Chapter 11 - Chapter 10: Dust and Duty

 The afternoon sun hung steady over Storm's End, casting long shadows across the training yard. The ring of wooden swords and the scuff of boots on packed dirt had become routine"the familiar symphony of growing boys trying to become men before their time. Sweat glistened on foreheads, and tunics clung to backs as the heat of the day pressed down upon them. Thor Baratheon ducked under Garrick's swing, wood scraping against wood as he turned the blow aside with practiced ease. The move was smoothâ€"too smooth for Garrick's liking. "Seven hells," Garrick muttered, breath coming in hard gasps, his face flushed with exertion. "You move like a damn cat. A smug one, at that." Thor circled to the left, wooden sword held in a loose grip, eyes never leaving his opponent. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Cats don't get hit," he said, feinting right before shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. "You do." "That tongue of yours will get you in trouble one day, Baratheon," Garrick warned, running a forearm across his brow to wipe away sweat that threatened to drip into his eyes. "Sooner rather than later, I'd wager." Donnel Swann barked a laugh nearby, leaning on his own practice sword as he watched the two circle each other like wary wolves. His doublet was unlaced at the neck, dark patches of sweat visible at his chest and under his arms. "Gods be good! You two should take your flailing to the kitchens and stir soup instead," he called out, grinning. "Might bruise less than whatever it is you're calling swordplay." "The only thing getting bruised today is your pride, Swann," Garrick shot back, momentarily distracted. It was just enough of an opening for Thor to slip past his guard. Thor's practice sword clipped Garrick's ribs with a solid thwack. Garrick stumbled sideways, wincing and clutching his side. "Seven bloody" Garrick bit off the curse, grimacing. "That'll leave a mark." "You invited it," Thor said, but there was no malice in his voice, just the easy confidence of someone who knew his own skill. "Never take your eyes off your opponent." Serian Flowers stood at the edge of the training circle, not yet joining the fray. Unlike the others, his stance was measured, calmâ€"no wasted movement as he rolled his wrist, wooden blade in hand. His eyes were steady and unreadable beneath a shock of dark hair that fell across his forehead. "You're letting him bait you," he said evenly to Garrick, his voice carrying across the yard without needing to shout. "Watch his hips, not his mouth. His words are a distraction. His body tells the truth of where he'll strike." Garrick groaned, stepping back to catch his breath, hands on his knees. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose onto the packed dirt. "Gods, Serian. Can't you ever say something encouraging? Just once? 'Good effort, Garrick' or 'Nice try' would suffice." "I said 'watch his hips,'" Serian replied, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "That's helpful. Would you prefer I lie and tell you you're doing well when you're not?" "Yes," Garrick said emphatically, straightening up with a grimace. "That's exactly what friends are supposed to do." "Then you've confused me with someone who cares about your feelings more than your survival," Serian said dryly. Thor shook his head with a small grin. They were always like this"bickering, pushing, covering genuine concern with barbed jokes. It made the burn in his muscles and the sting of sweat easier to bear. "Come on then, Flowers," Donnel called, pushing off from the wooden post he'd been leaning against. "Stop critiquing from the shadows and show us how it's done. Or are those bastard arms of yours only good for archery?" Serian's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes"a brief, hard light that came and went like summer lightning. "Careful with that word, Swann," he said, his voice still even but carrying an edge of steel now. "Even in jest." A moment of tension hung in the air, heavy as the humidity that clung to their skin. Thor cleared his throat. "Donnel didn't mean anything by it," he said, stepping between them. "Did you, Donnel?" Donnel had the grace to look abashed. "Course not. Sorry, Flowers. Loose tongue." Serian gave a curt nod, accepting the apology without comment. The moment passed, but Thor noted how Serian's knuckles had whitened around the hilt of his practice sword. "Anyway," Thor continued, breaking the awkward silence, "I've beaten you both fair and square. Who's next? Serian? Or should we call it a day and find some shade before we all collapse from the heat?" "One more," Serian said, stepping forward into the circle. "Then we can retreat like the wilting flowers Garrick and Donnel seem to be." "I'm not wilting," Garrick protested, though he made no move to re-enter the training circle. "I'm tactically resting." "Is that what they're calling it now?" Thor laughed, raising