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PART FOUR
Swordsman
... ... ...
It took the better part of two months of waiting and preparation before Visaera felt confident enough to attempt slipping from the palace.
In truth, it would have been wiser to wait even but another week. She simply hadn't been able to stand it, having become so restless and ill at ease that it felt her bones might very well rattle right out from under her skin were she forced to spend one more unbroken day inside the red- and gold-stone prison.
The boundaries between the high family and the citizens of Griffin's Roost had not been so rigid as they were here, nor the walls separating one from the other quite so tall. She had spent a great deal of time among good, honest common people at home, and she missed it nearly as much as she missed her cliffs.
Growing up with a lone boy for company had meant she had never in truth become the lady she was supposed to be. Too wild, too interested in the wrong pursuits. It wasn't that she disliked being female or female things, and had never sought to replace them completely. She simply chafed at being limited to the socially agreed-upon parameters of her sex. And as such, she had a generous amount of experience at disguising herself as a boy under her proverbial belt.
It wasn't enough to simply dress in men's clothing. It wasn't enough to bind her breasts flat, nor to rub soot into her hair and plait it tightly back. Details smaller than this were enough to break the illusion. A lesson learned and taken well to heart when the consequences for being caught had been far less severe then they would be now.
She had managed to steal and stash away the garments one at a time; from the washing room, from the maids' baskets when they'd come to collect her linens in the mornings. They were old, simple pieces. Servants garments that were both drab and baggy to the fit and a thick, travel-stained cloak. Layers gave her more bulk, at once broadened and flattened her figure.
She had begged an old pair of boots from Rhaegar - for the leather cuffs and lacing, she'd offered by way of explanation, and a project for which she could use the materials. Packing the toes with rags allowed her to wear them comfortably, and served to make her feet appear bigger, longer, like a man's. Rubbing yet more soot into the exposed skin of her hands and face gave her a rougher, careworn appearance, and helped her to subtly reshape her features so that her jaw looked more square and pronounced, and imitated - at a glance - the faintest shadow of stubble.
While far from her best work, it would be enough to make attention slide from her enough to serve her purposes.
Clambering over the balcony outside her rooms with a rope wasn't the easiest or the most comfortable of methods to escape the Keep. It was definitely not the safest. Yet as she still only had passing knowledge of the patterns in the guard, it was the least likely to end with her caught. No would think to watch for it, that was for certain. No one here knew she had long ago acquired the skills (or the stupidity) required to slip out of places where she had been instructed to stay. Besides, it wasn't getting out of Maegor's Holdfast that proved tricky, but the outer walls.
Rumors long ago turned to legend claimed that only two-thirds of the palace was visible above ground, that the kings of old had carved a vast expanse of tunnels into the hill upon which it had been built. At least one of these kings had been so obsessed with maintaining the secrecy of the passages that he'd had the designers and builders killed upon completion of the work.
Visaera had discovered a map of the Red Keep's layout during one of her earliest visits to the library, but had not been surprised to find no hint as to the existence of such passages. It had been in her wanderings that she had discovered the passage by the northernmost tower. A shadowy little gate tucked away behind a false wall which, judging by the thick coating of rust and curtain of dead vines, had been long forgotten. It was through there that she would be able to get out and back in with no one the wiser. So long as she could get to it without being caught.
What she would have given for proper rain rather than the pitiful drizzle. Just enough to warp sightlines and blur movement. Alas, magic of a kind to witch the weather was knowledge man no longer possessed.
She elected to traverse the Keep first by way of cutting through the godswood. So long as she kept well clear of the seaside perimeter, she would be well clear of any guards. Skirting around the northwestern side of the Tower of the Hand was a gamble as it brought her into the outer yard within direct view of the main gatehouse, yet it was still a better choice than the other - past the barracks.
There were two near-misses. Once when one of the guards posted along the wall at Traitor's Walk turned inward to face the yard just as she was rounding the corner at the far end. The other when she had passed the stables and was nearly walked straight into a groomsman exiting with a saddle slung across a shoulder. Hurriedly tucking herself into a niche provided by a stack of hay bales kept her from being spotted, and she was able to sneak along the outside of the building, behind the lip of the false wall, and out of sight.
The gate would have been left locked, yet the mechanisms were so old and neglected that they gave under minimal leverage from her boot knife.
It was not quite pitch dark inside, but following the narrow passageway beyond required stretching a hand out to skim the wall, ensuring she wouldn't accidentally take an unexpected turn and wind up lost underground. She needn't have been concerned. There were no turns, just cracked, worn stone and the slight rise of the ground felt in the subtle pull of her calf muscles.
The opening to the alley came abruptly. Exiting required pushing open another narrow gate that - to all appearances - looked no different than any of the larger sewage drains. Which explained why no one had ever attempted to explore it.
