cloaked in simple white wool hangings. In the center stood a giant weirwood table carved in the shape of a shield and supported by three white stallions. Above the hearth, a white shield and two crossed longswords hung — the only decorations in a place where duty mattered more than splendor.
Below, the undercroft held the Kingsguard's arms and armor. Above, the second and third floors housed the sparse sleeping cells for the six sworn brothers of the Kingsguard. And crowning it all, the topmost floor held the Lord Commander's quarters — just as austere as the rest, yet more spacious, with white wall hangings and pale-draped bedding overlooking the castle walls.
They passed under the archway, their boots thudding lightly against the cool stone floors. Barristan exchanged a few quick words with a passing steward, who gave a nod and hurried off to fetch fresh clothes for the prince.
They reached the small bathhouse tucked into the rear of the White Sword Tower—a stark, utilitarian space of stone and timber built for use, not luxury. Steam curled from two broad stone tubs sunk into the floor, the water already heated by the fires banked beneath the stone.
Barristan gave a short nod to the servants and gestured toward the tubs.
"Add some cold water to mine," he said.
The servants moved quickly to adjust the temperature for him.
Aemon shook his head when they turned to him.
"No. Leave it as it is."
Still wearing his sweat-soaked training breeches and tunic, he dropped his boots by the wall, peeled off the sticky shirt with a wince, and lowered himself into the steaming tub.
The water was steaming hot—scalding to most—but to Aemon, it barely registered. His body, hardened by the blood of Old Valyria and strengthened further by S.E.R.A.'s enhancements, didn't fear heat. He didn't even flinch as he stepped in.
The moment the water closed over him, it felt almost nourishing—like the warmth was sinking straight into his muscles without burning.
Deep heat wrapped around him and loosened the stiffness in his body.
It was comforting in a way cold water never could be.
Aemon sank lower until the water lapped at his chin, his arms draped limply over the rim of the stone tub. His eyelids drooped, half-shuttered, as the heat seeped into his joints and spine, loosening the tightness without overwhelming him.
After a few long breaths, he grabbed a chunk of rough lye soap from the shelf and started scrubbing down—quick, efficient motions.
Nearby, Ser Barristan was seated in another tub—washing down with the same efficient, no-nonsense motions he used in the yard.
The steam hovered lazily between them, and neither said a word.
It wasn't awkward.
Just two warriors cleaning off the sweat and dirt of a hard-fought duel.
In the background, footsteps padded away—servants leaving a folded set of clean clothes on a nearby bench for when they were ready.
The stone chamber settled into a comfortable, heavy silence.
Steam drifted lazily through the air while the heat seeped into Aemon's battered muscles, easing aches he hadn't even known were there.
Then, softly, at the edge of his mind, S.E.R.A.'s voice chimed in. Calm and neutral. Almost like background noise.
[Duelscape analysis complete.]
Aemon didn't even open his eyes. Just grunted faintly, head tilting back against the stone rim.
[Summary of combat performance:
You landed 5 clean hits.
10 glancing strikes.
Opponent (Ser Barristan Selmy) landed 21 clean hits.
33 glancing strikes.]
Aemon exhaled slowly through his nose. "Sounds about right," he muttered.
[Primary fatigue sources: armor weight (approx. 35 pounds), heat accumulation, and rapid stamina depletion at the 17-minute mark. Shield discipline degraded notably after 12 minutes of engagement. The defensive stance collapsed under pressure. Recovery footwork is insufficient after successive heavy strikes.]
Aemon cracked one eye open, staring blearily at the ceiling. "You really know how to make a man feel good about himself."
[Statistical analysis is not intended to harm your ego,] S.E.R.A. replied mildly.
He let the sarcasm die on his tongue. No point arguing.
[Recommended improvements:
Reinforce shield arm endurance.
Maintain a tighter centerline guard.
Shorten counter-attack motions by 0.5 seconds.
Optimize breath control during sustained engagements.]
Aemon huffed a tired breath and sank deeper into the water, letting the heat eat away at the aches. It wasn't new advice—just transparent now. In the chaos of the fight, he'd known he was slipping. Now he had numbers to pin it all down.
