A Prince of House Targaryen

The Jousting

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As the first rays of the sun kissed the horizon, Aemon stepped onto the training ground at Harrenhal, ready to hone his skills. With his sword in hand, he commenced his daily routine of practicing his moves against his straw-filled opponent, repeating the four motions of a stab, a swing, sidestep to the right, and then another swing in an almost mechanical fashion.

The sound of metal against straw echoed through the courtyard as Aemon's swift and precise movements seemed to blend into the already bustling atmosphere of the castle, which had just recently begun springing back to life. The warm breeze of the early morning rejuvenated him, and with each swing and thrust, he felt his muscles loosen, and his mind sharpen.

He had gotten used to waking up early a long time ago; in Winterfell, he always woke up early to either work or take something from the kitchen when no one was looking; when he used to live with the free folk, there everyone would wake early in the morning to hunt food for breakfast. Yet, in all those years, he had not subjected his body to the strain of recent days.

It had been a fortnight since their arrival in Harrenhal; the jousting would be today; Knights and lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms had gathered to witness this grand spectacle and compete for glory and honor. The bustling energy of the castle was infectious, from the clanging of armor to the neighing of horses, as everyone eagerly prepared for the day's events. With the promise of fierce competition and the chance to witness legendary feats of strength and skill, the jousting tournament was sure to be a highlight of their stay in Harrenhal.

His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it pounding in his throat, and he wasn't sure how to feel about today. Despite the uncertainty, Aemon knew that he was as prepared as he could be.

As he delivered another forceful strike and thrust toward the wooden training target, the sound of wood and straw colliding echoed throughout the place. With every powerful swing, small puffs of straw exploded from every corner of the bag that was tightly tied around the sturdy wooden post. Despite the physical exertion, the young warrior's movements were becoming increasingly fluid and precise. However, as he continued to channel his rage into each movement, his steps began to reflect the intensity of his emotions.

With beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, Aemon picked up his training sword for the umpteenth time, determined to perfect his swings. He swung the sword with such force that it almost knocked him off balance, but to his dismay, the second swing pushed too far, causing him to lose his footing.

Frustrated, he attempted to thrust the sword forward, but it missed its mark and left him feeling disheartened. Gathering his wits, he tried to reposition himself to the right and swing once more, hoping to hit the training dummy dead on this time. As he swung, the weapon felt heavy in his hand, and the force caused it to shake violently, ultimately launching it out of his grip and sending it flying across the place.