And just like that, she was free.
Heady relief filled Visaera's lungs alongside the air she breathed. She would not linger long - not on her first venture. Just long enough to abate the feeling of being caged.
From the mouth of the alley she turned onto the adjoining street, taking care to lengthen and tighten her stride in order to counter whatever discernable feminine qualities might linger of her normal walk.
It was not the poorest part of the city. She could tell by the smell first, lacking the intensity of the foulness abject poverty carried, then by the streets themselves, cobbled rather than smooth stone or mud. Most folk were at home, or else headed that way amidst the long evening shadows. But there were some about: talking as they walked or packing away wares, crouched about a dice game.
Though it was early yet, the chill was fiercely bitter. Even had her original goal not been to enter the first tavern she came to, the cold would have swayed her in that direction.
The sign over the door of said first tavern was weather-worn, the paint chipped, but the black swan depicted was clear enough in the warm, inviting yellow light pouring from the windows. A man approached the door, drawing it open and ducking inside. She caught the edge of it before it could swing shut and strode through it as though she had done so many times before.
The room was packed with patrons driven in by the cold or else a craving for company and cheer, not all that unlike herself. Immediately she was met with the wall of sounds and smells of a city tavern: old wood, spilled ale and unwashed skin, the fat from cooking meat, the roar of voices and raucous laughter. The occupants of one table were several verses into an out of tune rendition of a bawdy song she recognized as The Soldier and the Maid - taking special relish in the particularly lewd passages.
Conveniently, several of the other patrons within had decided to keep their hoods drawn up, many more still wore thick hats and cowls. She would not stick out for mimicking them.
Spotting a vacant table in the rear corner farthest from the crowd gathered about the barkeep, she moved to claim it. She settled with her back to the wall, slouching upon the stool - just another working man weary from a day's work and looking for a few hours worth of escape from it.
In short order a plump woman of middling age approached, weaving her practiced way through the tables toward Visaera's seat.
Visaera ducked her head a bit lower beneath her hood.
"What'll ye have, then?" the woman asked, wiping her hands on the apron tied at her waist. "Got a nice mutton stew, an' bread if ye like."
Another mistake Visaera had made early in her endeavors to disguise her sex had been to overdo it where concealing her voice was concerned. Too deep and it sounded false, too much rasp or grunt garnered the same results. It had taken her some years to perfect a nondescript, mid-range tone that most found forgettable, and had determined that it served her best when used in small doses.
"Both. And ale," she answered gruffly, making a show of digging about in her cloak pocket.
She parted with the coin - coppers, not silver - with reluctance, as though it were her last. Thieves would take note of money too frivolously spent and think her a source for more. The woman made no ceremony of taking it from Visaera's gloved palm, promptly bustling off to bring stew, bread, and ale.
It was simple food: the bread a day old and the stew more of turnip and potato in a mutton-flavored broth, the ale just slightly watered down. Even still, she was glad of it. Folk would have noticed someone seated inside who was not drinking at the very least. But more than that, she had only picked at her evening meal and was not too high and lofty to eat perfectly serviceable food, simple or not.
She ate in silent contentment, soaking in the easy, everyday commotion around her. The stew was hot and filling, and with every moment she could feel the tight, trapped sensation in her chest loosening.
"—was th' Prince 'imself, I tell ya, sure as th' eyes in my head. Sittin' there in the middle o' Shepherd's Way with 'is harp an' all."
"An' how would you know? You never seen any prince b'fore."
"I ain't never seen any young man w'hair that bloody white neither. Or what has a famous fuckin' knight guardin' 'im."
The conversation had risen above the ambient white noise inside the tavern, or else the noise had dimmed around it, for a great deal of the other patrons seemed to have quieted to listen.
From what she had been told, Rhaegar didn't venture out into the city disguised as a minstrel (or else as loosely as he could get away with) nearly so often as he used to. A combination of an increase in duties, a family, and the ever growing instability of his father all impeding upon the beloved pastime. Yet he did so whenever he could manage it.
Though not his intention, deigning to move among them in such a way - so casually and unhurried, to offer the gift of music, of all things - nurtured the popularity he already had among the people. Common folk respected royalty to a point, mostly because they had little other choice. But the love the people of King's Landing had for Rhaegar was real, and it was strong.
She listened fondly as the tinker who had had the good fortune to witness the now rare appearance of their minstrel-prince went on to describe the encounter, down to the specific songs Rhaegar had chosen - most of them melancholic ballads, true to form.
Questions from his rapt audience punctuated the man's story. Was the prince as tall as stories said? Or as handsome? Were the strings of his harp truly silver?
"Was it Ser Arthur with him?"
