A few days had passed since Waymar Royce's arrival at the Red Keep, and the young lordling had settled into a cautious rhythm amidst the tension of the Greyjoy Rebellion. At near ten, Waymar had taken to training with Edric's crew in the yard, his leathers scuffed from drills, his short sword flashing in the autumn light. He sparred with Tom, Wyl, and Davos daily, his movements sharp and disciplined, though his proud demeanor kept the lowborn boys at a distance. Edric watched it all, his blue eyes keen, noting Waymar's skill and waiting for the right moment to test him himself.
That moment came on a crisp morning, the training yard dusted with early frost, the sun low but bright. Edric, in his gray tunic and leather breeches, stood with a wooden sword in hand, his sandy blond hair tied back, the falcon badge on his chest a quiet mark of his house. Waymar faced him, his own blade gripped firmly, his dark hair loose, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. At five, Edric was half Waymar's age, but his stance—low, steady, coiled—spoke of a challenge the older boy hadn't expected. Tom, Wyl, and Davos sat on a nearby bench, their own training paused, eyes wide with anticipation.
"Begin," Ser Hugh called, his gravelly voice cutting through the chill, his scarred lip set in a hard line as he leaned on a rack of swords.
Waymar struck first, his blade a blur of speed, aiming a high slash at Edric's shoulder. The older boy's strength was clear—his swing carried the weight of years of training at Runestone—but Edric ducked under it, quick as a hare, and countered with a sharp jab to Waymar's ribs. The hit landed with a dull thwack, drawing a grunt, but Waymar spun, his speed advantage showing as he brought his sword down in a heavy arc. Edric parried, the force jarring his small arms, and the fight ignited.
The yard became a storm of wood and motion, the two boys trading blows in a relentless dance. Waymar's strength and speed gave him an edge—his strikes were fast, precise, each one a hammer blow that forced Edric to weave and block, his boots scuffing the dirt. A slash caught Edric's arm, raising a welt, and another grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. But Edric had tricks up his sleeve—tricks Waymar hadn't seen. He ducked a swing and kicked out, catching Waymar's shin, making him stumble. Waymar recovered, landing a hard hit to Edric's shoulder, but Edric pressed in, using his smaller size to shoulder-bash Waymar's chest, knocking him back a step.
Davos, Tom, and Wyl watched, mesmerized, their mouths half-open. "They're… bloody good," Tom muttered, his black hair falling into his eyes. Wyl nodded, his brown locks bouncing. "Ain't never seen a fight like this—Edric's tiny, but he's holdin'!" Davos, golden curls framing his bruised face, stared in awe, his green eyes bright. "Waymar's fast, but Edric—he's somethin' else." For their ages—five and near ten—the two were a marvel, their skill far beyond what the boys had ever witnessed.
The fight stretched on, minutes bleeding into what felt like hours, the sun climbing higher. Waymar's speed kept him ahead, his blade landing more hits—a crack to Edric's thigh, a smack to his side, each one leaving red marks through his tunic. Blood trickled from Edric's cheek, mixing with sweat, but his endurance held—where Waymar's breaths grew ragged, Edric's stayed steady, his past-life grit pushing him through the pain. He countered with a low sweep, nearly tripping Waymar, then bashed his shoulder again, forcing Waymar to stagger. Waymar roared, swinging hard, catching Edric's jaw with the flat of his blade, splitting his lip. Edric spat blood, grinning fiercely, and lunged, his sword rapping Waymar's ribs, then his arm, leaving welts of his own.
Both boys were a mess now—Waymar's nose bled from a stray elbow, his leathers scuffed, bruises blooming on his arms and ribs. Edric's face was smeared with blood, his tunic torn at the shoulder, welts crisscrossing his limbs. They fought on, neither yielding, their blades clashing in a rhythm of fury and skill, until Ser Hugh finally stepped in, his bulk shoving between them.
"Enough!" Hugh bellowed, his voice a thunderclap. "This'll continue another day—yer both beat bloody, and I ain't haulin' corpses off my yard." He grabbed their swords, his scarred lip twitching with a mix of irritation and respect. Waymar had landed more hits, his strength and speed giving him the edge—most would call him the victor if pressed—but there was no technical winner, the fight cut short.
Edric and Waymar stood panting, blood and sweat dripping to the dirt, their eyes locked with a grudging respect. Tom, Wyl, and Davos broke into murmurs, still awestruck—"Bloody hell," Wyl whispered, "they're monsters." Edric wiped his lip, wincing, and nodded to Waymar. "Good fight," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. Waymar, clutching his ribs, nodded back, his pride tempered by the ache of his bruises. "Aye," he rasped. "You're… not what I expected."
Ser Hugh snorted, waving them off. "Clean up—both o' ye. Rest, or ye'll be useless tomorrow." Edric turned, his mind already turning—He's good. Better than I thought.