The first time I truly surprised Ser Denys, I was seven years old.
It happened on an ordinary morning.
There was no audience of lords, no cheering crowd, no great declaration from Tywin. The sky above Casterly Rock was gray, the stones of the training yard were still damp from the night's rain, and my fingers were already aching from gripping a wooden sword for too long.
Ser Denys stood opposite me with the patience of a man who had spent the better part of two years striking the same child.
"Again."
I raised my sword.
He attacked.
By then, I knew most of his basic movements. A cut toward the shoulder, a thrust to the chest, a low strike meant to force me backward. He was faster than me, stronger than me, and far more experienced. When he wanted to hit me, he usually did.
But lately, something strange had begun happening.
I could see it coming.
Not the sword itself. By the time a sword was moving, there was often too little time to think.
It was everything before it.
The slight turn of his shoulder. The pressure shifting onto his right foot. The way his grip tightened before a harder strike.
Tiny things.
Things I hadn't been taught to notice.
Ser Denys stepped forward.
His shoulder dipped.
Left.
I moved before the blade came.
Wood hissed past my arm.
For a fraction of a second, his side was open.
I struck.
My sword cracked against his ribs.
Neither of us moved.
I stared at where I'd hit him.
Ser Denys slowly looked down at the wooden blade resting against his side.
From somewhere behind me, Jaime shouted, "You got him!"
I lowered my sword.
Ser Denys looked back at me.
There was no amusement on his face.
"Again."
I swallowed and returned to my stance.
This time he came faster.
Much faster.
The first strike nearly tore the sword from my hands. The second drove me back three steps. I caught the third badly and pain shot through my wrist.
Then I saw it again.
His feet.
Too much weight forward.
I stepped aside.
His blade passed me.
Instead of retreating, I moved closer.
My body seemed to know what to do before my mind caught up. I turned my wrists, brought the wooden sword across, and struck his forearm.
Ser Denys's weapon dropped several inches.
Had my sword been steel, it might have cut him.
Had I been stronger, perhaps he would have dropped his weapon entirely.
He stepped back.
I expected another attack.
None came.
"How did you know?"
I frowned.
"Know what?"
"Where I was going to strike."
"I saw it."
"What did you see?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
I wasn't actually sure.
"Your shoulder moved."
"Before the second strike?"
"Your foot."
Ser Denys stared at me.
Behind him, Jaime was bouncing with excitement. He had turned five recently and had become convinced that swords were the greatest invention in the history of mankind.
Cersei stood beside him beneath an archway, wrapped in a dark red cloak against the morning cold.
She wasn't bouncing.
She was simply watching me.
Ser Denys raised his sword again.
"Show me."
We continued.
The next exchange ended with me in the dirt.
The one after that ended with his sword against my throat.
I was still nowhere near beating him.
But something had changed.
For the first time, Ser Denys wasn't correcting me after every mistake.
He was testing me.
A strike came from high.
I blocked.
He feinted right.
I nearly followed it, caught myself, and managed to turn his real attack aside.
His expression tightened.
Again.
He changed his stance.
Again.
He used a movement I'd never seen.
That one hit me squarely in the chest and knocked me backward.
I landed hard enough to lose my breath.
Jaime winced.
Cersei immediately stepped forward.
"That's enough."
Ser Denys glanced at her.
"No one asked you, my lady."
"You hit him."
"That tends to happen during sword training."
"You hit him too hard."
I pushed myself upright.
"Cersei, I'm fine."
She ignored me completely.
"You could hurt him."
Ser Denys looked at me.
I could almost see the question in his eyes.
Is she always like this?
Yes.
Increasingly.
"I'm supposed to get hurt," I said.
Cersei turned toward me.
"No, you're not."
"How else am I supposed to learn?"
"You already know how."
That made Jaime laugh.
"Tycen doesn't know everything."
Cersei looked at him with the kind of contempt only a sibling could manage.
"He knows more than you."
"I know things."
"You ate candle wax yesterday."
Jaime went red.
"I wanted to know what it tasted like."
That ended my attempt not to laugh.
Even Ser Denys looked away for a moment.
Jaime scowled at all of us.
"It looked like cheese."
"It was red," Cersei said.
"There is red cheese."
"Not shaped like a candle."
I was still smiling when Ser Denys tossed my sword back toward me.
"Enough talking."
I caught it.
We trained until my arms shook.
By the time Ser Denys finally called an end, sweat had soaked the collar of my tunic despite the cold. There was mud on one knee, a bruise forming along my ribs, and a fresh scrape across my knuckles.
I felt wonderful.
That surprised me.