S.E.R.A.'s voice returned, softer.
[Would you like me to transfer and embed the recorded sword forms Ser Barristan demonstrated earlier into your tactical archive for enhanced understanding?]
Aemon didn't hesitate.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Do it."
A faint warmth flickered across the back of his mind—not painful, not heavy—just a brief compression, like filing away a memory after a long day.
He felt it almost instantly—the pathways unlocking. Every stance Barristan had drilled into him that morning: the low guard, the sharp side-step, the tight parries. They slotted into place, clean and precise, like a jigsaw puzzle finally snapping together.
He knew them now — not through instinct or muscle, but in his mind. Every move, mapped and clear.
But knowing was one thing. Mastery would still take time. Practice. Sweat. Repetition until the movements became second nature.
Still, this is a good start.
Aemon exhaled again, slower this time. Something inside him felt lighter.
The water sloshed gently as he shifted, rolling his neck out with a faint pop.
Better. Still sore as hell. But better.
He allowed himself a light, tired grin.
"One step closer," he whispered, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.
The heat slowly ebbed from Aemon's body as he scrubbed the last dirt away. Eventually, he dragged himself out of the tub, joints stiff but looser than before.
Barristan finished around the same time, toweling down with efficient soldier's motions. No wasted time. No vanity.
They both dressed quietly — Aemon into a clean, simple tunic and breeches the servants had left out; Barristan into the full regalia of a Kingsguard knight, donning his polished white armor and the flowing white cloak that marked his station. The battered training armor and soaked linens were left in a pile for the servants to deal with.
Aemon buckled his belt and raked a hand through his damp hair as they traced back through the narrow corridors of the White Sword Tower.
The cool air brushed against his skin, a welcome change after the heavy heat of the baths.
As they rounded the corner near the armory stairwell, a familiar voice called out:
"Well, well — heard some great news on my way here. Something about you getting your royal ass kicked by Selmy, eh?"
Aemon blinked — and turned to see Ser Jonothor Darry lounging casually against the wall, arms crossed and grinning like a cat who found the cream.
Jonothor clapped a hand to his own chest in mock offense. "I regret not being there to see it. Seven hells, I would've paid good coin."
He let out a rough laugh.
Aemon, caught mid-step, flushed—just a flicker—but he masked it quickly with a tilt of his head and kept walking like nothing had happened.
He tilted his head and shot back dryly, "Funny. I seem to remember someone getting their ass knocked over by a six-year-old a few years back?"
Jonothor's smirk faltered immediately.
"I was holding back," he said, dead serious.
Aemon widened his eyes in mock innocence. "Of course, you were, Ser."
"Don't give me that look, boy," Jonothor muttered, cheeks tinting pink despite himself. "I was."
The way he said it — all gruff and defensive — made Barristan bark out a short, real laugh.
Aemon couldn't help it either. He cracked a grin, shaking his head as they kept walking.
Barristan moved a pace ahead, hiding a smile. Jonothor trudged beside Aemon, still muttering half-hearted curses under his breath.
"Blasted six-year-old and their trickery…" Jonothor grumbled. "No shame in it. You caught me off balance."
Aemon hummed thoughtfully. "Pretty sure you landed on your back without me even swinging that hard."
Jonothor shot him a narrow look. "One more word, I'll drag you back to the yard for a rematch."
Aemon raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking.
For the first time all day, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter. The aches didn't seem quite so sharp.
They rounded another corner, the stone corridors cool against their still-damp skin. The White Sword Tower was quiet this time of day — most squires were either off at training or running errands.
Jonothor finally cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Anyway," he said, voice shifting back to something more serious, "I got what you asked for."
Aemon straightened a little, the smile slipping into more focus.
Jonothor glanced around once—habit, even here—then continued in a low voice.
"Your baker's sticking to the plan. Bread's baked and handed out every morning before the sun's up. Elira kept it orderly—no mob scene, just small batches at different spots. Smart woman."
