98 AC
After the ceremony, Ser Erryk congratulated me on the victory. I was thrilled—not just because I'd been accepted as a squire under Prince Baelon, but because of the reward the System had unlocked.
The ability to copy the skills of lesser-ranked squires was no small gift. In Westeros, that meant I could absorb the swordsmanship, archery, lance work, or horsemanship of nearly any squire—except those directly under the King or Prince Baelon himself, as they were typically knighted by high lords and thus counted as elite.
I would've chosen Daemon in a heartbeat, but unfortunately, he'd already been knighted a year ago.
After a few days of asking around and investigating under the guise of duty, I discovered something valuable. Prince Baelon confirmed it himself: Ser Clement Crabb, one of the most accomplished Kingsguard, had a squire—Yorgon Royce, now twenty years old. He had been due for knighthood the previous year, but his elder brother, the heir to Runestone, had allegedly delayed the process out of jealousy. And this year, just before the ceremony, Ser Crabb had suffered injuries in the melee that postponed the event yet again.
Yorgon was seasoned. Skilled. Respected in the yard.
I began spending more and more time in the royal training yard, where the Kingsguard, royal family squires, and wards from major houses trained. I expected some bullying—common when lowborn or landless boys entered noble circles—but being the squire to the Hand of the King came with protections. No one dared cross me openly.
After several days of performing mundane duties for Baelon—carrying messages, cleaning armor, recording practice scores—I finally spotted Yorgon Royce. We exchanged a quick handshake, a nod, and a farewell. That was all I needed.
Later that night, after returning home to my family—who were now living their dreams through me, gaining status and admiration—I sat down for dinner. My mother, glowing with pride, fed me more than I could handle. She had completely forgotten the times she'd struck me with a wooden ladle to keep me from sneaking off to train. I sighed. Parents were the same, even on different planets.
After everyone slept, I quietly returned to my room.
System Interface Activated.
Selected Squire: Yorgon Royce
Selected Skill: Swordsmanship
Confirm: Yes / No
I clicked Yes.
Darkness. A flash of pain. Then nothing.
When I awoke, it was still night—but I felt different.
My muscles were tighter, leaner. My legs carried more spring. My fingers gripped the training blade on instinct. Most of all, I remembered things. Dozens of drills. Hundreds of duels. Sparring matches, footwork corrections, the feel of catching a sword with a parry just so.
Eleven years of sword training—compressed and transferred into me.
I wasn't just faking it now. I had skill.
If I presented myself tomorrow for a knighting test, I had no doubt I'd pass.
And the thought of being knighted by Prince Baelon himself stirred something else: ambition. The System was glowing faintly, already teasing a future reward if that happened.
This was only the beginning.