Chapter 132: Chapter 132: The Morning Bout
The match was held in the morning, before the yard had properly warmed. It had only been a couple of days since Otto suggested the match, and now I stood ready to watch my son in his first proper bout.
A cold breeze moved through the Red Keep from the river and found every gap between stone and leather. It tugged at cloaks, reddened ears, and made the boys’ breath show faintly when they first stepped into the yard. The night’s damp had not fully lifted. The practice ground had been raked before dawn, leaving the dirt dark, even, and firm enough underfoot.
There was no crowd. That had been the first condition. No young lords pretending friendship. No courtiers drifting nearby with empty excuses. No servants lingering beyond those needed to carry water, pads, and spare practice blades. The yard belonged that morning to the match and to the men responsible for ensuring it remained one.
Four Kingsguard oversaw it.
Ser Lorent Marbrand stood at the centre edge of the ring, white cloak moving slightly in the wind. His face held the grave patience of a man who knew every rule was only as strong as the will to enforce it.
Ser Arryk stood near Jace. Ser Erryk stood a short distance behind him, where Luke watched with his hands tucked into his sleeves against the cold. Ser Curtis Crakehall stood near Aemond, but not close enough to command the morning.
That had been another condition. He was present because excluding him entirely would have made its own argument, but Ser Willis had taken Aemond through the final preparation before dawn, and Lorent held authority over the bout.
Curtis had accepted that with a face like locked iron.
Alicent stood beneath the covered walk with Otto beside her. Larys Strong was present as Master of Whisperers, though he had been given no place close enough to murmur into the match.
Rhaenyra stood with me across the yard. She wore a dark cloak fastened tight at her throat, her hair braided back in a way that made her look less like a princess at ease and more like a woman preparing to endure a necessary hour.
Jace looked toward us once before taking his place. I did not nod too grandly. I did not raise a fist or offer any gesture that could become a story. I only met his eyes and let him see that I was watching him, not the outcome. He understood well enough.
Aemond entered the ring opposite him.
He was a little taller, a little older, and harder in the way boys became when they mistook control for armour. His practice sword rested easily in his hand. His eyepatch made his face difficult to read from a distance, but there was no mockery in him that morning. No smile. No sneer. Whatever Curtis had wanted from the first yard incident, Aemond had brought something else.
That did not make him gentle. It made him serious.
Ser Lorent stepped between them.
"This bout is held for training and nothing more," he said, voice carrying across the yard. "It is not a trial, not a judgement, and not a quarrel given permission to wear armour. You will fight with blunted practice swords. Helmets remain on. No thrusts to the face. No strike after yield. No griping, wrestling, or blows with hilt or guard. The bout ends when I call it, when one fighter yields, or when one is put down cleanly and cannot recover in good order. Do both princes understand?"
Jace answered first. "I understand, Ser Lorent."
Aemond followed. "I understand."
Lorent looked from one to the other, then toward Arryk and Curtis. "Instructors will not speak once the bout begins unless I permit it. Advice ends at the line."
Arryk bowed his head. "Understood."
Curtis did the same, slower. "Understood."
Lorent’s gaze lingered on him just long enough. Then he stepped back. "Take your positions."
Jace rolled his shoulders once beneath the padded practice jacket. Arryk had chosen restraint over bulk, allowing him movement without leaving him foolishly exposed. Jace’s helm covered his face, but I knew the shape of his focus by the way his left foot settled. He had listened during the week. Whether he would remember after the first strike remained to be seen.
Aemond waited with his blade low. Not lazy. Inviting. Jace did not rush him.
The first pass began carefully. They circled, testing distance, blades touching once, twice, neither committing beyond measure. Aemond shifted to Jace’s right, using the limitation of his missing eye less than most expected. He had learned to move his whole body to read what one side could not give him. Jace tested that with a feint toward the outer line, then withdrew before Aemond could punish it.
The blunted blades met with a sharp crack. Jace gave ground. Aemond pressed. Not wildly. He drove him back two steps with clean, hard cuts aimed at shoulder and ribs. Jace caught the first, turned the second poorly, and took the third against his upper arm with a sound that made Luke flinch beside Erryk.