his sword in a salute to Serian. "Alright, Flowers. Show me what you've got." Serian moved into position, his stance balanced and poised. Unlike the others, there was no bravado in his manner, no jesting or posturing. Just a quiet focus that made Thor instinctively tighten his grip on his weapon. "Begin when you're ready," Serian said simply. Thor nodded, circling carefully. With Garrick or Donnel, he could usually predict their moves"a twitch of the shoulder before an overhead swing, a shift of weight before a lunge. Serian was different. His face revealed nothing, his body a cipher until the moment he struck. Thor feinted left, then right, testing Serian's reactions. Nothing. Just those steady eyes tracking him, waiting. "Come on then," Thor said, trying to draw him out. "Or are we just going to dance all afternoon?" "Patience," Serian replied softly. "Another thing Garrick lacks." From the sidelines, Garrick snorted. "Oh, now I'm a teaching example? Lovely." Thor lunged forward, aiming a quick thrust at Serian's midsection. Serian parried with minimal effort, the wooden blades scraping against each other with a dull rasp. Then, in a move so fluid it seemed almost casual, Serian twisted his wrist and stepped forward, bringing his blade around in an arc that caught Thor completely off guard. The practice sword stopped a hairsbreadth from Thor's neck. "Dead," Serian said quietly. Thor blinked, surprised at how quickly the exchange had ended. "How did youâ€"" "You telegraph your thrusts," Serian said, stepping back and lowering his sword. "Your left shoulder tenses just before. And you were so focused on my blade you didn't see my footwork." Thor nodded slowly, absorbing the lesson. "Again," he said, resuming his stance. This time, Thor was more cautious, aware of Serian's sharp eyes catching every tell. He controlled his breathing, tried to keep his body language neutral as he circled. When he struck, it was a feint"a half-committed swing that he pulled back at the last moment, shifting his weight to duck under Serian's counter and bringing his own blade up toward Serian's ribs. Wood clacked against wood as Serian blocked, but only barely. For the first time, Thor saw surprise register on his face. "Better," Serian acknowledged, a new respect in his voice. They exchanged a flurry of blows, neither gaining a clear advantage. Thor found himself fully engaged, all banter forgotten as he focused on each movement, each counter. Serian was goodâ€"better than good"but Thor had been training since he could walk. The Baratheon name carried expectations, and he'd spent years trying to live up to them. Their dance continued for several minutes, the sound of wood striking wood echoing off the stone walls. Donnel and Garrick had fallen silent, watching with genuine interest now. In the end, it was a misstepâ€"a loose stone underfoot that shifted just as Thor planted his weightâ€"that decided the match. His balance faltered for only a moment, but it was enough. Serian's practice sword swept in, tapping Thor's chest firmly. "And that's why we train on uneven ground," Ser Robar's voice boomed across the yard as the master-at-arms approached from the armory. "The battlefield won't be as forgiving as our training yard." Thor straightened, nodding respectfully to Serian before turning to the knight. "Ser Robar. We didn't expect you until later." "Clearly," the grizzled knight said, looking over the sweaty, disheveled boys with a critical eye. "Though I'm pleased to see you practicing without supervision. Shows initiative." His gaze landed on Serian. "Good form, Flowers. You've been working on what I showed you." Serian inclined his head slightly, accepting the rare praise without comment. "You four have done enough for today," Ser Robar continued. "Clean up and see to your other duties. Lord Baratheon has guests arriving tomorrow, and I won't have his son and wards looking like tavern brawlers who've spent the night in a ditch." "Yes, Ser," they chorused, though Garrick couldn't resist adding under his breath, "But what if the tavern brawler look is what I'm aiming for?" "Then you've achieved it admirably, Garrick," Ser Robar said dryly, his hearing sharper than his years would suggest. "Now off with you. And rememberâ€"form first, speed second. All the quickness in the world won't save you if your stance is poor." As the knight strode away, Donnel nudged Garrick. "How does he always hear everything?" "It's a knight's secret power," Garrick said with mock solemnity. "Along with the ability to drink alarming amounts of ale and still look dignified the next morning." --- From the shade of a low archway near the steps, Lira kept her eyes on the four of them. She held a basket of folded linens close to her chest, fingers worrying the cloth at the corners. Her new uniform itched against her skinâ€"the coarse fabric a far cry from the rags she'd worn for so long, but in its own way just as uncomfortable. She was still