The question snared Visaera's attention, for all that she knew the knight in question was not in the city at present.
The tinker shook his head. "Ser Barristan."
"I met him once," another man boasted from the adjacent table, one with the solid, heavy build of a laborer. "Arthur Dayne."
"It's full of shite ye are, Rath," someone retorted snidely, which spurred a flurry of laughter
"I did so," insisted the man called Rath, taking a swig from his tankard. "Me 'an my Meggy was still livin' in the village at Rockhallow when he and th' others came round huntin' for the Kingswood Brotherhood."
Picking at what was left of her bread, Visaera listened more closely.
Almost everyone in the Stormlands had heard some of what had transpired with the infamous outlaw band that had run rampant within the Kingswood. Primarily that they had kidnapped and ransomed several nobles from Felwood and Bronzegate and neighboring townships, that they had once wounded the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard as he'd been escorting Princess Elia back to the capitol, and that they had evaded capture for the better part of a year.
Visaera remembered hearing that the smallfolk who lived in and around the wood had given the Brotherhood shelter and support initially, enjoying the sport they had made of the high and mighty noble families. She also remembered hearing that Ser Arthur had been among the company sent to eliminate them, not that she had thought much of it at the time.
Something had happened there to secure his reputation as one of the most illustrious knights in the realm, but she knew no details beyond that. The prospect of learning more intrigued her, and she was not ashamed of it.
"Th' rest of em were all threatenin' whippin's or hangin's if we didn't talk," Rath went on with a shake of his head. "Not Dayne. He sat down with us, drank with us, like he was regular folk like the rest of us. Asked about our lives, an' our problems. He made sure the soldiers all paid us for what grain or goods they took—even told one of 'em they'd pay with a hand if they didn't. Asked the king to ease up on our taxes 'til the harvest came clear of the root-rot. An' the bloody mad fucker did it."
The low murmur which rippled across the room had nothing to do with the insult to the king.
If what the man said was true, then Arthur Dayne had elected to work for and win the allegiance of the common people in order to reach his goal rather than relying on power and fear. Going so far as to petition a notoriously high-handed and tyrannical ruler for improved conditions on their behalf. And that...that was certainly not something she ever would have expected to hear.
Had he been a Kingsguard then? It didn't much matter either way. Even if he had, to do such a thing could have been at great risk to himself, depending on Aerys' mood.
She supposed she had known he must be brave to some degree. Many of those who became knights were, even if that bravery tended to lean more toward recklessness or stupidity. But knights were noblemen, almost as a rule, and very few took their oaths seriously to the point of going out of their way for the benefit of those lesser or less fortunate than themselves.
Certainly, he'd gotten something out of it, but most would have considered it far too much effort when it was far easier to utilize threats. It had been wise to steer clear of punishment in any form. Administer too much misery, take too much away, and it no longer held any impact but to incite resistance of the kind which had already begun to grow. His efforts had calmed the heat of even further rebellion and subsequently prevented the far greater cost which surely would have followed.
She might not have believed the claim had it not been for the fact that these simple people had little reason or motivation to fabricate such things. Embellish, yes, but not invent them outright. They had no more inherent respect for the high families or those who served them than they did the royals. To win their admiration was no small thing.
A reedy young man, hardly more than a boy, leaned closer to the source of the tale, eyes wide and shining. "Were ye there when he fought th' Smilin' Knight?"
"Oh aye, lad..."
Rath proceeded to recall the final clash between the outlaws and the king's soldiers, and the duel between Dayne and the fugitive dubbed the Smiling Knight - a swordsman reputed to be as deadly as he was insane, who the man eloquently described as:
"A right ghoulish look to him, like he wasn't all human. Eyes like a snake's, an' always this wide, awful smile with too many bleedin' teeth."
The recount of the fighting was likely exaggerated, but she could pick out what she surmised the facts must be. The exchange had been long and likely exhausting, lasting until the Smiling Knight's sword was so notched and scored from the impact with his opponent's blade that it was all but useless. In an unprecedented and extraordinarily honorable move, Arthur had halted the fight in order to allow the outlaw to pick up a fresh weapon. The bandit had done so, stating as he did that it was the famous Dawn he truly wanted.
"...an' he says, Dayne does—then come, an' ye shall have it, ser. I never seen a man move that fast. Didn't know men could move that fast. An' he did. Gave the great grinnin' cur his sword straight through th' chest. Greatest knight what ever lived. Mark me words."
These words - marked or not - incited a lighthearted disagreement over what constituted a great knight in order to make one the greatest. By then, Visaera was no longer listening.
