The blades meet with a dull metallic sound. Aemond strikes with a precision that no longer requires a shout. Neither speaks - everything is said in blows.

Criston Cole is half a step heavier, but experience is still on his side. He checks. Checks if the student has become arrogant, insolent. Has become too much like himself.

Aemond does not smile. He holds the sword as an extension of his arm, as if he were born with it. His face is stone. The eye patch is black, dense. The other eye is cold, observing. He does not chop - he counts the blows.

"You do not fight like a prince," Criston says, parrying the attack.

"And you no longer teach like a knight," Aemond replies, and there is not a drop of insolence in his voice, only a statement.

The blades close again. Criston adds strength, moves his body more sharply - a blow to the side, a slide, a balance check. Aemond retreats exactly one step. No more. The dust rises half an inch. He turns - and runs the blade along the mentor's rib, stopping an inch from the chest. Hangs. Long. Silently.

"You would have cut my throat, if this were not a game," Cole says hoarsely. Aemond slowly puts away the sword, a barely noticeable smile on his lips. Silence. Heavy breathing. The pulse of both is like footsteps on flagstones.