Chapter 23: The Courtyard Training
The training yard smelled like sweat, leather, and ambition.
I'd avoided it for weeks, training in private, keeping my abilities hidden except during necessary demonstrations. But Otto had made it clear: as Helaena's official guard, I needed to be seen. Visible. Legitimate.
So here I was, standing in the center of the yard, practice sword in hand, while knights and guards watched from the sidelines.
Ser Criston Cole approached from the armory. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The best fighter in the Seven Kingdoms, by most accounts. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of controlled grace that came from decades of practice.
He stopped three paces away. "Ulf. I've heard stories about your abilities. Thought I should assess the man protecting Princess Helaena."
He meant it as assessment, not a challenge, and his tone made that plain enough.
"Assess away, Ser Criston."
He drew his practice sword, blunted steel, weighted like a real blade. "I won't go easy on you because you're in the queen's favor."
"Wouldn't want you to."
The yard had filled. Guards stopping their own training to watch. A few minor lords gathering. This wasn't just a bout anymore. This was theater.
Criston settled into his stance. Perfect form. Balance. Readiness.
I mirrored him, keeping my weight distribution neutral.
"Begin," someone called.
Criston moved.
Fast. Gods, he was fast.
His blade came in a diagonal slash, testing my reaction time. I blocked with Tekkai-hardened forearms, letting the steel bounce off.
His eyes widened fractionally. But he adapted immediately, stopped targeting my arms, went for my legs instead.
I used Soru. Just a short burst, two meters to his left. His blade cut empty air.
Gasps from the watching crowd.
Criston whirled, blade coming around in a horizontal sweep. I dropped low, flowed beneath it using Kami-e, body bending impossibly.
He kicked. Caught me in the ribs. I'd been too focused on the blade.
Pain exploded. But I'd hardened at the last instant with Tekkai. No broken ribs. Just impact.
I rolled backward, came up in a crouch.
"Interesting," Criston said, breathing slightly harder. "You move like a Braavosi water dancer. But hit like a Westerosi knight."
"I take what works."
We circled. The crowd had gone silent, watching.
He feinted high, struck low. I saw through it, blocked the real strike. Our blades locked for a heartbeat.
Then I shifted my weight. Five hundred kilograms. Sudden. Overwhelming.
The force drove his blade down. His eyes went wide. I'd just overpowered him with pure mass despite being half his size.
I could've pressed the advantage. Struck while he recovered.
Instead, I stepped back. Released the weight. Gave him space.
Professional courtesy. This wasn't a real fight. Just evaluation.
Criston smiled. Actually smiled. "You're good. Better than good."
"You're better."
"Perhaps. But you fight like water and stone combined. Flowing one moment, immovable the next." He lowered his blade. "I yield. This bout could go either way, and I'd rather save my pride."
Laughter from the watching knights. Respect in their eyes.
I lowered my blade. Bowed slightly. "Thank you, Ser Criston."
"Thank you for not embarrassing me completely." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Princess Helaena is in good hands."
I was drinking water from a barrel when the mood shifted.
Prince Aegon descended from the Keep's upper levels, stumbling slightly. Drunk. At midday.
He wore silks that probably cost more than I'd earned in my entire life. His silver-gold hair was disheveled. His face flushed.
"So this is the bastard my sister keeps as a pet."
The yard went quiet.
I didn't respond. Set down my water cup. Kept my expression neutral.
Aegon weaved closer. "Tell me, White. Do you warm her bed? Or just her seat in the godswood?"
My jaw tightened. Every muscle in my body screamed to respond. To defend Helaena's honor.
But hitting the crown prince—drunk or not—was a death sentence.
"I serve Princess Helaena honorably, Your Grace."
"Honorably." He laughed. Ugly sound. "My wife barely knows what honor is. Too busy talking to insects and seeing ghosts."
Criston stepped forward. "Prince Aegon. The training yard is for warriors. Not wine."
"And what are you, Cole? A warrior or a whore who fights?"
Criston's face went stone. "I suggest you return to your chambers, my prince."