Just how talented was he? Barristan Selmy had already been a war hero before he had been little more than a boy, yet people spoke of them as though they were peers in terms of proficiency and respect. Not simply high born folk, either, with a love for flowery legend and twisting truth to suit convenience. Real, normal people. A flashy title and famous sword were all well and good, but that held meaning to her, and it would have been a lie to say she wasn't curious almost to the point of it becoming unbearable.
Draining the rest of the ale, she slipped another two coins under the empty tankard before rising, and ducked back out into the dark and the cold.
...
~281 AC~
It seemed, of late, that no matter what he did he was forsaking either one vow or the other. Obey the king, or obey the law. Defend the king, or protect the innocent and the weak.
Arthur had had to learn quickly how to tolerate the hypocrisy - to find worth in his own silence and honor in his inaction, even when it pained him. It was in service to a future which must come to fruition, he told himself. Endurance of suffering now for the sake of a better tomorrow. A sentiment which more often than not tasted of ash in his mouth, and never more so than when he found himself guarding his king's bedchamber while the selfsame king brutally raped his queen.
It had been three consecutive nights since he had returned to the capitol. Every one of them had been spent this way; at once trying desperately not to hear while also forcing himself to listen as some form of penitence in the face of his gods cursed helplessness. And it was not simply the pain and terror in the queen's cries which gutted him, nor the stifled weeping which always followed, but that he could do nothing. Not even if Aerys killed her.
Two weeks he had spent escorting Queen Rhaella - guarding her, seeing to her health and her comfort - and in spite of the extra vigilance always required when outside the walls of the Red Keep, the task had been neither trying nor unpleasant. The queen was a gentle soul, and caring for her was no hardship. Yet this only made bringing her back all the worse.
Two weeks spent doing nothing but ensuring her safety, only to turn away now; for he could protect her from any and everything except for the abuses of her husband.
It was easier to withstand suffering of his own. He had always possessed a healthy amount of resolve and a rather immovable will. But he had no stomach for standing by amidst the suffering of others...something of himself he'd had no cause to learn until taking up the white cloak which served as his shackle.
By the time his next free day came about, Arthur's jaw and neck ached from the hours spent clenching his teeth against everything he could not do or say.
His mood had been bordering nearer to surly than he preferred, and as he could not achieve any real solution to the problem, he elected to pursue the one thing that had always allowed him to clear and calm his mind.
For most men, the practices of swordsmanship and of worship were wholly separate. This had never been the case for him. Ever since he had been big enough to hold what could have passed for a practice blade, he had breathed, slept, ate, and prayed with a sword. At first he had been drawn purely to the raw power of it, as many young boys were. As he grew, and his skill alongside him, he found the elegance and artistry within it - the clarity. In time he found that he could channel his worries and frustrations through the blade, follow the motion and the force through his own limbs the way he might have a map to find his way back to peace or to certainty.
A regular regimen of training was both necessary and vital to being any manner of guard. Skills must be maintained, reflexes continuously tested, speed and accuracy improved upon where possible. But it was a need for distraction which urged Arthur to seek out one of the indoor training yards with Ser Lewyn that afternoon.
The two of them spent roughly an hour running through choreographed drills: exercises designed to work the body one section at a time, serving both as a thorough method of loosening up and insurance that nothing was missed, avoiding accidental injury. It wasn't until they set to sparring properly that he lost track of the passage of time, his focus narrowing down to the rhythm and flow of swordplay.
Combat in practice was not fully comparable to true combat. Removing the crucial element of death altered every aspect of fighting; physiological response was different down to the patterns of breath, the way the mind processed, which reflexes engaged when. When one's opponent was not actively giving their all to kill, risks held less weight, and choices were no longer gambles wherein the bet would be paid in blood. This was not inherently negative - it simply was. Yet there was danger in it all the same.
In his youth, the first of his training masters had imparted on Arthur one piece of wisdom more vital than any of the other lessons he had ever received.
Even the sheath of the sword must be sharp. So too must the mind and spirit be within the body.
To approach training with the mindset that it was merely practice was to set a precedent within oneself. Placing too much faith in safety when forming and maintaining mind- and muscle-memory made it that much more difficult to react properly when true danger was present. It made a fighter sloppy. Sloppiness allowed for mistakes in times when the price of mistakes was your life. Or that of the man beside you.
Were he to attribute his reputation with anything, it was not innate talent, his build or height or the advantages therein, nor an aptitude for learning. It was this single bit of advice, and the choice he had made to follow it. Because it was this choice which had gained him the ability to at once treat every bout as though it might be his last while also cultivating the resolute mental strength which centered him like prayer in the midst of peril. It was this mindset which had allowed him to prevail over more technically gifted warriors in the past. Nothing else.
By the time they paused for brief respite, Arthur had worked up a decent sweat. Removing his jacket, he reached for one of the waterskins they'd brought along, drinking deeply.
