The clang of steel echoed across the Dragonstone courtyard, sharp and rhythmic like a heartbeat of iron.
Aemon stood at the edge of the sparring ring, the early morning air cool against his skin. The sky above was painted in shades of misty silver, and the scent of sea salt clung to the stone-like breath that refused to leave.
He picked his bow, exhaling slowly through his nose. The string still vibrated with tension, but his fingers were steady.
The courtyard of Dragonstone was quiet at this hour—just the wind, the sea, and the soft rhythm of practice. Mist clung to the edges of the stone walls, blurring the line between sky and sea.
Ser Jonothor Darry observed with a watchful eye, arms crossed, mouth tight with silent critique. A few paces beyond, Ser Barristan stood with his usual calm—measured, unmoving, yet ever alert.
"Focus on your breath," Jonothor said.
"Loose too early, and you'll hit the air. Loose too late, and you'll hit the wall."
"Very encouraging," Aemon muttered, aiming again.
To the side, Ser Barristan leaned against a post, arms folded, expression unreadable—though a flicker of interest glinted in his pale blue eyes.
Aemon loosed the arrow.
Thunk.
Another bullseye.
Jonothor blinked. "…That's your third in a row."
"I'm counting five," Barristan said evenly.
Aemon tried to hide his grin as he nocked another arrow. "Maybe I'm just finally getting the hang of it."
Jonothor stepped forward, squinting at the target. "You weren't 'hanging' anything last week. You could barely hit the haystack, let alone the centre."
"I've been… practising," Aemon offered vaguely.
[Trajectory analysis complete. Targeting compensation: 0.4 degrees left. Optimal release: now.]
He loosed.
Thunk.
Dead center again.
Jonothor let out a low whistle. "Alright, now you're just showing off."
Barristan stepped forward this time, narrowing his gaze at Aemon—not with suspicion, but something closer to curiosity. "Your posture's improved. Shoulders relaxed. You're compensating for the wind without even thinking."
Aemon shrugged, trying to keep his voice level. "Maybe I'm just having a good day."
"Or someone's slipped a catspaw spirit into your boots," Jonothor muttered.
Barristan chuckled. "Whatever it is… keep doing it. Again. Try from twenty yards farther."
They moved the marker back. Aemon followed, adjusted, aimed, and—
Thunk.
Another bullseye.
Jonothor rubbed his face. "I've seen grown men who'd kill to shoot like that."
"Well," Aemon said, lowering the bow, "please don't let them kill me for it."
That earned a short laugh from both knights.
They continued for another hour—
Aemon fired arrow after arrow, the targets now smaller, farther, moving at times. His arms ached, but something deeper inside kept adjusting, compensating.
[Stabilization engaged. Visual depth tracking optimised. Muscle fatigue: minimal.]
When he finally lowered his bow, Ser Barristan stepped forward and clapped a hand lightly on his shoulder.
"That's enough archery for today, prodigy."
"Already? I can do this all day," Aemon said, panting slightly.
"You've embarrassed enough squires for one morning," Jonothor said, grabbing a practice dagger from the weapons rack and tossing it to him. "Time to get closer to your enemies."
Aemon caught the dagger with one hand, testing its weight.
"Switching to knives now? You're just hoping I poke my foot, aren't you?"
"Not if you're fast," Barristan said with a slight smirk. "And not if you listen."
The three moved to the ring, the sun climbing higher as the clang of blades replaced the whisper of arrows.
The sparring ring was warm with the sun now, the sand beneath their boots soft but solid. Aemon bounced on the balls of his feet, wooden dagger in hand, trying to mimic the stance Ser Barristan had shown him.
Across from him, Ser Jonothor rolled his neck and raised his practice blade lazily.
"Alright, little princeling," he said with a grin. "Try not to stab yourself."
Aemon smirked. "No promises."
As they began to circle, Aemon murmured
under his breath, "S.E.R.A… you awake?"
[Always.]
"I need help. Can you... scan him? Find weaknesses?"
[Affirmative. Beginning motion analysis.]
Jonothor lunged, testing with a quick jab. Aemon parried—but only barely.
[Speed: moderate. Footwork: uneven. Right leg dominant. Favoring left shoulder—recent strain detected.]
Aemon ducked a swing and stepped back, his dagger flicking up.
"Say that in less robot."
[He's off balance. Hit his left side.]
Jonothor pressed forward with a confident grin—until Aemon slipped inside his guard, twisted, and jabbed toward his ribs.
