"Up, up. Down, and left. Right, Down, left, down, and right," Ser Benedict's voice rang on Tyrion's ears, roaring like an old mastiff. "Shield up, little lord!"
Down in the old Justice Hall, Tyrion's wooden sword clashed against Lyonel's shield, over and over again, making his arms and shoulders and back hurt with effort. Despite the fact that Tyrion was a over a year older than his cousin, Lyonel had been training with Ser Benedict and the lads since the beginning of the season...and Tyrion had only been practicing for a moonturn.
"Left, up, left! Right, and down!" Tyrion met his cousin's blows one by one, and charged once more. "Lyonel, shield up!" Sweat trickled down Tyrion's brow. He saw their shadows dancing under the flickering light cast by the torches in the walls.
Down here, in the Justice Hall of the Lannister Kings of old, there were no windows of any sort; this deep into the Rock, only mirrors and torches provided any light. Tyrion suspected that was the whole reason why his Lord father had chose the Justice Hall as Tyrion's personal training yard: No windows, and one of the lowest levels of the Rock, just above the dungeons. It would make it highly unlikely that any servant would walk in on their training. "Left, right, and up!"
Only a few people were aware of Tyrion's training, by Tywin's command. Not even Jaime knew about this. Even though mother had given him leave to write to his brother, Tyrion had finally chosen not to. He wanted to surprise his brother, next time he paid a visit to the Rock.
"Hold your ground, Tyrion!" Of course, Tyrion was sure the servants' ever eternal gossip would soon catch up with his training. He was often bruised and covered with scabs at the end of the day, as anyone who served at the Rock must have noticed.
"It won't be easy," Ser Benedict had told him, the day his Lord Father had summoned him to his solar. "Training in arms is always hard, and it may prove even harder for you, little lord." When Tyrion told them he didn't care how hard would it be, it was Lord Tywin who spoke.
"It may be that the skill of arms is denied to you, despite how hard you train," said his father, his hard green eyes unflinching. "If it comes to that, and Ser Benedict decides that you are unfit to train, you will obey."
"Yes, Father."
Sword, battle axe, bow and arrow; mace, morningstar, and even throwing knives... Ser Benedict insisted he try all, until they found one that fit Tyrion best.
"Men will deem your height as your biggest weakness," Ser Benedict had told him. "We must find a way to turn that into your strength."
Given how often his little cousin beat him into defeat, Tyrion prayed that Ser Benedict would find a way soon.
"What if my Lord Father had the right of it?" he had asked maester Creylen, despairing. The man was dabbing Tyrion's wounds with myrish fire, a night after am especially hard training with the dreadful morningstar. It took all of Tyrion's strength to lift it, even though it was a wooden morningstar, specially made for children's training. Besides, the chain that linked the wooden ball to the handle was too long, and Tyrion would end up hitting himself more often than not. "What if I do not have what it takes?"
The maester stood quiet for a few moments, putting the myrish fire back with his other potions.
"Symeon Star-Eyes," said the maester. "Do you remember who he was?" Tyrion nodded.
"He lived during the Age of Heroes," recited Tyrion. "He lost his eyes, so he wore sapphires instead."
"He was blind, and still, he was one of the most famous knights that has ever lived," said maester Creylen. He sat beside Tyrion.
"But he wasn't a dwarf," said Tyrion in a low voice. Creylen raised his eyebrows.
"What worries you about being a dwarf?" asked the man. Tyrion moved on the chair, uncomfortable.
"I'll never be as big or strong as the other lads," he finally said.
"Strength you will gain, more every time you train. And sometimes, skill and wit are more than enough to beat bigger foes. Those, you can archive by training hard. Symeon could not get his eyes back, as much as he trained. And yet, there is no lad in the Seven Kingdoms who doesn't know his name." He gave Tyrion an encouraging smile. "And even if your effort turns up fruitless, a man is more than skill at arms. Your sister had the right of it, the day she spoke to your lord father. You may still command Jaime's force, and help him rule the westerlands when he's lord." Tyrion had only nodded, before leaving for his bedchamber.
"Up, left, and down!"
Every weapon seemed way too heavy, but Ser Benedict insisted they were only as heavy as they needed be.
"Too light, and you will not be able to handle the weight of real steel when you are of age." Ser Benedict had told him.
Real steel. His older cousins were now squires, fighting in the yard with tourney swords. Tyrion still came down to the training yard to see them fight, wondering if he would ever be able to lift a steel sword. He had told Devan so, on his way back to the Rock.