"Shall we make this a bit more challenging?" Lewyn propositioned, stripping from his own tunic.
Arthur arched a brow at him. "So long as you promise not to skewer me," he drawled, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.
Dark eyes glittering with soft humor, the older man set aside the dulled practice sword he had been using and reached instead for the spear of which he was so fond - and with which he was an indomitable force to be reckoned.
This was not the first time Arthur had faced one of the vipers of House Martell. If it had been, he might have been concerned by the sudden - and significant - disparity in range between himself and his opponent. Yet he simply picked up the abandoned sword in his empty hand and returned to the floor.
Lewyn came easy at first, allowing Arthur to grow accustomed to the change in weapon and style. Spears were not generally a challenge to deal with - especially not when wielding two swords - but in the hands of a master as the other knight was, a swing that might appear lazy and slow could become a bite to the throat as swiftly as lightning. Gradually they increased both effort and force until they were fighting in earnest, utilizing progressively daring and extravagant maneuvers in the effort to disarm one another.
A particularly sly thrust toward his middle brought the razor-keen blade of the spear within grazing distance, requiring Arthur to wrench his torso sideways to avoid a rent shirt, back muscles pulling not quite to the point of protest. He let out a low whistle of appreciation.
"I did say not to skewer me, didn't I?"
"As if you'd ever allow me to," Lewyn scoffed with a chuckle, gracefully twirling the willow handle between his scarred and weather-worn hands. Laughter deepened the permanent laugh lines which framed his mouth, betraying the age his speed, smooth movements, and even the silver in his curling black hair did not.
With an amused snort, Arthur lunged forward to reengage.
Though it took some clever footwork and the price of what would become a nice bruise along his forearm from a smart smack from the shaft, he managed to slip within Lewyn's guard. Winding his left-hand blade about the leather grip, he drove up with the crossguard of the right and knocked the spear from the other man's grasp, where it clattered to the dirt at their feet.
It took him the space of a few seconds to register that the sound in his ears was not the thrum of his own pulse - or at least not solely. That what he heard was, in fact, quiet applause.
Lewyn's eyes were fixed upon a point over Arthur's shoulder. Following his gaze, Arthur angled his head angling back toward the threshold to the outer yard.
It was not uncommon for other soldiers, and even the serving staff or the grooms, to gather to watch when the Kingsguard trained. It wasn't even entirely unheard of for court officials to do so, though to see one alone was not something he had ever witnessed before. Yet Lady Visaera had already proven that she was possessed of neither the same propriety or diffidence held by the other court ladies with which he was familiar.
She stood just inside the archway, leaning with one shoulder propped against the wall to watch. Just how long she had been there was impossible to say, though he presumed long enough to have warranted the clapping.
Her presence there did not surprise him, though perhaps it ought to have. He was far too preoccupied by the slow uncrossing of her legs when she pushed away from the wall to be much of anything.
She wore a pair of men's trousers and boots, both streaked - it seemed - with hay dust, as though she had come from the stables. The shirt and vest were likewise fashioned as a man's; though they fit as though tailored to her figure rather than the way borrowed garments would have, dipping in sharply at the waist in a way that might as well have been designed to draw the eye down to the flare of her hips while she crossed the floor to approach them.
"Lady Targaryen," he heard Lewyn greet her, and swiftly copied the other man's shallow bow, intensely grateful that he had not been the only one to notably pause. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"
Her smile was wry, the wave of her hand vaguely dismissive.
"You needn't waste such formalities on me here, Ser Lewyn," she said, holding out her arms to indicate herself. "Not when I'm covered in hay and horsehair."
As if it made her any less of a lady, Arthur mused to himself. She was far from the only highborn lady who elected to see to her own horses, whether she was the only one to do so in men's clothing he could not say, still, how she chose to garb herself did not suddenly mean she was not entitled to the respect that was her due.
"My apologies for spying," she said then, somewhat abashed. "I heard you on my way back inside, and I'm afraid I was completely incapable of fighting the temptation—though I'm glad I did, even if it was horribly rude."
Finding his tongue at last, Arthur assured her: "There's no need for apologies, My Lady. You are more than welcome here."
Her nod of thanks was a curiously demure thing, meeting his eyes for the briefest instant before dark lashes swept down to veil them. He wasn't sure quite how to interpret the look...not that it was the first time.
"Such showy foolishness is better served as entertainment in any case," Lewyn noted, bending to retrieve the fallen spear. Resting the blunt end against the floor to lean against it he shot her a genial smile.
It was, perhaps, more casual behavior than was truly proper. But Lewyn was a prince, for all he no longer held the official title nor what came with it. He was far more at ease with the practice of dancing along the boundaries of manners, and possessed enough amiable charm that even those who might have found insult rarely realized they should.