getting used to itâ€"the tight sleeves, the fitted bodice, the feel of soft shoes instead of worn soles or bare feet on cold stone. Lady Althera had assigned her to help with washing and sewing. Not hard work, not compared to what she'd known before. Not cruel. And no shouting. No chains. No hands reaching for her in the darkness. It had been six weeks since Thor had found her huddled in that rain-soaked alley in the Stormlands, half-starved and feverish. She'd barely spoken thenâ€"too scared, too certain that kindness was just another trick, another way to lure her into letting her guard down before the pain started again. But here at Storm's End, no one had asked her to smile when she didn't feel like it. No one had touched her without reason or permission. They gave her space. That, more than anything, made her cautiously grateful. Her eyes followed Thor as he traded places with Donnel in the training circle. He didn't shine like a storybook knight from the songs she'd heard as a child. He moved well, yesâ€"but he was tired too. Breathless, sweat-streaked, with a scrape across one knuckle that looked fresh and raw. Human. Still... he had helped her when no one else would. Had spoken to her like a person when others had looked through her as if she were nothing but a shadow on the wall. Had given her a chance when chances were the one thing she'd never been given. "Watch the footwork, not the blade!" Thor called to Donnel, demonstrating a sidestep that took him smoothly out of range of a wild swing. "Like thisâ€"see? Weight on your back foot until the last moment." Lira found herself leaning forward slightly, watching the way his boots pivoted in the dirt, the economy of movement. There was something about the way he carried himselfâ€"not prideful, exactly, but certain. As if he knew his place in the world and had no need to question it. What would that feel like? she wondered. To be so sure of your footing, both in battle and in life? A voice snapped her from her thoughts. "Lira." She turned quickly, lowering her head in deference. "My lady." Althera Baratheon stood beside her, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Her face was unreadable as always, but her tone wasn't harsh. "You've been standing with that basket long enough to root into the stone." "Sorry," Lira said quickly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "I didn't mean to idle. I was justâ€"" Althera held up a hand, cutting off the stammered explanation. "You're not in trouble, girl. Just don't let Marra catch you standing about, or she'll have you scrubbing armor straps until your fingers bleed." Lira nodded, clutching the basket tighter. "Yes, my lady." Althera looked toward the yard, where Garrick had dropped his sword and was groaning theatrically in the dirt after a particularly hard blow from Donnel. "You watching them train?" she asked, her voice neutral. Lira hesitated, unsure of the right answer. "Only... only a little, my lady." "Mm." Althera's voice was low, thoughtful. "They're not bad. My brother has a natural gift, though he relies too much on it and not enough on discipline." She glanced sideways at Lira. "But you've noticed that, haven't you?" Lira's eyes widened slightly. Was it a trick question? "I... I don't know much about swordplay, my lady." "No," Althera agreed. "But you know about watching. About seeing what others miss." It wasn't a question. Lira stayed silent, unsure how to respond. Lady Althera had been kind to herâ€"or at least, not unkindâ€"but there was always a sharpness to her, like a blade wrapped in velvet. You never quite forgot the steel beneath. "You'll be in the solar after you deliver those linens," Althera continued after a moment. "Sit with Maester Edric. He'll show you how to log inventory for the supplies that came in this morning. Don't let him talk circles around youâ€"he enjoys confusing the new ones." "Yes, my lady." Althera gave a faint nod and moved off, her skirts whispering against the stone as she walked. Lira exhaled slowly, shifting her grip on the basket, and cast one last glance toward the yard. Thor was resting now, sitting under the shadow of the wall with a waterskin pressed to his forehead. His dark hair clung to his brow in wet strands, and his chest rose and fell with each deep breath. He looked up brieflyâ€"and saw her. She froze, unsure whether to nod or flee. But Thor only gave a small smile. Not smug. Not grand. Just... warm. Like he was genuinely pleased to see her there. She ducked her head and hurried up the steps, face hot with an emotion she couldn't quite name. --- "You know she was watching you the whole time, right?" Donnel asked, flopping down beside Thor in the shade of the wall. He took a long pull from his waterskin, water dribbling down his chin in his eagerness to quench his thirst. Thor took a drink before answering, letting the cool water soothe his parched throat. "She was watching all of us," he said finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sure, and I'm the King's long-lost heir," Garrick snorted, limping over to join them. He lowered himself to the ground with a wince, probing gingerly at his ribs. "She looked at you, specifically. And not like she wanted to stab you in your sleep, which." "That's high praise," Serian deadpanned, settling beside them with his usual fluid grace. Unlike the others, he barely seemed winded from their exertions. Thor shook his head, not rising to the bait. "She's just being polite. Or curious. This is all new to her." "No," Serian said, more thoughtful this time. "She's watching. People who've been hurt the way she has... they notice more than most. They have to. It's how they survive." The observation hung in the air between them, sobering. They knew little of Lira's pastâ€"only fragments that Thor had shared after bringing her to Storm's End. Enough to understand that whatever she'd endured had left scars deeper than the visible ones on her wrists and neck. "Do you think she'll ever talk about it?" Donnel asked, his usual bluster tempered by genuine concern. "About what happened to her before?" Thor shrugged, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. "That's her choice. Not ours to pry." "Noble as always," Garrick said, but without his usual sarcasm. He leaned back against the cool stone wall, closing his eyes. "Though I'd sleep better knowing whether we should be expecting angry men with swords coming after her. Or us." "My father has stationed extra guards on the outer walls," Thor said quietly. "And Ser Robar knows to be vigilant. If anyone comes looking for her..." "They'll regret it," Serian finished simply. A moment of silence followed, broken only by the distant sounds of the castle going about its daily businessâ€"the clang of the smithy, the calls of the kitchen staff, the squawk of chickens in the yard. "Well, this got grim fast," Donnel said finally, stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. "What say we change the subject to something more cheerful? Like how I'm going to thrash all three of you next time." Garrick snorted loudly. "In what reality? The one where pigs fly and Serian smiles more than once a year?" "I smile," Serian protested mildly. "When?" Garrick challenged. "When you're not looking." "Ha!" Thor laughed, grateful for the break in tension. "He's got you there." Garrick clutched at his chest in mock offense. "Wounded! I am wounded by your words, Flowers. Far more than by that love tap you call a sword strike." "Would you like me to demonstrate a real one?" Serian offered, his expression deadpan but a glint of humor in his eyes. "Another day," Thor said, pushing himself to his feet with a groan. His muscles were already stiffening from the workout. "We should clean up before dinner. Father's expecting envoys from House Swann tomorrow, and he'll want us presentable." "My lord father sending more complaints about border patrols?" Donnel asked, rising as well. Thor shrugged. "Probably. There's been more bandit activity in the hills since winter ended. Plus the usual grievances about hunting rights and taxation." "The thrilling dance of nobility," Garrick said dryly. "Makes me glad I'm just a humble second son with no responsibilities beyond looking handsome and occasionally hitting things with swords." "You're failing at both," Serian observed, dusting off his breeches as he stood. "Again! Wounded!" Garrick clutched his heart dramatically. Thor didn't reply. He just watched the stone walls of Storm's End, solid and gray against the deepening blue of the late afternoon sky. The wind was picking up from the east, carrying the salt tang of the sea and the promise of rain. A storm was always coming to the aptly named castleâ€"it was just a matter of when, not if. But for now, it was just four boys resting after training. And somewhere in the castle, a girl trying to find her place in a world that had given her precious few safe harbors. As they gathered their practice weapons to return to the armory, Thor found his eyes drawn to the archway where Lira had stood. Empty now, but the image of her lingered in his mindâ€"the wariness in her posture, the careful way she held herself, as if expecting a blow that never came. "Coming, Thor?" Donnel called, already halfway across the yard. "Yeah," Thor answered, shaking off his thoughts. "Right behind you." He jogged to catch up with his friends, wincing at the soreness in his muscles. Tomorrow would bring new challengesâ€"political maneuverings to observe, lessons with Maester Edric, more training with Ser Robar. The endless preparation for a future he sometimes felt was racing toward him too quickly. But for now, there was the simple pleasure of aching muscles after honest exertion. The comfort of familiar companionship. And perhaps, the tentative hope that they had given one lost girl a chance at something better. It wasn't the stuff of songs or legends. But maybe it was enough.