~Hatchling~

Sunrise found Viserys already in the training yard, Ser Willem set upon him with relentless energy. Each blow Viserys sent his way was parried off with little effort, making the prince more desperate in his attacks. The knight of the Kingsguard, for his part, remained calm, his years of martial experience displayed in every swing, stab, and block. A youth of five and ten, Viserys knew that there would be many more mornings of arduous sparring before he could reach that level.

It was as Uncle Baelor used to tell him, "Every great tree begins as a seed burrowed in the dirt."

Although, as Ser Willem disarmed him following a feigned retreat, Viserys thought himself a mere sapling. The knight let his tourney sword fall to the ground with a clank. Viserys made to pick it up, but Ser Willem stopped him as he gave his own blunted-edged sword to a nearby page boy.

"Many twists and turns, my prince, but no actual technique," Ser Willem commented curtly.

"A knight must not betray to his enemies his next move," Viserys tried, repeating the words Ser Willem himself had often told him in a poor attempt to stave off a reprimand. He dabbed at the beads of sweat that dribbled from his eyelashes, the sleeve of his gambeson serving as a makeshift washcloth.

Their training sessions had become more grueling of late. Although Ser Willem had always been a diligent and committed teacher, the death of Viserys' grandsire had seen the knight redouble his efforts to draw out whatever potential lied within the young prince. A trying task, at times, but one that Viserys embraced with obeisance and determination.

His instructor sighed. "A knight must know first what he is doing before concealing it from others," he said. Ser Willem then fixed his gaze sharply on Viserys, analyzing, and his brow furrowed. "What troubles you?"

Viserys was thrown off, his right hand dropping from his sweat-soaked neck. How should he know? Something in his demeanor, perhaps? Mother warned him of what he let out just as often as Ser Willem did.

"Nothing too serious, Ser Willem," he said. Nothing you could solve or give advice on, he thought. Unwarranted and unjust as the thought might be, the fact of the matter was that the Sworn Brothers of the Kingsguard were not renowned for their political counsel.

Pages brought wash basins to them, with proper washcloths this time. Viserys was quick to scoop a handful of water and plunge his flushed and over hot face into it. He scrubbed rigorously at the sweat and grime coating his skin, fixating especially on the exposed areas along his arms and head. The water droplets that rolled down from his nose slithered into his mouth, tinging his tongue with an unsavory salty flavor.

"Perhaps it is Your Grace's upcoming nuptials that occupy your mind," Ser Willem said suggestively as he finished cleansing himself.

Viserys could have guffawed. If there was a topic the celibate brothers knew less about! Much less Willem Wylde, who shirked a betrothal to join the ancient order and avoided the eyes of any and all noble ladies at court.

"Are you my nursemaid now, ser?" Viserys asked through a smile. "Surely you won't be fretting over me when the women take me to my marriage bed."

Ser Willem rolled his eyes, failing to see the amusement in his jest. His armor took on the orange hue of the morning, which reminded the prince that they were well into the waking hours of the day. His duties took him from all corners of the Red Keep depending on the hour, and each spar was followed by a visit to the small sept in Maegor's Holdfast.

He was pulled every each way, these days.

"I just meant to inquire if the joining with the Lady Gysella was satisfactory to Your Grace," Ser Willem marched on. Then, as if hesitation had suddenly taken root of his resolve, he slowly added, "I know you hoped a match with the Princess Aelora be considered, before…"

Every each way, even a marriage bed.

"A union with the Lady Gysella ties House Lannister to the crown with blood," Viserys was swift to fall back on his mother's own words. "House Targaryen has long looked to itself for strength and brides, now its branches must spread and flower across the realm."

His sworn shield blinked at him. "My prince," Ser Willem started, mindful of his words, "it is my duty as your protector – no, as your truest ally, your-"

Viserys lifted both hands peaceably, he even managed to extract a smirk from the corner of his lips, and said, "It is all well, ser. This marriage makes me happy. I will do my duty to my house and to the realm, and do so gladly. Seven willing, my union with the Lady Gysella will see the crown regain its proper strength."

It had to. It fell to him, all on him.

Ser Willem seemed unsatisfied with his answer, but he didn't press on; it was not his place to do so. "Go freshen up, my prince," he said. He didn't look at Viserys. "I'll have a stableboy see to my horse, and a page will polish my armor."

It was Viserys' turn to furrow his brow, this time in confusion. "We were to train until the hour of the bee, ser. Besides, shouldn't I see to your horse and armor?" he asked.

Ser Willem Wylde was halfway out of the training yard when he stopped, craned his neck to look back at Viserys, and said, "That was when you were merely my squire, Prince Viserys. You are the Prince of Dragonstone now, and it is high time I treat you accordingly."