The Red Keep's training yard buzzed with the hum of effort, the late morning sun casting sharp shadows across the dirt. Edric Arryn stood with arms crossed, his gray tunic still clinging with sweat from earlier laps, watching as Davos dragged himself up from his thrashing by Wyl. The boy's leather jerkin—new, blue, falcon-badged—was scuffed and stained, his golden curls plastered with sweat and blood from a split lip. Wyl leaned on his wooden sword, panting but grinning, his few bruises minor beside Davos's growing tally.
Edric stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding. "Tom—your turn," he said, nodding to the older boy. Tom, seven, cracked his knuckles, his black hair falling into his eyes as he hefted his wooden blade with a savage grin. "Let's see it, shiny boots," he growled, stepping into the ring. Davos, trembling but defiant, gripped his own sword, green eyes blazing despite the exhaustion weighing his limbs.
Begin," Edric said, and Ser Hugh, the master-at-arms, leaned in, his scarred lip set in a hard line.
Tom charged like a bull, his blade swinging in a brutal arc, strength honed by weeks of Edric's drills. Davos, already winded, raised his sword to block, but the blow crashed through, jarring his arms and sending him staggering. "Arms up, boy!" Hugh barked, his gravelly voice cutting sharp. "You're wide open—shield yourself or it's over quick!"
Davos swung back, a wild, desperate slash, but his strength faltered, the blade wobbling like a twig in a storm. Tom ducked easily, slamming his sword into Davos's side with a dull thwack that drew a gasp. "That's your ribs cracked in a real fight!" Hugh snapped. "Move your feet—don't just stand there taking it!" Blood trickled from Davos's lip, his breaths ragged, but he lunged again, a feeble jab that Tom batted aside with a snarl.
The fight turned ugly fast—Tom's savagery outmatched Davos's fading grit. The older boy, taller and stronger, rained blows like a hammer on anvil, each strike a thudding echo. Davos's guard crumbled, his sword drooping as Tom cracked his shoulder, then his thigh, driving him back step by stumbling step. "You're dead thrice over, lad!" Hugh growled, stepping closer. "Lift that blade—fight, don't flail!"
Davos's knees buckled, his swings mere twitches now, exhaustion stripping his defense bare. Tom roared, swinging a two-handed blow that smashed Davos's arm, sending his sword spinning to the dirt. Another hit—straight to the chest—and Davos crumpled, a heap of leather and bruises, blood smearing his face from a fresh cut on his brow. Tom loomed, ready to strike again, his breath heaving but his strength unspent.
"Hold!" Ser Hugh bellowed, striding in, his bulk shoving Tom back. "This mummer's farce is over—boy's done." His voice was gruff but final, his hand clamping Tom's shoulder to still him. Wyl smirked from the sidelines, wiping sweat, while Tom spat into the dirt, chest puffed with victory.
Edric stepped forward, his small frame casting a shadow over Davos, who knelt gasping, blood and sweat pooling beneath him. "Enough," he said, his tone firm but not harsh, cutting through the yard's silence. He crouched, meeting Davos's green gaze—dimmed but unbroken. "You showed courage, grit—more than most. But that's not enough. If you want to fill a knight's shoes—let alone outshine me—you must devote yourself to the pursuit of perfection." He paused, his voice steady, words ringing with quiet weight: "The path is endless—every step a battle, every breath a lesson. Start there, or you'll never rise."
Davos coughed, a wet rasp, but nodded, his pride battered yet clinging. Edric stood, turning to Hugh. "Clean him up—he's still in." Hugh grunted, "Got spine, I'll give 'im that," and waved Tom and Wyl to haul Davos off, the boy limping between them, defiant even in defeat.
As they shuffled away, a clatter of boots broke the yard's edge—a guard in Arryn blue, darted in. "Lord Edric," he panted, bowing quick. "Your father needs you—word's come, trouble stirring in the west."