He shifted the bundle under his arm, keeping his voice casual.
"So far, no one's gotten nosy. The Gold Cloaks Willem planted are keeping the rats and light thugs away. But more kids are coming daily, and not all are easy to control. Might need more bread soon or a way to keep things quieter."
Jonothor's mouth twitched like he almost wanted to smile, but didn't.
"Kids look better already. Not perfect — plenty of 'em are still sick or barefoot — but they ain't starving. That's a good start."
Aemon let out a slow breath and gave a small, genuine smile.
Relief washed through him like the first cold drink after a long march.
"How many?" he asked, voice low but urgent. "How many children are we feeding now?"
Jonothor scratched his jaw, thinking.
"Thomlin's baking around six hundred to seven hundred loaves each morning. All of it's going straight to the little ones —a few of the older beggars and a bunch of elders. Enough to keep 'em from fighting over scraps."
He shrugged.
"It's been about a moon since you started it. Still holding together."
Aemon nodded slowly, a smile at the corner of his mouth.
"Good," he said quietly. "Everything's going well… for now."
He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling beams of the hall as they walked.
"But it won't stay smooth forever," he added. "Problems always find you when you least want them."
Jonothor glanced over but didn't interrupt.
Aemon turned to him properly. "Tell Thomlin to start thinking ahead. Hire a few more trusted helpers — bakers he knows personally. Not strangers. People who can genuinely help him."
Jonothor nodded, already filing the order away.
"And Elira, too. Tell her to find a few older ones she trusts — girls, boys, even widows if needed. No crowds, no shouting, no lines. Just quiet handoffs. Small links in a chain." Aemon gestured subtly. "Pass the bread down like it's nothing at all."
"Small batches, different streets?" Jonothor asked.
"Exactly," Aemon said. "Quiet enough that no one notices — unless they're looking for it."
Jonothor gave a short grunt of agreement, practical and approving.
Ahead of them, Barristan slowed a bit, glancing back.
"All that's fine," the old knight said, voice calm, "but what about funding?"
He didn't say it to wound — just stated it plainly.
A cold, unshakable truth.
"This city holds nearly half a million souls, boy. Sooner or later, someone's bound to catch the scent of free bread — and when they do, it won't be six hundred loaves you'll need, but closer to a million. And that kind of hunger… doesn't form tidy lines. It stampedes."
The weight of it hung there, unspoken.
Chaos. Riots. Blood in the streets for a scrap of bread.
Aemon didn't flinch.
"I know," he said. "I'm not planning to feed all of King's Landing. I never was."
He glanced between them, his voice low but steady.
"This was always for the ones who can't fend for themselves. The children who don't have anyone else to rely on."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"This process will last three, maybe four years. That's all I need."
Barristan raised a brow. "And after?"
Aemon gave a small, sharp smile, "After that… I already have plans."
He rolled his shoulder slowly, still stiff from the duel.
"New ways to bring in coin. Real jobs. Real food supplies. Ways to lift the smallfolk without them having to beg for it."
He tapped his temple lightly with two fingers.
"But for any of it to work — for them to trust me when the time comes — I need to start from small. I need to prove it first."
Barristan studied him for a long beat, the hard line of his mouth easing just a little.
Then he huffed out a short breath, somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"Before you start plotting your next world revolution, at least rest and eat something first," he said dryly.
Jonothor gave a quiet chuckle, crossing his arms. "About time someone said it."
Aemon let out a quiet snort, the tension slipping from his shoulders. "A fair point."
"Food first. Kingdoms later."
Without waiting for more argument, they turned towards the stairs.
The corridor ahead was cool and dim, but the scents hit them almost—roasting meat, fresh bread, the sharp tang of onions sizzling in butter. Their stomachs growled in unison, a silent chorus louder than any battle cry.
The stone walls echoed faintly with the clatter of pots and the low hum of kitchen chatter, pulling them forward like a tide.
Three battered, hungry knights — marching toward their next battle: lunch.
.
.
.
Thank you for reading!!
Advanced 9 chapters are available on my Patreon.
patreon.com/Horcruz