"Have you found yet any weapon you like best?" asked Devan, wiping the sweat from his brow. Tyrion thought about it for a moment.
"I like swords best," he started, "but I am more comfortable with the battle axe."
"Then you should focus on the battle axe," suggested Cleos.
Despite that, Tyrion continued practicing with swords as much as he could. Father had been displeased when Jaime had favoured the dornish spear over the longsword, and he was his most beloved son. The longsword was a westerman's weapon by excellence. The valyrian sword Brightroar had been the pride of the Lannister kings of old, until one foolish lion had lost it at sea.
"Tyrion, shield UP!" Tyrion reacted a second too late, and his cousin's sword got him on the shoulder. Tyrion let out a cry, and charged at his cousin furiously.
"ENOUGH!" roared Ser Benedict, and Tyrion finally dropped his wooden sword. "We do not fight out of anger," scolded the man, as Tyrion loosened the straps of his shield. "Anger makes you stupid, and stupid gets you killed." Tyrion apologized, sullen. "Tomorrow we will practice your archery skills. You won't be needed, Lyonel. You can train on the morrow with the lads." Lyonel nodded. "That will be it. Put your swords back where they belong.
Ser Benedict made his way to the tall iron door that guarded the Justice Hall, as Tyrion and Lyonel approached the improvised armory behind the dais. Tyrion glimpsed the straw knights Ser Benedict used as targets, and sighed. By this hour tomorrow, his fingers would be certainly blistered. The worst part was always the day after he practiced his archery; swordplay with blistered fingers hurt more than all the bruises.
"Blisters will become calluses, and calluses will make your skin hard as leather," Cleos had told him, showing Tyrion his own hands. "Eventually, it will stop hurting."
Eventually, it will stop hurting.
"Maybe Ser Benedict is going a little too hard on Tyrion" said his aunt Genna sharply, as mother dabbed his bruises with a strange green salve. She turned to face her brother Gerion, who just scratched his head "For heaven's sake, look at the boy, Joanna! He looks as if he was trampled by a horse!" Lady Joanna sighted.
"Maybe we should ask Kevan to tell ser Benedict..."
"Mother no! Please, don't!" interrupted Tyrion, desperately. If his uncle Kevan suspected that he could not take the training, he would certainly write and tell father, and that would have been the end of Tyrion's training. "Tell them, uncle Gery, please!" His uncle looked at the two woman, uncomfortable.
"Genna, Joanna... We knew training would be hard on him" he shrugged "The boy wants to learn, and Ser Benedict knows what he is doing." Aunt Genna sniffled in disapproval.
"Maybe we should ask Kevan, or Tygett, or someone with more sense than heart" said aunt Genna, under her breath.
"Please, auntie" begged Tyrion "I will get better, and when I'm better I won't get hurt so easily. Please don't say anything to uncle Kevan."
"We won't, my love" calmed him his mother, caressing his blond-white hair. "But be careful, please"
"Come, Tyrion" said his uncle, standing up from his chair "I'll take the young man to his bedchamber."
"Thank you, cousin" His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek "Say goodnight to your aunt"
"Good night, auntie" said Tyrion. His aunt leaned and pinched his ear.
"Good night, good ser" said aunt Genna, affectionately "Now, off to bed"
He followed his uncle Gery, trying his best not to make any gesture that would give away how much it hurt to walk. Fortunately, his chamber and his mother's were in the same level at the Rock, so he wouldn't have to climb any stairs. When they glimpsed his chamber doors, guarded by two of his father's men, his uncle called him in a low voice. Tyrion stopped before they reached the doors, and turned to meet his uncle.
"What is it, uncle?"
"Tyrion, look... I know how much you want to learn" he started, uncomfortable. He kept his voice down, as if fearing the guards would hear "And Tyg and I, we will support you in this as long as you want to. But you have to promise me, that if you feel is too much, you will tell us."
"I will, uncle, I promise" said Tyrion quickly.
"I mean it, Tyrion" said his uncle again, massaging his temple "We don't want you to get hurt, by any means. To be a knight is not everything you can wish for in life."
"I know, uncle. I won't get hurt, I promise" his uncle smiled, and mussed his hair.
Later, as he laid in bed, Tyrion watched the ceiling of his chambers, lost in his thoughts. They all believe I cannot do it, just because I am a dwarf. But I will show them, he thought. I will not give up. I will be a knight, to protect my sister and to help my brother run the Westerlands. And mother and aunt Genna and my uncles will be proud of me. Everyone will be very proud.
Maybe even father will be proud of me.