Jace did not look toward him. He reset, breathing visible in the cold.
Aemond came again, quicker this time. Jace met him in the centre instead of retreating to the edge. Their blades struck in a fast exchange, four blows in little more than a breath. Jace landed one on Aemond’s side, not heavy enough to decide anything but clean enough to be seen.
Arryk’s hands remained folded. Curtis’s jaw tightened.
Aemond stepped back, not from pain, but acknowledgement. The next attack came lower. Jace saw it late and barely caught the cut before it reached his thigh. Aemond turned the bind and struck his shoulder hard enough to stagger him.
"Recover," Lorent said, not as instruction, but warning that the bout continued only if Jace could stand properly.
Jace recovered. He did not hide the pain well. He did not need to. Hiding pain was less useful than mastering it. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak. I stood still.
Jace changed after that. Not enough to suddenly become better than he was. That would have been a lie the yard would not have forgiven. But he stopped trying to answer every blow with proof.
He let Aemond come, yielded a half-step where needed, and used his feet more cleanly. When Aemond pressed too far on the next exchange, Jace turned him and struck across the guard, the blunted edge catching Aemond high on the chest.
Aemond exhaled sharply. Luke whispered something under his breath. Erryk glanced down, and Luke fell silent.
The bout had become good. That was the surprise, though perhaps it should not have been. Beneath all the politics, the boys had trained. Beneath the whispers, the old blood, the remembered screams from Driftmark, and the hands of adults arranging danger around them, there were two young princes in a cold yard testing steel under rules they both accepted.
Aemond was better. That became clear gradually rather than all at once.
He wasted less motion. He adjusted faster when Jace found an answer. His one eye watched with harsh concentration, and where Jace sometimes fought the last blow after it had passed, Aemond lived more easily in the next one. He had been shaped by injury, anger, discipline, and a need to make the world pay attention without begging it to look. That made him dangerous in a yard even with blunted steel.
But Jace did not shame himself. He made Aemond work.
Twice, he forced Aemond back. Once, he caught him with a cut to the forearm that would have numbed fingers if the padding had been thinner. Another time, he refused the obvious retreat and stepped inside Aemond’s line, blade pushing hard enough that Aemond had to twist away rather than simply overpower him. It was not elegant, but it was brave and properly judged.
Then Aemond found the pattern.
Jace’s guard rose slightly after each hard exchange, not much, just enough to protect the shoulder Aemond had already struck. Aemond let him do it twice. On the third, he feinted high, drew the guard, and cut low across Jace’s forward leg.
The strike landed with a dull crack against padding. Jace’s knee buckled. He tried to recover, and for half a heartbeat I thought he might manage it. Then Aemond stepped in, blade pressed across Jace’s upper chest, controlled and firm, stopping just short of the throat.
Jace froze on one knee.
"Hold," Lorent called.
Aemond held. No extra pressure. No flourish. No word spoken over a fallen opponent.
Lorent crossed the ring. "Prince Jacaerys?"
Jace breathed hard. His face was hidden by the helm, but his voice came steady enough. "I yield."
Lorent nodded. "Bout to Prince Aemond."
The yard remained silent for a moment. Then Arryk bowed his head once. Not celebration. Recognition. Erryk did the same. Ser Lorent looked satisfied in the restrained way of a man who had feared worse and received better. Even Curtis, to his credit or to his calculation, did not smirk.
Aemond lowered his sword. Jace shifted as if to stand, then winced when his struck leg complained. Before Arryk could step forward, Aemond offered his hand. Not grandly. Not for the watchers. He simply held it out.
Jace looked at it. The pause was long enough to remind everyone what lay between them, and short enough not to insult the gesture. Then he took it.
Aemond helped him rise. "Well fought," Aemond said.
Jace removed his hand once steady. "You too. I thought I had your right side."
"You nearly did. Then you tried it once too often."
Jace gave a breath that might have become a laugh on another morning. "That sounds like something Ser Arryk will enjoy telling me."
Aemond’s mouth twitched faintly. "He should. It worked."