They locked eyes. Aegon blinked first.
"Fine. Boring anyway." He turned, stumbled, caught himself on a training post. "Keep my mad wife entertained, White. Maybe she'll stop bothering the rest of us."
He left. Weaving back toward the Keep.
Silence.
Then someone coughed. Training resumed awkwardly.
I stood there, hands clenched, breathing carefully.
That drunk, cruel, dismissive bastard was going to be king one day.
And Helaena was already married to him. Forced to share his bed, bear his children, endure his mockery.
My fists unclenched slowly. Violence wouldn't help. But I wouldn't forget a single word of it, or a single sneer.
When the Dance came, Aegon would be one of the key players.
And I'd remember exactly what kind of man he was.
I was putting away my practice sword when a small voice spoke behind me.
"Can you teach me?"
I turned. A boy. Maybe ten years old. Silver-white hair, intense eyes. Missing his left eye, no, wait. He still had both eyes now. That came later.
Aemond Targaryen.
"Teach you what, prince?"
"That step. The one where you disappeared." His voice was serious, focused. No childish playfulness. "I want to learn it."
I knelt, bringing myself to his level. "It's called Soru. And it's not simple."
"I don't care if it's hard. I'll practice."
"It requires years of leg conditioning. Building the muscle strength to kick off the ground ten times in an instant."
His eye gleamed. "Ten kicks in one instant. That's the principle?"
Smart kid. Focused on the core concept, not the difficulty.
"Yes. Power comes from the legs. Everything else follows." I demonstrated slowly, explaining the mechanics. "But if you try it before your body's ready, you'll tear muscles. Break bones."
"Then how do I get ready?"
"Running. Squats. Jumping exercises. Build the foundation first." I paused. "Why do you want to learn?"
His expression hardened. Something far too old for a ten-year-old. "Because Aegon is strong and I'm not. Because everyone looks at him and sees the heir, and looks at me and sees... nothing."
There it is. The kind of resentment that curdles into something far uglier, given time and the wrong king to serve.
"You're not nothing, prince. You're focused. Determined. That's worth more than strength."
"But strength helps."
"Yes. It does." I stood. "I'll make you a deal. You build the foundation—running, exercises, proper form. When you're ready, I'll teach you the advanced techniques."
He extended his hand. Formal. Like sealing a contract.
I shook it. His grip was surprisingly firm.
"I'll master it," he said. "Whatever it takes."
"I believe you."
He walked away with purpose, already planning his training regimen.
I watched him go, already feeling the pull of what I'd just done.
I'd agreed to train a boy who could become something far more dangerous than a swordsman, if the stories I remembered were any guide.
But he was also a ten-year-old boy, desperate for recognition and strength.
Could I change him? Redirect that intensity toward something constructive?
Or would I just make him more dangerous?
Time would tell.
Evening. Helaena found me on the battlements, looking out over the city.
"I watched from my balcony," she said quietly.
I turned. She stood a careful distance away. Proper. Appropriate. But her eyes told a different story.
"Did I embarrass you?"
"No. You were... magnificent." She paused. "Aegon was cruel."
"He's always cruel, isn't he?"
"Yes." Her voice was soft. Resigned. "To me. To the servants. To anyone he thinks beneath him."
"Why do you tolerate it?"
"Because he's my husband. My brother. My king-to-be." She looked out over the city, avoiding my eyes. "What choice do I have?"
"You have me."
The words came out before I could stop them.
She turned, startled. "What?"
"You have me," I repeated, more firmly. "Not as a subject. Not as a guard. As... whatever you need me to be."
"Ulf, I'm married. I'm a princess. You're—"
"A bastard. I know. But that doesn't change what I said."
Neither of us spoke. The wind picked up, carrying the sounds of the city below.
"Do I?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Really have you?"
I closed the distance between us. Slowly. Giving her time to retreat.
She didn't.
"You do."
Her hand found mine. Squeezed.
We stood together as the sun set, holding hands where anyone could see, and neither of us cared.