Lady Visaera's answering smile was clear enough indication that she took no offense. "I'm not sure I agree. Still, a fool could see that you are both masters of your craft."
Her eyes slid back to Arthur as she spoke, and this time he was certain in what he saw in them. Admiration. He had seen it enough times in the eyes of others to know it beyond doubting. It had long ago ceased to have much of an effect on him, which was what made the sudden surge of pride he experienced so startling.
"I wonder," she began, then hesitated. Her head tilted slightly to one side, appearing to consider the words she weighed upon her tongue. "If you would consider indulging me?"
It took her holding out her right hand in clear request for one of the weapons he held for him to understand her meaning.
"You have experience with swordsmanship, My Lady?" he asked slowly, taken aback and not bothering to conceal it.
There were women in Braavos who studied in weaponry, or so he had heard. But in Westeros, such a thing was unheard of in this day and age. It wasn't forbidden outright, not by any law or edict, it simply wasn't done. Not for hundreds of years. And certainly not by the daughters of noble houses.
"Some," she admitted with a small shrug of one shoulder. "Our master at arms mistook me for a boy for some years and I never bothered to correct him."
He supposed that was possible...even so, this was not the same as undergoing regimented training. She was no fool - surely she understood that.
Fighting at any level was dangerous. There was always a risk, even in training and even with dulled practice weapons. Injury was common. Crippling and fatality happened. Half of his own scars were a result of learning, not from real battle. He was confident enough in his own ability to surmise that he could probably keep her from accidental harm, but absolute certainty was impossible. He could not account for all variables.
Lewyn would support him should he decline; agree that such an endeavor would be too dangerous, that it went against their mandates. And yet...he found it difficult to summon the will to refuse her, though he knew full well that he should.
If asked, he supposed he would have put it down to the calm conviction in her face - the absence of either the eagerness and bravado he so often found in those who issued him challenge for the sake of a thrill or for ego or any number of other foolish reasons. She reminded him more of a girl who did not understand why the boys were allowed to fight but she was not, and found all the proffered answers utterly less than satisfactory.
Whether for this or some other reason, he found himself turning the blade in his left hand and offering it to her.
Pale fingers closed about the leather-wrapped hilt, and he relinquished it, passing the weight of it to her. Immediately her arm dropped. The point fell to the floor and carving a shallow divot in the dry dirt - the irrefutable sign of a weapon too heavy for the bearer.
"Ser Lewyn," he murmured, turning to where the other knight had retreated to the far wall and indicating the rack of weapons there. "Would you fetch—"
If not for the glint of the light upon the metal, he might not have known to take the reflexive step back to avoid the clean, snaking arc of the blade - and most certainly would have received the shallow nick to the chin intended.
Automatically his left foot slid back, his arm rose, his own sword readied to block the next surprise blow, which did not come.
Visaera stood as centered and poised as he himself was, the weapon he had judged too heavy held now secure and steady between her slender hands. He recognized within the span of a breath that it hadn't been an attack. She had merely issued a pointed warning not to take his eyes away from his opponent.
"I believe I'll get along well enough with this one," she assured him, all mild-mannered pleasantry which contrasted sharply with the faintly wicked lilt at the corner of her mouth.
Oh, she had done a good deal more than sneak a few lessons as a child from an unsuspecting master at arms, that much was clear. He didn't think she had lied outright, but there was definitely more to that story than she had implied. Implication which she had intentionally used to lull him into believing she wasn't a threat when he had already known it to be untrue - when he had already seen the steel in her.
It had been some time since he had been caught so off his guard, and in truth, it was rather delightful. All the same underestimating her was not a mistake he would make a second time.
With a deferential nod, he acknowledged her words, as well as all that remained unspoken.
"As you say, My Lady."
Upon verbal acceptance she began to move, circling slowly to her left. Taking his measure. He mirrored her, measuring his footfalls to her stride, and met her scrutiny with his own.
Her face was utterly expressionless, revealing little but the watchful calculation of a fighter - which was as she wanted it. But she could not keep him out entirely. No one could. Even when the mind was shuttered away, the body was never entirely silent.
Judging by the way she held herself and the weapon, she was well accustomed to it. He had little doubt that he would find a swordsman's calluses lining her palms were he to look for them, that there was hard-earned muscle in her limbs, hidden by full sleeves and loose breeches. Her steps were sure, even. Perfectly balanced between confidence and a healthy caution.
She was quite a bit smaller than he was; in height certainly, but also in terms of sheer mass. He had to be a good six stone heavier, erring on the lighter side. She was not, he acknowledged, quite so delicate in stature as he had initially thought her to be, but he still had nearly every advantage. Size, reach, strength, age and therefore more than likely endurance in addition to experience. If she might have him on anything, it would be speed, but he was ready for that and well equipped to counter it.
