The camp buzzed with the sounds of men-at-arms, the scent of oiled steel and trampled grass thick in the air. The Blackfyre banners rippled in the breeze, red and black against the pale sky.

Aegylla wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her gauntlet, her braid half-undone from the clash. Across from her, a squire from the Reach lowered his practice sword, breathing hard. He and his father had declared for her father, sworn to their cause. She had sparred with him often since they joined the host. The daily practices had forged a friendship between them. He had grown better, quicker, stronger, but still far from the brutal lessons Ser Quentyn Ball had drilled into her.

She rolled her shoulder beneath the weight of her armor and gave a small, sharp nod.

“You fight well.”

She lifted her blade again, pointing it lightly toward him.

“One more time. Try being more aggressive this time.”