His feet moved before he even thought to shift. The dagger tilted, parried, slashed—fluid, exact.
This is… strange, Aemon thought, ducking low as Jonothor's blade swept overhead. It doesn't feel like I'm doing this—more like I'm watching, and my body already knows the answers to questions I haven't even asked.
Every adjustment, every pivot felt instinctive. But it wasn't instinct. It was calculated. Tuned. S.E.R.A. was guiding him—not controlling—but anticipating.
Enhancing.
His body felt sharper. Lighter. Like the difference between dragging a sword through mud and slicing through air.
It's like my muscles already know the answer before the question's even asked.
He almost wanted to laugh. Am I fighting… or syncing?
He felt like a marionette with a puppeteer he trusted—one he didn't quite understand.
[Now. Disarm manoeuvre: sweep low, pivot wrist, redirect force.]
Aemon moved without thinking.
The next second, Jonothor's blade clattered to the ground, and Aemon's wooden dagger was pointed squarely at his chest.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Yield," Aemon said sweetly, cocking his head.
Jonothor blinked. "You little—"
He lunged, but Aemon darted away laughing, tapping the dagger to Jonothor's back with a triumphant thwack.
"Dead again!" Aemon sang.
"Gods," Jonothor groaned, rubbing his shoulder. "I was holding back!"
"Uh-huh," Aemon grinned, twirling the wooden blade. "Of course you were. Just like I'm seven feet tall."
"I was!" Jonothor insisted, glaring at Ser Barristan, who was fighting back a smirk.
"You realize I'll never let you forget this," Aemon said, eyes glittering. "Not when I'm ten. Not when I'm twenty. I'll remind you on your deathbed."
Jonothor looked pained. "I already regret everything about today."
Barristan finally let out a chuckle. "Careful, Jon. He's got the memory of a Grandmaester."
Aemon turned, dagger still in hand, and fixed Barristan with a smug smile. "Your turn."
The white knight arched a brow. "You want to spar me?"
"I want to try," Aemon replied.
A pause. Then Barristan stepped into the ring, rolling his shoulders as he drew a fresh practice blade.
"Very well. Let's see what you've got, prince."
Aemon exhaled and nodded.
"Sera. Same plan."
[Analyzing opponent: Ser Barristan Selmy…]
[Status: Knight of the Kingsguard. Combat experience: extensive. Threat level:… Very high.]
"Yeah, no kidding."
[Opening detected. Right shoulder drop—standard faint. Likely trap. Do not engage directly.]
Aemon moved, dodging and weaving, his wooden blade flashing. He was fast.
S.E.R.A. guided his footwork, angles, and patterns—he was keeping up.
For a glorious moment, he even looked like he had a chance.
Then—
Barristan's stance shifted.
He moved differently now.
Faster.
Sharper.
He stopped playing.
Aemon saw the change too late.
[Warning: Increased aggression. Technique escalation. Defensive stance advised—]
Smack!
Aemon's dagger flew from his hand. A heartbeat later, his legs were swept from beneath him, and he hit the ground with a thud, air whooshing from his lungs.
Barristan stepped back, wooden blade poised, then lowered it.
"You lasted longer than I expected," he said calmly.
Aemon wheezed. "You—that wasn't fair. You were holding back!"
Barristan smiled. "I was. Until you got cocky."
Aemon groaned, rolling onto his back.
"Sera, remind me to stop challenging people who fought in wars."
[Noted. Strategic error logged: ego overestimated versus veteran skill.]
"I hate both of you."
Barristan offered him a hand. "You've got talent, Aemon. But remember—talent doesn't beat experience."
"I'll remember that," Aemon muttered as he stood and brushed sand from his clothes.
"Right after I get my pride out of the dirt."
As the sun rose over Dragonstone's towers, the training wound down. The yard lay scattered with scuffed sand, discarded blades, and three sweat-soaked figures—two nursing bruised egos.
Ser Jonothor flopped onto a bench, dragging a sleeve across his brow. "By the gods, at this rate, you'll be wiping the floor with me by the time you're fourteen."
Aemon, still catching his breath, shot him a smug grin. "That's the plan. I'll even do it with my eyes closed just to be kind."
Jonothor groaned. "You'll be unbearable. Mark my words, Ser Barristan—this boy will haunt me for the rest of my life."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Aemon quipped, twirling his wooden dagger once more for dramatic flair.
