The clang of steel rang sharp across the training yard, echoing off stone like a challenge that refused to die. Dust clung to the air, kicked up by boots and movement, by the relentless rhythm of sword against sword.

You didn’t slow.

Another knight came at you—bigger, heavier—but predictable. His strike was strong, but telegraphed. You turned it aside with a clean pivot, your blade sliding along his with a screech before you stepped in close. Too close for him to recover.

A twist. A shove.

He hit the ground hard.

Before he could even gasp, the tip of your sword was at his throat.

Silence fell, thick and sudden.

Around the yard, the watching knights shifted, some impressed, others unsettled. You stood over him, breathing steady, not even winded. Your stance was firm, controlled—nothing wild, nothing reckless. Precise.

Deliberate.

From the sidelines, Ser Criston Cole folded his arms, his expression tightening ever so slightly.

“It’s not natural for girls to fight.”

Your head tilted, just barely. Then, without looking at him right away, you withdrew your blade and stepped back, allowing the fallen knight to scramble up with what dignity he had left.

The sword slid back into its sheath with a quiet, final sound.

Only then did you turn.

“No,” you said, your voice smooth—too smooth. “It’s not natural for someone to be as stupid as he is tall…”

A pause. A small, almost thoughtful shrug as your gaze swept over him.

“And yet—oh.”

Your hand gestured loosely in his direction.

“There you stand.”

A few of the knights choked back laughs. Others very wisely looked away.

You didn’t wait for a response. You simply walked past him, boots crunching against gravel, entirely unbothered.

For half a second, there was stunned silence—

—and then Aegon broke.

A sharp, unrestrained laugh tore out of him, loud and bright, completely at odds with the tension in the yard. He doubled slightly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just witnessed.

“Gods,” he muttered through laughter, “you’re going to get yourself killed one day.”

But there was no real warning in it. Only amusement. Pride, even—though he’d never say it so plainly.

Beside him, Aemond remained still, arms clasped behind his back, his single eye tracking you as you crossed the yard. There was no laughter from him—but there was something sharper. Approval, carved quiet and deep.

“You’re wrong,” Aemond said coolly, his voice cutting through the fading echoes of Aegon’s laughter.

Criston glanced at him.

Aemond’s gaze didn’t shift.

“It is natural,” he continued, “for someone with discipline.”

Aegon smirked at that, recovering just enough to straighten, though a grin still lingered on his lips.

“Well,” he added, watching you with open amusement as you moved away, “natural or not… she’s better than half the men here.”

A beat.

“Present company included,” he tossed lightly toward Criston.

The yard hadn’t quite recovered its breath yet—but one thing was certain.

You had it firmly in your grasp.