There was still the risk of an accident. It was perhaps even increased now that he understood real effort would be required on his part. But Arthur was far less concerned with that now and far more intrigued.
He suspected her purpose here was in effort to gauge something of him, be it skill or something else entirely and he fully intended to do the same. He had sparred many times with each of his sworn brothers. He knew their individual styles, their preferences, their vulnerabilities, their tells, and their strengths. Of her, he knew none of these things, and he was in no way ashamed to admit that he wanted to know them. Yet not, he understood on some level, for the reasons he normally would have - welcoming a new challenge the way a nicked blade would welcome the whetstone. This was different, though he instinctively forbid himself from examining the why of it.
Through inaction, he forced her into striking first, which she did - darting abruptly forward with a thrust neatly timed to his steps.
He caught it easily, deflecting with a downward parry. The teeth-grating metal shriek of blade to dull blade scraping along nerve endings as much as eardrums when he dragged his weapon along the length of hers before disengaging with a flick of his wrist and a swift sidestep.
The amount of force in the blow had been more than anticipated, especially when compared to the lesser impact of her second. Another warning, he assumed...one not to take her lightly.
He wouldn't have dared.
One did not merely humor a dragon.
She certainly moved like one - sleek and powerful, all claws and teeth and bristling scales. Though he was watching her movement as much to read for attacks as for the enjoyment of it, he didn't bother with the lie to himself that she wasn't a pleasure to look at. Because she was. A singularly lovely creature that became somehow more so with a blade in hand.
In truth, she was quite good. He could discern from the way she struck - with conviction and excellent control - that she had experience beyond what occurred within training yard walls. She lacked the ever so slight indicators that came from never having to make the choice to spill blood; little pauses, the obvious over-caution which came from a worry of causing inadvertent injury. She was not on the level of any of his brotherhood and they both knew it, but she was certainly capable of holding her ground against most threats.
Bracing her left palm against the flat of her blade, she struck sharply up with the heavy steel bar of the crossguard, aiming for the big muscle that ran from the back and hip into the thigh. He pivoted, only to find himself twisting rapidly away from the high swipe she met him with, having predicted this maneuver.
Some might have considered such a move to be bad form in a friendly bout, but he did not. It had been a smart use of bodily knowledge and clever instinct. She had no qualms about utilizing what she must in order to compensate for her lesser size. He respected that. More than respect it, he commended it.
There was no etiquette in real conflict, no rules to serve as shields. Strong as she undoubtedly was, she was not strong the way a man was and could not rely on brute strength. It was why she was so careful to gain distance quickly after each time she engaged him, knowing that it was to her benefit to keep clear of his reach as much as possible. Which in turn made him wonder what her reaction would be were she to lose that edge.
The next time she came at him was with a feint to the left. He was ready for it.
With a powerful overhead swing he cut down, forcing her to either retreat, and quickly, or raise her blade to block it. She chose the latter, her own sword slicing a metallic arc through the air as she thrust upward to catch his strike with a sharp clang of steel.
He felt just how hard the impact met her in the subtle tremor in her shoulders, the brief clench of her teeth betrayed by the tension of her jaw. Taking advantage, he bore down. Her hands tightened upon the hilt, already pale knuckles whitening. Her feet shifted subtly, widening her stance for leverage in a way that would have buckled the knees in most men of a like size after enduring the downswing he'd given her, even at partial force.
It was impressive...but it was also a mistake, digging in when she ought to have wrenched away.
She tried to disengage, to regain control, but he didn't let her. Leaning hard with his weight he pressed further into her until they were almost body-to-body, the inside of his thigh grazing the outer length of hers up to the hip.
Something in her face shifted; a fierce burning gleam kindling in her eyes that was neither fury nor elation, and yet both at once that seemed to scrape across some surface inside him, striking sparks like metal upon stone.
It was, in a word, absolutely glorious.
He had her trapped and she knew it. Her only choices were to yield or to continue to struggle until she weakened to the point that he ended it for her.
She didn't have the strength to remove a hand to go for a knife, had she had one, or to try for a distraction. She could attempt to kick him - go for a knee, or the groin - but it would be sacrificing what leverage she had and would buy her little. Nor could she drop to the ground to free herself. He would either take her head for it, or he would follow her down, pin her to the floor and open her middle. Neither of which he would actually do in this instance, of course. Even if she had been trying to kill him, he didn't think he could have met her in kind. It would have bordered on sacrilege to destroy something so magnificent.
And if that thought danced upon the edge of impropriety, Arthur blatantly ignored it.
He felt her resistance ease, and immediately let up. He did not, however, relax, remaining wary should it be another skillful attempt at manipulation.
