Almost certainly, but my attention was taken by a new presence in the training yard. I heard him first, the footfalls far too heavy to be that of a squire. At first, I had thought it to be Corlys, looking to have a chat, or Baelon, looking to spend time with his brother. Instead, it was worse. Far worse.
"Aemon," I greeted my brother with no small amount of forced cheer. "Here to find an opponent closer to your level of skill?"
...
Perhaps it was a touch rude to greet him like that, but I was still a touch upset with him. Besides, his dress had left me no choice.
My brother was clad much as I was, wearing a padded jacket bearing the three-headed dragon of our house. But whereas I wore my helm, my brother instead kept his tucked beneath an arm along with a sword and a shield painted to match his jacket.
He had just arrived, coming straight to this yard from whatever task had occupied his attention beforehand. There was not a scratch on the paint of his shield or a dent in his helm, as though he had not even fought yet.
No, he definitely had not fought yet. That jacket looked freshly laundered, carefully dried with not a hint of water, let alone sweat, to be seen.
Aemon had come into the training yard, the squires' training yard, looking for a fight. Why else would he come here, a man grown and knighted, to stand amongst squires?
"I came to talk." He spoke the words with caution as if weighing each for potential connotations as they left his lips, and I nearly laughed at the brazen lie.
"Is that why you came dressed to fight?" I asked, adopting a mocking tone. The boy I had humiliated in front of my sister was forgotten as I gave Aemon my full attention. "A curious way of talking to someone. And here I thought diplomats used words instead of swords."
"I was on my way to my own training," he said, his voice refusing to give up the slow and methodical tone of an amateur diplomat. "Then I saw you, and decided to clear the air between us."
"What is there to clear?" I asked. Seeing Aemon act the part of the diplomat he was supposed to be was reassuring, in a way. Aemon was not terribly offensive company when he could just keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, I was still a bit upset with him. "How you used me to nearly kill Mother?"
The entire training yard fell quiet at those words. All they could have known was that Her Grace was left weak from giving birth. My words would ignite no shortage of rumors. Rumors that would give Aemon a chance to practice some essential skills of kingship.
It also let me publicly vent.
For several long moments, my brother did nothing, said nothing. But I could tell that remark had cut deep from the way his nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. Oh, how easily he showed his irritation. Our father he was not.
"She was only so weak because your foolishness with the Cannibal's drove her to the birthing bed weeks too early," he said, abandoning his attempted diplomatic tones in favor of an angry snarl. He slowly drew closer, the leather of his gloves creaking ominously as he clenched his fists. "She was only in that birthing bed because of your unbridled idiocy."
"You knew that, though, and I didn't, " I hissed back, marching forwards until I was a mere handspan from him. "And you still chose to tell her that I claimed the Cannibal at the worst possible time."
"Most of the danger has passed," Aemon ground out the words. "But you needed to learn that your actions have consequences beyond what you expected."
"So you endangered our mother's life just to prove a point?" I asked, incredulous. It was a good thing Aemon was not wearing a helm, or I would have swung at him. By the Seven, I was still tempted, despite the master-at-arms lengthy lectures on the subject.
"Here I thought you might only have been another Aenys when you were another Visenya as well. It certainly explains the lack of a second child."
I barely saw his fist lash out and crash against my helm, the dull sound of leather on steel echoing through the open yard. Part of me was surprised that Aemon had finally snapped and thrown a punch. The rest of me, however, was busy being consumed by rage.
If he wanted to start something, that was more than fine by me.
I had recovered my footing in a heartbeat while the heir to the Seven Kingdoms just stared at his fist. Perhaps it was in surprise at his own reaction, but I never bothered to find out before launching myself at him.
We collided with a crash that sent Aemon to the ground, causing the gear he carried to spill out of his hands. All save for the shield, which he brought up to protect his face.