Most of my education was useful because I knew it had to be. History, arithmetic, governance, heraldry. I understood why they mattered.
Swordsmanship was different.
I enjoyed it.
There was a simplicity to fighting that nothing else in my life possessed.
For a few moments, there was no future.
No Robert's Rebellion.
No Mad King.
No dead marching south.
There was only distance, movement, timing, breath.
For those few moments, my mind was quiet.
Ser Denys took my sword and inspected it as though the piece of wood might explain something.
"You've been practicing without me?"
"No."
"With the guards?"
"No."
"Jaime?"
I looked toward my five-year-old brother.
He was trying to balance his wooden sword on his head.
"No."
Ser Denys grunted.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because then I would have to find whichever fool was teaching you and tell him he's doing it wrong."
He walked toward the weapon rack.
I followed.
"Am I doing something wrong?"
"Many things."
That sounded more familiar.
He returned the wooden swords to their places.
"Your guard drops when you're tired. You overreach when you think you've found an opening. You're too willing to trade a hit to land one of your own."
"So I'm bad."
He looked at me.
"No."
There was something about the way he said it that made me stop smiling.
Ser Denys folded his arms.
"I've trained boys twice your age who cannot judge distance the way you do. Men spend years learning when to attack and when to wait. You seem to feel it."
"Feel what?"
"The moment."
I didn't answer.
He studied me for another second.
"That cannot be taught easily."
I looked back toward the yard.
Jaime was swinging his sword at an imaginary opponent now.
Cersei was still watching me.
"So what does that mean?"
"It means talent."
The word sat strangely.
I had always expected Jaime to be the swordsman.
That was part of who he was. Jaime Lannister, one of the greatest natural fighters of his generation. Knighted young. Kingsguard at fifteen. A man who, before losing his hand, could stand against almost anyone in Westeros.
I had never considered that I might possess something similar.
Or something greater.
Ser Denys picked up a blunted training blade from the rack.
Real metal.
He handed it to me.
I looked at him.
"Father said wooden swords until I'm older."
"Your father says many things."
I wasn't entirely certain that was a healthy attitude for a man employed by Tywin Lannister.
The blade felt completely different.
Heavier than wood.
Cold.
The balance drew my hand forward.
I adjusted my grip instinctively.
Ser Denys noticed.
"Careful."
I lifted it.
The sensation was strange.
And familiar.
Not from my old life. There were no memories waiting to explain it.
I simply liked the weight.
I moved the sword slowly through one of the forms Ser Denys had taught me.
Once.
Twice.
On the third movement, my wrist adjusted without conscious thought and the blade stopped exactly where I wanted it.
Ser Denys said nothing.
That silence told me more than praise would have.
Then a voice came from behind us.
"Put it down."
Tywin.
I froze.
He stood at the edge of the yard with two guards behind him.
How long he had been there, I had no idea.
I lowered the sword immediately.
Ser Denys bowed his head.
"My lord."
Tywin's eyes went first to the metal sword, then to me.
"I gave instructions."
"He is ready for more than wood," Ser Denys said.
Tywin walked closer.
My father had a way of entering a place and making everyone else feel as though they had been waiting for him.
"At seven?"
"Perhaps."
Tywin disliked uncertain answers.
His face showed it.
"Perhaps?"
Ser Denys glanced at me.
"Your son has an uncommon instinct for the sword."
Tywin's eyes returned to mine.
I couldn't tell whether that pleased him.
"How uncommon?"
"Too early to say."
"Then say what you know."
Ser Denys took a breath.
"He learns movements faster than any boy I've trained. He reads attacks he hasn't seen before. His body understands distance better than it should at his age."
Jaime had stopped playing now.
Cersei had too.
Everyone was listening.
Tywin looked at the sword in my hand.
"Attack him."
For a second, I thought he was speaking to me.
Then Ser Denys drew his own blunted blade.
I stared at Tywin.
"Father—"
"Attack him."
Ser Denys looked uncomfortable.
That alone was impressive.
"My lord, he's tired."
"I did not ask if he was tired."
There was no arguing with that.
Ser Denys moved into position.
I raised my sword.
Metal instead of wood changed everything.
My arms were already exhausted, and the added weight made the point waver slightly.
Tywin watched.
I breathed.
Ser Denys attacked.
My entire world narrowed.
His hand.
His eyes.
His hips.
His feet.
He gave me a simple opening deliberately.
I knew it was a trap.
I waited.
Something flashed across his face.
Approval.
Then he came from my right.
I caught the strike.
Metal rang through the courtyard.
The shock traveled down my arms.
He attacked again.