It was not friendship. No one with sense would call it that. It was respect in a place where respect had been uncertain. That was worth more than a dozen polished speeches.
Arryk came to Jace then and checked his leg with practised hands. "You will bruise."
"I know."
"You will pretend it is less sore than it is."
Jace looked at him. "Probably."
"Do it badly, and your father will notice."
"I already noticed," I said as I approached.
Jace turned, still breathing hard. "I lost."
"Yes."
He swallowed once, not from tears, but from the effort of making the result sit properly inside him. "I did not yield too soon."
"No."
"I did not make him chase me."
"No."
"Then I can live with it."
"You should do more than live with it. You should learn from it."
His shoulders eased slightly.
Aemond stood a few paces away with Curtis behind him now. Alicent had stepped closer from the covered walk, her face controlled but her eyes on her son with unmistakable relief. Otto watched the yard like a man reading a document whose wording had not delivered quite the advantage he expected. Larys wore the mild expression of someone deciding whether an honest outcome could still be made dishonest with enough care.
It would be hard for him. Not impossible. Nothing was impossible for poison. But hard.
The witnesses had seen too much clean conduct. Aemond had won fairly. Jace had fought well. The rules had held. The Cargylls had acknowledged the result. Curtis had not interfered. I had not protested. Rhaenyra had not rushed forward like a frightened mother, though I knew what it had cost her to remain still.
Lorent stepped between both princes again. "This was a good bout," he said, making the words official by the weight of his office. "Prince Aemond fought with control and skill. Prince Jacaerys showed courage, discipline, and improvement throughout the match. No shame belongs to either prince."
That was useful. More than useful. Necessary.
Alicent inclined her head. "Lord Commander, I thank you for overseeing it."
Rhaenyra came forward then. "As do I. The rules were fairly kept."
Alicent looked toward her. For a moment, both mothers stood beside the yard where their sons had struck each other under watch and somehow not made the world worse by it.
"Aemond fought well," Rhaenyra said.
Alicent accepted the courtesy with visible care. "Jacaerys did as well. He stood longer than many would have after the first shoulder strike."
That surprised Jace more than it should have. He bowed to Alicent. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Aemond looked at him, then at his mother, and something in his expression changed. Not softness. Not quite. But he had wanted the praise, and he had received it without needing Jace diminished first.
Otto stepped closer, hands folded before him. "A useful morning, then. Properly arranged challenge has served better than rumour."
I looked at him. "It has served because the boys showed more discipline than many who spoke about them."
Otto’s gaze moved to mine. "A fair observation, Prince Othorion."
"It was meant to be."
Rhaenyra’s mouth almost moved.
Larys came forward with his cane, slow and polite. "It is pleasant when expectation fails to sour the result. The court may be disappointed to learn there is so little scandal to carry."
"Then the court may improve itself by carrying the truth," Rhaenyra said.
Larys bowed. "A demanding exercise, my princess, but one should not deny the court an opportunity for growth."
Aemond removed his helm. His hair fell slightly loose around his face, damp from effort despite the cold. Jace did the same a moment later. His cheek was flushed, his pride bruised more than his body, but he did not look broken.
Luke approached from Erryk’s side. He looked first at Jace’s leg. "Does it hurt?"
Jace shifted weight carefully. "Enough."
Luke nodded as if that answer satisfied a rule only brothers understood. Then he looked at Aemond. "You fought fairly."
Aemond regarded him for a moment. The yard seemed to tighten again, though less than before. "So did Jace," Aemond said.
Luke took that in. "I know."
No apology passed between them. No old wound closed. The moment was too small for that, and perhaps more honest because of it. Erryk placed a hand briefly at Luke’s back, guiding him aside before the silence could be asked to carry more than it could bear.
Curtis finally spoke, his voice controlled. "Prince Aemond, you read the high guard well."
Aemond turned to him. "Ser Willis warned me Jace might adjust after the first exchange. He was right."
Curtis accepted the answer, though not comfortably. That too was a small victory. Arryk, meanwhile, had begun explaining the last sequence to Jace with no tenderness wasted.
"You lifted before he had earned it," Arryk said. "Not much, but enough. Pain made you guard the place already struck. That is natural. It is also visible."