It saved him from getting his nose broken as the pommel of my sword struck the thick wooden shield instead of his face. The blow sent pain shooting up my arm as the unyielding slab of wood forced the blow to reverberate through the offending limb.
Before I had a chance to find an opportunity, Aemon violently threw himself to the side, knocking me into the hard-packed dirt. We scrambled back to our feet, Aemon with his wooden sword in hand.
"Feel like a big man yet?" I asked, thrusting for his midsection. His shield blocked it as his sword descended on my outstretched arm.
It connected no more than Aemon would answer me.
Aborting my attack, my sword twisted, hoping to catch Aemon's and leave my shield free to slam into his elbow. In practice, my retaliatory blow never connected as Aemon retreated once he realized his attack would not connect.
Part of me was glad to have an opponent worthy of the term. The squires just did not present much of a challenge. The rest of me, however, was annoyed he would not stand still and get hit.
Still, despite his experience, I had one very important advantage: a helmet.
I slashed at his face, disengaging around the shield that dragged the weapon away before slamming the other fist towards his face.
The shield's point collided with the hastily raised sword, knocking the wooden blade into his face but not enough to hurt him. It forced him back a step, and I jumped on the opportunity.
My sword rained blows on his shield as he struggled to even create an offensive. My right never aimed for the same place twice in a row, forcing Aemon to shift with every attack. And the blows from my shield were not something many wanted to experience.
He was forced on the defensive, never able to get in a decisive blow.
Or so I had thought.
I feinted low, slashing at his thigh before flicking the point up to thrust at his face. Tragically, I missed my intended target, aiming far too low for his face and only slamming into his collarbone. My sword skipped upwards from the impact, taking the point past the shoulder.
By the time I was halfway through recovering my guard, Aemon was already moving. He closed the distance, trapping my arm above our heads, unable to strike. His own sword, meanwhile, wrapped behind my back where his other arm trapped it in place.
I could feel him shift his weight in an attempt to wrestle me to the ground, to turn this into a disorderly brawl where his lack of helmet was less of a detriment. More importantly, he was larger than I, both taller and heavier. My inexperience aside, it would have been a bad place to be.
Aemon was too close for me to use my shield effectively. Luckily, he was just close enough for me to use my head as The Warrior intended.
My head rushed forwards, slamming my armored forehead against his nose. The crunch of sundered cartilage was felt through the thick steel encasing my head as I felt my brother's grip weaken.
A second headbutt, this one far wetter to my ears, broke it completely as Aemon was driven back. He swayed slightly, bringing a hand to the ruined nose crushed flat against his face. That pale silver hair contrasted vividly against the blood sheeting down his face.
But he was still standing. His eyes were wide with shock, but he was still standing.
My shield solved that matter easily, the point slamming into his jaw and dropping him to the ground. The blow ruined the symmetry of his face, his jaw looking like it might object to solid food in the near future, drooping on one side.
"Vaegon, enough!" Maegelle's voice tore my attention from the sight of my brother. She was running to my side, her skirts bunched up in her hands to keep the fine white fabric free of the dirt at our feet. "It's over. You can relax."
Relax? I was relaxed. Why would I not be relaxed?
She placed a firm hand on my shoulder, and for the first time, I felt tension beneath my skin. Muscles wound as tightly as iron to relax, refused to yield, refused to return to their natural calm despite the only real danger being busy lying on the ground and spitting out broken teeth.
My brother was on the ground, wounded at my hand.
I forced stiff fingers to open, releasing the wooden blade to the tender mercies of gravity.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, eyes downcast. With the song of battle receding from my ears and my heart slowing down, I slowly realized what I had done. Provoking and beating my brother to a pulp was ill done of me, no matter how much he deserved it.
Even if he had been lying, even if he nearly killed our mother to teach me some petty lesson, one simply did not brutalize their own brother. I could feel the disgust well up inside me, a tightening of the throat which I simply could not swallow away.
But after what Aemon said, what he did, I could not have just let him walk all over me.
What else could I have done?
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