Children of Dragons | Aemond Targaryen

V

"No!" Criston Cole snapped, "Do it again."

Aemond's breath came out in short huffs, curling up and around his face in the cold air. He obeyed, moving his arm as he had been instructed. His legs were spread out equidistant from his shoulders, keeping his body stiff, but light on the balls of his feet. He was having a hard time with this, always too fluid or too tense.

"Awful!" The knight's voice grated on his ears.

They had been training since dawn, as they had been doing nearly everyday for almost two years. After that first day, when Criston had seen him uselessly swinging his sword against his altered vision, the knight had insisted that they return to the basics. They trained in all things: strength, agility, endurance, and balance. Criston had wholeheartedly welcomed Aemond's wish to become a skilled swordsman and committed himself to getting the young man to that place.

Only recently had they returned to the dull, wooden swords. After Criston had deemed his skill and comfort in seeing the world through one eye sufficient, he mixed in swords and proper movements into their continued training in strength, balance, and the like.

But Aemond was cold, irritated, and sore and could no longer stand the knight's rumbling voice constantly critiquing-

"Again!"

Aemond whipped his head at Criston, dropping his stance. He had had enough.

"No! Stay in your stance."

"We've been at it for hours," Aemond ground out.

Ser Criston narrowed his eyes in anger, "And we will keep on for more hours if you get out of your stance again." His patience was wearing thin. Aemond's too.

"Why does it matter?" Aemond whined.

"A knight's stance is all that he has," Criston snapped. "When everything else fails, a good stance can save your life."

"We have practiced stances for too long. If we could spar, then I might have a better understanding of knighthood."

Criston crossed his arms, "Knighthood is not all about fighting," he said. "Knights must be brave, honorable, astute, decisive, disciplined and above all obedient."

Aemond sighed, clutching the sword in his fist.

"Do not question me again," Ser Criston finished, his low voice reverberating off of the stone walls of the courtyard.

"Careful, Cole," Aemond had hoped to sound threatening, putting as much strength and bass into his voice as he could. "Perhaps you are not as much a master as you thought." But it was for naught, he sounded as young as he felt in the strong knight's presence.

He sneered, "Watch your tone with me, boy. You may be a prince, but as I teach you the ways of the sword, you are my apprentice, nothing more."

They stared at each other, each daring the other to speak. This was not an uncommon occurrence. When the sun rose too high in the sky, or when the cold creeped up into their bones, or when the rain pounded over them, they often grew cruel with each other, making snide remarks or shouting too loud at each other.

Just as Aemond opened his mouth to insult his mentor, a voice cut through their standoff, "I thought these were lessons on sword fighting." His mother's brown hair was bright in the winter sun. She had a fur-lined green cape wrapped tightly around herself, and watched them with furrowed brows.

"My queen," Ser Criston said, bowing low.

His mother gave him a slight nod, "How are the lessons faring?" She still had yet to acknowledge her son. Aemond bristled underneath her pointed neglect.