[Ser Gerold Hightower — Warrior]
[Ser Arthur Dayne — Warrior]
[Ser Oswell Whent — Warrior]
[Ser Willem Darry — Knight]
All three—Gerold, Arthur, and Oswell—were rated as warriors by the golden finger. Though they all held the same title, there were still differences in their strength.
Among them, Arthur, known as the Sword of the Morning, was undoubtedly the strongest.
But the Kingsguard were far more than mere bodyguards. They were the king's personal honor guard and also an elite corps of battlefield commanders.
Each of the three was more than capable of leading troops into war.
When it came to military command, Gerold, the captain of the guard, was the most outstanding. He was the one who had laid out the majority of the current battle plan.
"Ser Arthur, I'm assigning you thirty swift ships to flank from the side."
"At once!"
"Ser Oswell, you're to apply pressure on the enemy's flank."
"Understood!"
"Ser Willem, you'll remain on the island and be responsible for His Grace's safety."
Willem accepted the order as well.
Compared to the other three, his overall capabilities were a bit lacking, so Gerold's arrangement suited him perfectly.
Rhaella, now the Queen Mother, fully agreed with Gerold's strategy.
She had little understanding of military matters and knew well that the battlefield was no place for her to interfere.
Of course, all of these were just prearranged deployments. With Robert holding the initiative, they had to be prepared for the worst.
At that moment, Viserys spoke up:
"Ser Gerold, I believe that if I appear on the battlefield, it might help boost morale. Please, let me go with you."
His thoughts were simple—he wanted the golden finger to recognize a higher degree of personal involvement.
This battle was already fated to be a clear victory.
Even without the three Kingsguard, their fleet had already repelled Robert's first assault. Now, with the three of them leading, the victory would be even greater.
Robert's side would surely pay a steep price.
And those sacrifices would all become precious essence. With enough essence, he could raise a battle-hardened force on the spot.
"No."
Before he had even finished speaking, Rhaella firmly rejected the idea. Her voice was stern, even a little anxious.
"You are the king now. Fighting on the front lines is not a king's duty," she reasoned.
She had already lost one son to war. She couldn't bear to lose another.
The others—Gerold and the rest—also would never allow Viserys onto the battlefield. They had just lost an ideal king. They couldn't afford to lose another.
Whether by status or by age, Viserys was not suited for the battlefield.
"That's right, Your Grace. If you were to join us, Ser Gerold would be forced to split his attention to protect you."
Arthur spoke gently but earnestly.
Translated bluntly, his words meant: Viserys would be a burden on the battlefield.
Viserys knew they would oppose his suggestion. Still, he had hoped that appearing on the battlefield might help build his prestige.
Even if he didn't fight or command, he could at least act as a symbol—like a mascot to inspire morale.
More importantly, the golden finger still didn't acknowledge his authority over the military. And nothing raised military prestige faster than personally leading an army into battle.
He knew this battle was a guaranteed win. It would be a shame not to milk some prestige from it.
But since everyone stood against him, there was no point in forcing the issue.
He'd have to find another way.
"You're right," he nodded.
Seeing Viserys let go of the idea, everyone—especially Rhaella—breathed a sigh of relief.
Her mother's intuition told her she understood her son's feelings. From what she had observed, Viserys clearly looked up to Rhaegar deeply.
It was only natural he'd want to follow in his brother's footsteps.
"If you want to fight one day, then train with Ser Willem in the ways of the sword and learn strategy from Ser Gerold. That day will come."
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and spoke softly.
"I understand, Mother," Viserys replied, then turned to Willem. "Ser Willem, let's begin today."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Willem nodded solemnly. After all, few in the world had the honor of training a king in the art of war.
He began to size up the young Viserys.
At about five feet tall, he was well-developed for his age.
Like Rhaegar, he had long arms—good for swordplay. He was a bit thin, but that was nothing. Once training began, his appetite would increase and he'd grow stronger.
Rhaegar had started training with him at nearly twenty.
Willem reminded himself to be cautious—he could not afford to injure Viserys.
*Clang—*
Their swords clashed. Willem's expression changed to surprise. Though still a child, Viserys's strength was astonishing—easily matching that of a grown man.
"Let's continue, Ser Willem!"
"Very well!"
Not just strong, but full of stamina too!
As they sparred, Willem evaluated him carefully.
At first, considering Viserys's age, he had suggested using a wooden practice sword.
But Viserys insisted on using a real blade. Willem didn't object. Most youths were competitive—he figured the prince would tire out soon enough and give in.
But to his surprise, Viserys sparred with him using a real sword for nearly two hours straight. And his improvement was shocking.
His basic swordsmanship was already sharp and steady—on par with seasoned veterans.
"Your Grace, have you really never trained before?" Willem asked during a short break.
"I used to watch when you were training my brother," Viserys said casually as he sipped water.
He couldn't explain the golden finger, so he had to improvise.
But that explanation stunned Willem even more. To reach this level just by observing from the sidelines—unbelievable.
Rhaegar had been a quick learner, but not this quick. If Viserys continued at this pace, Willem figured there wouldn't be much left to teach him within half a year.
After wiping off their sweat, the two made their way toward the rookery on Dragonstone.
After the incident with Pycelle, the rookery was now under Viserys's direct control.
"Ser Willem, on the battlefield, how many attackers do you think you could fend off at once?"
Willem figured Viserys was still brooding over the idea of going to war. Still, perhaps it was good for him to understand how brutal the battlefield truly was.
"That depends on the opponents. If they're green recruits who've never seen combat, I could probably take twenty or thirty.
But if they're seasoned veterans—well-trained and coordinated—then maybe seventeen or eighteen at most, possibly fewer."
"What about elite troops?" Viserys pressed. "Like the guards we brought from King's Landing."