99 AC
After some time, I began planning for my knighthood.
In Westeros, squires are typically knighted between the ages of 18 and 20. It's not just about age, though; it's about proving worth, both in battle and character. And while some rise quickly, others linger longer in their squiring years. Not out of failure—but because their path winds differently.
In truth, older squires are not uncommon. Many face obstacles: financial burdens, lack of opportunity, or family politics. In the case of Yorgon Royce—the squire from whom I copied eleven years of sword experience—his knighthood had been delayed by all three.
Royce was already twenty when I targeted him. By all rights, he should've been knighted years ago. But his house was dealing with a succession conflict. His elder brother, the heir, grew jealous of Yorgon's reputation and lobbied to delay the knighting. It worked—barely. And when the opportunity finally came, Ser Clement Crabb, Yorgon's knight, was injured during a tourney, and the ceremony was postponed again.
Yorgon's case opened my eyes. In the history books, squires become knights when they prove their valor. But in truth, many squires wait for the right moment, not the right age.
The Hidden Cost of Knighthood:
For many, it comes down to coin. A proper knight requires:
A full set of armor—often custom-made and expensive.
A trained warhorse—a destrier capable of charging into battle.
Weapons—good steel doesn't come cheap.
A retinue or at least a squire or servant for upkeep and honor.
Enough gold to travel, maintain appearance, and participate in tournaments.
Yorgon had the skill but not the means. His family's fortune was tied up in conflict. Every bit of silver went to maintaining soldiers, bribing lords, or ensuring the house didn't collapse into ruin. His knighthood was a luxury they couldn't afford. That made him desperate, hardened—and ultimately the perfect candidate for my system.
And yet, despite all his setbacks, he kept training.
I could feel it in his stance, in the way his blade moved. Eleven years of hard-earned, survival-forged skill. When I absorbed his experience, it blended with my own near-eight years of training—making me, in essence, a warrior with nineteen years of refined instinct. No wonder I could stand toe-to-toe with Daemon Targaryen.
As for me—I had no such political barriers. No inheritance drama. No enemies in court. My family was proud of my position, and Prince Baelon had no reason to delay my progress. If anything, he seemed quietly pleased. I had earned the right to be knighted. Soon.
All I needed now was the moment. A tournament. A ceremony. Or a battlefield.
And when it came—I would be ready.