"No trick," she said, lifting a placating hand and lowering her blade with the other. "I yield."
Her breath came heavier than it had before, lending a low note to her voice that was not usually present there. Exertion had put a flush in her fair cheeks and mussed the neat plait in which she wore her hair, stray strands framing her face in feathery tendrils. There was a faint, almost dewy sheen to the skin at her throat and that which was just visible beyond the laces dangling from the open shirt collar.
Utterly against his will his mind strayed to the question of whether she might look like this under the influence of an altogether different sort of exertion, conjuring images of other ways he might put that color in her skin, bring that breathy slant to her voice.
Sharply he yanked his thoughts back into line, as resolute as he might have been with a particularly recalcitrant horse.
It was...uncomfortably difficult.
"I see now why they call you the best, Ser Arthur," she remarked, and there was true deference in it - respect that, in her eyes, was not the product of a reputation padded by exaggeration. He had earned it.
It was also the first time he ever heard her use his given name, the sound of it lingering in her mouth like something rich and sweet.
"I am good enough," he conceded, mildly discomforted by the way the praise had unfurled, warm within the cage of his ribs. "but I'm no Barristan Selmy."
Her eyes left his face, the blue of them searing down the length of him, resting ever so briefly at the place where sweat-damp cloth clung to his chest. "No..." she murmured, almost to herself. "You are not."
She was in no way the first woman to look at him in such a way - with the kind of appraisal which hinted that she thought him a desirable man - but hers was the one he felt, down to his abruptly molten marrow.
Within the space of a breath the spark he might have interpreted as attraction was gone, replaced by temperate gratitude and appreciation, and he was certain he had imagined it.
"Thank you for your willingness to humor me," she told him, yet while the remark was gracious, she was not hiding behind the flawless marble guise of the consummate lady. She was...herself, perhaps wholly for the first time in front of him.
"Hardly humor, My Lady," he argued, hoping the hint of hoarseness in his voice was audible only to him. "You are a formidable opponent."
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, automatically assuming he was delivering a politely underhanded insult. In spite of whoever had trained and fought with her, she was not used to men acknowledging her proficiency, let alone complimenting it. She had been met with the lashing out which often followed the bruised egos of lesser men, and it had trained her to expect little else.
It was, frankly, shameful. She was descended from the warrior-queens of old. She should not be accustomed to such scorn in the face of her ferocity, nor should she be expected to tolerate it.
After a moment she appeared to accept him as sincere. Her features softened, gentled, and her smile - though somewhat hesitant - was real, and utterly lovely.
"I take that as high commendation indeed."
As he had done, she turned the blade in her hand so that the hilt faced outward, offering it back to him. He took it, her fingers brushing his as she relinquished her grip.
It was the barest hint of contact, barely enough to be truly deemed touch at all, yet warmth curled in some deep place within his chest, thick in his throat and in his veins, in a way he had not felt - perhaps allowed himself to feel - in a long, long time.
With a parting nod and murmur to Lewyn, she turned and walked back across the yard, back straight, trousers doing absolutely nothing but emphasizing the graceful sway in her stride.
"Hell of a woman, that one," the other knight said from behind him, leaning on his spear to watch her slip out the door as quietly as she had entered.
"Quite so," Arthur murmured, utterly incapable of anything but agreement.
"Back to it, then?"
With a roll of his shoulders, he turned his mind back to the sparring ring, as unsettled as he had been upon entering it in the first place. If for a vastly different reason.
NOTES:
Behold - swordfighting as foreplay! (And no, this is not the only instance of it. Stay tuned!) I have a soft spot for the warrior ladies of Westeros and am not ashamed.
The sole reason I didn't put this chapter up sooner was because my job gets in the way of my ability to edit, otherwise I would have have had it up two days ago because I CRANKED this sucker out. I'm looking forward to some verbal sparring (sort of?) coming up, so fingers crossed that I can keep this energy going.
It has been unexpectedly difficult for me to keep to the structure I want for this fic, which is to have every scene (except for that very first one in Visaera's POV) focused on the intersection of these two people's lives rather than just one or the other alone. In other words: unless it revolves around both of them interacting somehow, even if only via direct third party discussion, it doesn't make the cut. It's very different from the way I usually write, so it's a good challenge, but it is definitely challenging!
The song referenced in the tavern scene was roughly named for a real song titled 'The Trooper and the Maid,' although it isn't actually all that spicy of a song at all, though definitely good for mood. And the quote from Arthur's training master is, from what I've found, an old Viking saying which felt very appropriate and fitting.
Thank you all so very much for reading this far. It makes me so happy to know there are folks out there who get enjoyment out of what I write, and every bit of interaction just makes it that much more meaningful. I appreciate you more than I can say.
Until next time!