LIGHTNOVELWORLD Chapter 4: Chapter 4: The Sword and the Collector
Chapter 4: The Sword and the Collector
Date: March 12, 103 AC
Location: Red Keep, King's Landing
Age: 1 year and 3 months
The Red Keep was alive with the sounds of training. Steel clashed against steel, the air ringing with the sharp echoes of swords striking shields. In the training yard, a gathering of knights watched with hushed awe as the young Prince Baelon Targaryen practiced with a wooden sword. Despite his tender age, his movements displayed an uncanny grace and precision, as though he had been born wielding a blade.
Ser Harrold Westerling, a member of the Kingsguard and the prince's appointed swordmaster, stood nearby, his arms crossed, his expression torn between amazement and unease. Baelon's skill with a sword was unlike anything he had ever seen in a child, let alone one who had barely learned to walk a year prior.
"He learns faster than any man I've trained," Ser Harrold muttered to King Viserys, who had come to observe his son.
Viserys watched Baelon with a mix of pride and curiosity. The boy's strikes were clean, his footwork impeccable. It was as if he instinctively understood the rhythm of battle. "It is not just learning," Viserys said quietly. "It is remembering. He fights like he has done so before."
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The Sword's Memory
Baelon, for his part, was deeply immersed in the practice. Each swing of the wooden blade felt natural in his hands, as though the muscle memory of another life guided him. Memories of wielding the Sword of Gryffindor, sharp and fleeting, danced in the corners of his mind. Though he had only used the sword once in his past life, it had left a profound imprint on his soul.
"You are doing well, my prince," Ser Harrold said as Baelon paused to catch his breath. "But you must focus on your balance. The blade is an extension of yourself, not a separate tool."
Baelon nodded solemnly, his young face calm and composed. "I understand, Ser Harrold. A sword is like magic—it requires precision and control. Without them, it is nothing but a piece of metal."
The knight raised an eyebrow, taken aback by the boy's words. Such wisdom was not expected from a child.
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The Collector's Visit
That night, as Baelon lay in his bed, he was visited once again by the familiar, shadowy presence of Death. The spectral figure appeared at the foot of his bed, its form cloaked in darkness and its voice a soft whisper.
"Master," Death intoned, inclining its hooded head in respect.
Baelon sat up, his violet eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. "You honor me with your presence. Why do you come now?"
Death's voice was steady, yet carried an undertone of something deeper. "You are learning the ways of this world, yet you remain tied to the last. The blade you wield in your dreams—the Sword of Gryffindor—was not just a weapon, but a symbol of your strength. You must decide if such strength will guide you here."
Baelon frowned slightly, his small hands gripping the edges of his blanket. "This world is different. Swords carry power, but they also bind men to the wheel of fate. I must learn to wield them, not just with skill, but with purpose."
Death seemed to nod, the shadows around it shifting. "Remember, Master: the sword is a tool, but the mind and heart wield it. Should you rise as a king, let it be your wisdom that cuts sharper than steel."
Baelon bowed his head in understanding. As Death faded into the night, he felt a renewed sense of determination. He would master the sword, not because it was expected of him, but because he knew the power of being prepared for any battle.
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Training the Mind and Body
Over the next few months, Baelon's dedication to his training intensified. He spent hours each day in the training yard, honing his skills under Ser Harrold's watchful eye. His ability to anticipate his opponents' moves and adapt mid-strike astounded even the most seasoned knights.
But Baelon's growth was not limited to the physical. He devoured the history of Westeros, the Targaryen dynasty, and the art of warfare. His mind was as sharp as the blade he sought to perfect, and his understanding of strategy rivaled men many years his senior.
Aemma watched her son with a mixture of pride and apprehension. "He is growing too quickly, Viserys," she confided one evening. "He is not just a child. He is... something else."
Viserys nodded, his gaze distant. "He is Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne. Whatever else he may be, we must trust that he is ours."
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A Legacy in the Making
By the time Baelon turned two, his reputation had already begun to spread beyond the walls of the Red Keep. The people of King's Landing whispered about the young prince who fought like a seasoned knight and spoke with the wisdom of a king.
For Baelon, the path ahead was clear. He would use the knowledge of his past life and the strength of his new one to shape the destiny of Westeros. The wheel of swords was just the beginning.