Barristan chuckled, arms crossed as he leaned on the practice post.
Jonothor shook his head, his grin fading slightly, as he looked at the boy—not with amusement, but respect and admiration.
"Listen, lad," he said, his voice dropping, the banter fading into something more serious.
"You're improving faster than anyone I've ever seen. But it's not just skill—how your mind moves with your body. That's what sets you apart."
He paused, wiping his brow, gaze steady.
"Keep training. Keep pushing. Don't get lazy. Don't get proud. You've got something in you—something rare. And one day…"
A beat.
His voice lowered—not louder, but weightier, each word carrying the weight of truth.
"…one day, I think you'll be the greatest warrior Westeros has ever seen."
Aemon blinked, then gave an exaggerated bow. "That's very sweet, Ser Jonothor. Do you want me to sign your forehead now or later?"
Jonothor threw a practice shield at him.
Aemon ducked, laughing.
"I take it all back," Jonothor muttered. "You'll be the most insufferable brat Westeros has ever seen."
Barristan was smiling now, a soft look behind the sternness in his eyes.
"He's back," the white knight said quietly.
Jonothor looked up. "Hm?"
Barristan nodded toward Aemon, who was now mock-dueling the wind like a dramatic fool. "The boy. He's carefree again. There's laughter in him. Peace."
Aemon overheard and glanced over, chest rising and falling, sweat on his brow, but eyes clear.
"I'm still me," he said, a little breathless.
"Just… newer."
Barristan watched him in silence, eyes steady, before speaking in a low voice and laced with quiet sincerity.
"The late Queen would be proud of you."
The words stopped Aemon in place.
He didn't say anything for a moment—just looked down at the dagger in his hand, his chest tightened, memory flickering like a flame. Then he nodded slowly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
"I've made promises to her," he said quietly. "And I'm going to keep them."
There was a weight behind the words—a purpose.
Then, before the moment could grow too heavy, he spun toward Jonothor and added, "Starting with wiping the floor with you next week."
Jonothor groaned. "Sass and steel in one small body. We're doomed."
Barristan laughed—an actual laugh—and shook his head.
"Seven save us," he said. "He's only six."
"And a half," Aemon corrected, ever precise.
"Right," Jonothor said. "Can't forget the half. That's where all the trouble lives."
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--
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Aemon was halfway through a dramatic reenactment of his glorious victory over Ser Jonothor—complete with over-the-top commentary and theatrical footwork—when a voice suddenly cut through the air.
"Prince Aemon?"
Aemon paused mid-lunge, turning to see one of the castle servants standing at the edge of the training yard, hands folded neatly before him, eyes respectfully lowered.
"Maester Geradys requests your presence, my prince," the servant said. "You are summoned to the hall for the evening dinner. His Grace, King Aerys, has ordered your attendance alongside the royal family."
Aemon blinked. "Wait, dinner? Already?"
The servant nodded. "The sun is nearing its height, my prince. Preparations are underway."
Jonothor chuckled behind him. "Time flies when you're showing up your mentors."
Barristan arched a brow. "You'll want to wash the sand off your face before presenting yourself at dinner."
Aemon looked down at himself—sweat-soaked tunic, scuffed boots, and a fine patch of dirt clinging to his elbow from his earlier tumble.
"Right," he muttered. "Royal dinners. Can't show up looking like I lost a fight with a pig."
Jonothor grinned. "Or won one."
Aemon rolled his eyes. "You're hilarious."
He then turned to the servant. "Tell them I'll be there."
The servant bowed. "Yes, my prince."
As he hurried off, Aemon glanced at the white knights flanking him—one grinning, the other stoic, but both proud in their way.
"Guess it's time to brush my hair and pretend I'm respectable."
Jonothor clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't pretend too hard. We'd miss the real you."
And with that, he walked toward the castle, steps lighter than they'd been in weeks, the sting of bruises fading beneath something else—purpose, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
Aemon ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Time to look presentable."
[Advisable. Current appearance resembles a dirt-covered stable boy mid-existential crisis.]
He chuckled under his breath. "You're lucky I'm too tired to argue."
[Unlikely. Data suggests you have a dedicated energy reserve just for being difficult.]
With a shake of his head and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Aemon stepped inside—bruised, bolstered, and walking straight into the lion's den dressed as a prince.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE.
10 ADVANCED CHAPTERS ARE AVAILABLE IN MY PATERON.!!!