98 AC
In the ninth month of the year, news of my eligibility to enter the squire tournament finally reached me—courtesy of Ser Erryk, my boss, sparring partner, and unofficial uncle. I was ecstatic. At fifteen, I looked more like a grown knight than a twelve-year-old, towering over my peers like the Mountain next to a group of squires from House Florent.
After years of training with Erryk, I had more than bruises to show—I had skill. Combat awareness. Reflexes. Even Erryk occasionally muttered under his breath about how annoying it was to see someone my age dodge his strikes like a cat on fire. That felt like a compliment.
By the twelfth day of the month, the tournament grounds were alive with spectacle. Nobles arrived fashionably late and extravagantly dressed, women in gowns worth more than some smallfolk homes, knights gleaming in armor polished so bright you could check your hair in it. The crowd roared like a thousand caged lions as they packed the stands.
The royal family made their entrance with all the drama you'd expect. King Jaehaerys, serene as ever, sat upon the royal dais. At his side was Prince Baelon, now both Crown Prince and Hand of the King, flanked by his sons—Viserys and Daemon. Viserys, beaming with pride, held a giggling toddler: Princess Rhaenyra, the very same girl who'd one day dance with dragons. But today? All eyes were on the bloodsport below.
Following a lengthy speech about fifty years of peace—which sounded like a subtle warning not to ruin it with too much skull-bashing—the jousting began.
Two knights at a time charged at each other like angry bulls on horseback, lances poised to dismount or demolish. The sound of cracking lances and the crowd's cheers filled the air. It was chaos. Glorious, splinter-filled chaos. And far more exciting than any schoolyard brawl I'd ever seen back on Earth.
The melee followed—a massive brawl of armor-clad maniacs hitting each other with sticks. That went on for days. By day three, I grew bored and went back to training. I knew my turn in the squire tournament would come near the end. No need to waste energy pretending to enjoy aristocrats smashing each other.
On the final day of the melee, I returned just in time to watch the legendary Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Clement Crabb—both Kingsguard—break thirty lances against each other in the joust. The crowd went mad. King Jaehaerys called it the finest display of jousting in Westerosi history and named them co-champions. What a flex.
After the ceremony, I went home to eat. My parents, blissfully unaware I was entering a full-contact squire tournament, beamed with pride that their son was squire to Ser Erryk. They dreamed of knighthood for me. I didn't tell them anything. If I had, they would've chained me to the cellar.
Next day: archery competition. Decent, but nothing close to Olympic-level precision. It dragged on for three days. Then came the group melee, where even commoners got to participate. Bloody, chaotic, and oddly thrilling.
And then came the squire tournament.
My first match was against an 18-year-old who looked like he wrestled bears for fun. I lost every strength-based exchange, but my technique saved me. I danced around him, countered when he overreached, and finally won with a feint and a well-placed disarm.
As the rounds progressed, I faced more noble-born squires. Better gear, worse skills. After eight victories, I reached the semifinals.
My opponent: a second son of House Brune. Skilled. Persistent. The match dragged for nearly five minutes—an eternity in the ring. I nearly passed out, but when he overextended, I knocked the sword from his hand and collapsed in relief.
After a short break, I watched the other semifinal. Two well-matched fighters circled each other like wolves. Eventually, one fell. The winner: Edric Webber of Coldmoat.
Thank the Seven it wasn't the Tully boy. If I'd beaten a Tully and didn't get knighted, not even Erryk's status could protect me from noble outrage.
Then came the final.
The crowd, barely invested before, now leaned in. Faces pressed forward. Nobles whispered. Smallfolk roared.
Edric Webber strutted in like he already won. Typical. The noble arrogance oozed from him like bad perfume.
We exchanged blows. I baited him with feigned weakness, taking advantage of his underestimation. After forty clashes, I left a deliberate opening. He lunged—predictable. I trapped his sword arm between my own and my body. Then slammed the back of my blade into his helmet with enough force to knock the smugness—and consciousness—clean out of him.
The crowd exploded.
I might've blacked out for a moment.
**Throne Room
At the award ceremony, I knelt before King Jaehaerys. He studied me like a maester studies a confusing scroll.
"Twelve, are you?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
He blinked, then smirked. "What would you like as your reward? Gold? A pony? A bath?"
I took a breath. A moment of silence. Then I said, "If it pleases Your Grace, I wish to serve as a squire under a Targaryen prince. Perhaps Prince Baelon."
A murmur spread. Prince Baelon raised an eyebrow.
"Bold. Smart. Ambitious," he muttered. "Alright then. You'll serve in my household. Don't die."
High praise. I grinned.
And in that moment, the System chimed in:
Achievement Unlocked: "Squire of the Dragon"
Reward – Choose One:
Copy Sword Skills from lesser-ranked squires
Copy Archery Skills from lesser-ranked squires
Copy Lance Skills from lesser-ranked squires
Copy Horseriding Skills from lesser-ranked squires
Westeros had finally noticed me.
Now it was my turn to make it unforgettable.