Jace listened while still breathing hard. "I thought I hid it."
"You hid discomfort. You did not hide adjustment. They are not the same."
Aemond, hearing that, nodded slightly. "That was what I saw."
Jace looked at him. "I will remember."
"You should. I will remember that inside step."
There it was again. Not warmth. Something better suited to them for now. A reason to train rather than to hate.
Lorent dismissed the formal bout after the maester checked both boys. Jace would bruise along the shoulder and thigh. Aemond had marks on his ribs and forearm, enough to prove the match had not been a procession. No injury required more than rest, liniment, and the kind of lecture from instructors that all boys believed was longer than necessary.
As the yard loosened, Otto drew Alicent aside. I could not hear all of it, but I watched their faces. Alicent looked tired more than pleased. Otto looked thoughtful. He had gained something, yes. Aemond had won. That could be used, if handled carefully. But not easily. Because Jace had lost well.
That denied Otto the cleaner story. The match had not revealed weakness. It had revealed a boy who could be beaten without collapsing into shame, corrected without resentment, and respectful without grovelling. Aemond’s victory stood, but it did not diminish Jace enough to serve as a weapon by itself.
Larys would still try. Larys always tried. He would speak of Aemond’s sharpness, Jace’s youth, the balance of sons, the worth of hard training, and the value of not sheltering princes. But every whisper would have to step around the same inconvenient truth: all present had seen a fair bout, and each Kingsguard there could say so.
Even Curtis. Especially Curtis, if pressed.
Rhaenyra joined me as Jace returned to Arryk for cooling drills. She waited until no one stood close enough. "He lost well," she said.
"He did."
"I am proud of him."
"So am I."
Her eyes followed Jace across the yard. "I hated every strike."
"I noticed."
"I stayed still."
"I noticed that too."
She glanced at me. "Do not sound so pleased with yourself."
"I am pleased with you."
"That is worse."
"It often is."
The corner of her mouth softened, but only briefly.
Across the yard, Alicent spoke to Aemond. He listened with his head slightly bowed, not meekly, but with enough respect that I wondered how much of him she still feared losing to men like Curtis. When she touched his cheek near the edge of his eyepatch, he endured it in public for no more than a breath before stepping back. She let him.
Aemond then looked across the yard toward Jace. Jace looked back. Neither bowed. Neither smiled. But neither looked away with hatred either. That would have to be enough for one cold morning.
When the yard emptied, I walked with Jace toward the inner passage. He limped only after he thought no one important could see. I did not tell him that fathers were worse than courtiers for noticing such things.
"You are allowed to limp," I said.
He sighed. "I was hoping you would not say that."
"Then hide it better."
"That is not the lesson Ser Arryk gave."
"It is a different lesson."
He glanced up at me, then shook his head. "You are very difficult to learn from."
"I prefer memorable."
He thought about that. "Was it enough?"
The question was quiet. Enough for what, he did not need to say. Enough not to shame Rhaenyra. Enough not to feed Otto. Enough not to make Luke feel he had to fight next. Enough not to disappoint me. Too many enoughs for one boy after one match.
"Yes," I said. "It was enough."
He breathed out. Then, after several steps, he said, "Aemond was better than I thought."
"Good."
He frowned. "Good?"
"Respect your opponent before he teaches you to. It is less painful that way."
"He offered his hand."
"You took it."
"I nearly did not."
"I know."
"But if I refused, it would have made him look better."
"And you worse."
He nodded slowly. "I thought so."
"That was not the only reason to take it."
"No." His voice changed, becoming more thoughtful than defensive. "He won fairly. It would have been small to pretend otherwise."
I placed a hand on his shoulder, carefully avoiding the bruise. "That is the part I am proudest of."
Jace did not answer, but he walked a little straighter after that. Not because he had won. Because he had learned losing did not have to reduce him.
Behind us, the yard lay cold and quiet again. No blood. No scandal. No broken oath. No prince humiliated beyond repair. Only two boys with bruises, four white cloaks with witnessed truth, and a morning that had given rumour less meat than hungry men desired.
In the Red Keep, that was almost a miracle.
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