I backed away.
Again.
Blocked.
Again.
Too fast.
The flat of his blade tapped my chest.
"Dead," he said.
I exhaled.
Tywin's face remained expressionless.
Ser Denys lowered his sword.
"Most seven-year-olds would have taken the first opening."
"He knew it was false?" Tywin asked.
"He did."
Tywin looked at me.
"How?"
The same question again.
"I don't know."
His expression hardened.
That answer wouldn't satisfy him.
So I tried.
"Ser Denys wanted me to see it."
"And?"
"If he wanted me to see it, I thought I shouldn't take it."
Silence.
Then Tywin gave one small nod.
"Good."
One word.
From Tywin, it felt like a feast.
He turned to Ser Denys.
"Continue with wood for now. Steel twice each week under your supervision."
"Yes, my lord."
"And find someone better."
Ser Denys blinked.
"Better?"
"If the boy's talent is what you claim, I will not have it wasted."
Then Tywin left.
That was it.
No smile.
No hand on my shoulder.
No declaration that he was proud of me.
But I knew my father well enough by then.
He had just given me more than praise.
He had decided I was worth investing in.
I wasn't sure whether that was a good thing.
Jaime rushed toward me the moment Tywin disappeared.
"You used steel!"
"Barely."
"I want steel."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you ate a candle."
Cersei laughed.
Jaime looked betrayed.
"That has nothing to do with swords."
"It shows poor judgment."
"You sound like Maester Creylen."
That was probably the cruelest thing he'd ever said to me.
Cersei came over and took my hand.
I assumed she was looking at the sword.
Instead, she turned my palm upward.
The scrape across my knuckles had opened again.
A thin line of blood crossed my skin.
"You're hurt."
"It's a scratch."
She produced a small piece of cloth from somewhere inside her sleeve and wrapped it awkwardly around my hand.
I watched her.
"You know that won't stay on."
"Yes, it will."
"It's already coming loose."
She tightened it.
Too much.
"Cersei."
"What?"
"My fingers need blood."
She loosened it reluctantly.
Jaime groaned.
"Can we go now?"
Cersei didn't even look at him.
"In a moment."
That caught my attention.
Usually, the twins operated as a pair. If Jaime went somewhere, Cersei followed. If Cersei found trouble, Jaime was rarely far behind.
But that had begun changing.
Not dramatically.
Just little things.
Cersei came to watch my lessons even when Jaime grew bored.
She wanted to sit beside me during meals.
When Maester Creylen praised me, she looked more pleased than I did.
When Tywin criticized me, she remained angry about it long after I had forgotten.
She competed with Jaime for many things.
Lately, my attention seemed to be one of them.
I assumed it was because I was the eldest.
Because Joanna was gone.
Because I had become the closest thing they had to someone who listened without judging them.
Whatever the reason, I didn't think much of it.
Why would I?
She was my little sister.
Cersei finished tying the cloth and looked satisfied with her work.
"There."
"It looks terrible."
Her eyes narrowed.
I immediately reconsidered.
"But very effective."
She smiled.
Jaime made a gagging sound.
Cersei finally turned toward him.
"You're jealous."
"Of what?"
"Tycen likes me better."
Jaime stared at her.
Then at me.
"Do you?"
There was no correct answer to that question.
I had enough memories of my previous life to recognize a trap when I saw one.
"I like Tyrion best."
Both of them looked horrified.
I walked away before they could protest.
Their shouting followed me halfway across the yard.
For once, I wasn't thinking about the future.
I wasn't thinking about kings or rebellions or the army of the dead.
I was thinking about a sword.
About the brief silence in my mind when steel met steel.
About the way Ser Denys had looked at me.
Talent.
A natural instinct.
It was another difference.
Another thing that hadn't existed in the story I remembered.
I had once assumed that being reborn here meant I had been placed into the world of Game of Thrones with one advantage: knowledge.
Perhaps I had been wrong.
Perhaps knowledge was only the first advantage I'd been given.
But talent meant little without training.
I knew enough about this world to understand that.
The greatest swordsman could still die to an arrow, poison, disease, or a knife in the dark. Skill could keep me alive in a duel. It could not win the game waiting beyond Casterly Rock.
Still, when I looked back toward the training yard and saw the steel blade resting on the rack, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Excitement.
Tomorrow, I would train again.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
I had decades before the dead came south.
Years before Robert raised his hammer.
Years before kings began dying.
For now, I was seven years old.
There was no need to rush.
I had time.
Time to learn.
Time to grow.
And, if Ser Denys was right, time to discover just how dangerous a sword could become in my hand.