Robert lunged forward, swinging his wooden sword in a swift, powerful arc.
The blade cut through the air with a low whoosh, aimed straight at Garon's chest.
Garon's expression remained calm. His feet were steady as he raised his wooden sword with both hands and blocked with precision.
Crack!
The wooden swords collided, producing a crisp, sharp sound. Garon's arm trembled slightly from the impact.
Without rushing to counterattack, he adjusted his footing and posture. He retreated half a step, tightened his grip, and blocked Robert's second strike just as cleanly.
Bang!
Another heavy collision followed.
The dull sound of wood striking wood sent dust and splinters flying. Garon felt a faint numbness spread through his palm. He knew he couldn't keep blocking like this—if he took several more direct hits, his wooden sword might shatter under Robert's strength.
He retreated again, creating space to recover.
Inside, Garon was stunned.
Robert's power was no weaker than Ser Goodwin's.
Ser Goodwin was a knight in his thirties, a man in his physical prime.
Robert, on the other hand, was only fifteen.
And he clearly wasn't using his full strength.
Robert was just as surprised.
He had used about half his strength, yet most boys his age at Storm's End couldn't endure even a single exchange like that. Even Eddard's hands usually trembled after sparring with him.
And Garon?
Garon was only ten.
Yet he showed no sign of panic.
Robert's grin widened, excitement igniting in his eyes.
This was getting fun.
He tightened his grip, planted his feet, and steadied his stance.
"Hah!"
With a roar, Robert brought his sword down again—faster, heavier. This time, he used nearly seventy percent of his strength. The air compressed with a low hum as the blade descended.
Bang! Bang!
Several powerful strikes crashed down in succession.
Garon raised his sword to block.
The repeated impacts sent loud echoes rippling through the godswood, shaking the grass beneath their feet. Garon's palm went numb, his arm trembling as the force pushed him back half a step.
Crack!
The final blow was especially fierce. A fragment splintered from the point of collision.
Garon retreated quickly, putting distance between them.
He shook his left hand, easing the numbness, and looked up at Robert with genuine shock.
That last exchange had far surpassed Ser Goodwin's full-force attacks.
Robert stopped abruptly.
"Haha—sorry!" he said, scratching the back of his head. "I got carried away. Are you alright?"
He had meant to tease Garon, taking advantage of his strength. Instead, Garon's composure and technique had excited him too much.
What surprised Robert even more was that Garon's posture, though disturbed, had never collapsed. The moment a flaw appeared, Garon retreated instantly, maintaining control.
That wasn't something a ten-year-old should be capable of.
"I'm fine," Garon replied with a faint smile. "Let's continue. And don't hold back."
Robert blinked.
Eddard frowned.
"Garon, Robert's strength is too much. If he hits you—"
"I know," Garon said calmly. "Don't worry."
Before either of them could speak again, Garon kicked off the ground and surged forward.
His demeanor changed instantly.
No longer defensive, no longer retreating.
After testing Robert's strength, Garon had a clear understanding of his opponent.
He was weaker in raw power—but swordplay wasn't about brute force alone.
Whoosh!
Garon's sword moved fast, precise and ruthless, slicing toward Robert's shoulder.
Robert was caught off guard and raised his sword hastily.
Bang!
The collision sent a jolt through his wrist.
But before he could stabilize, Garon twisted his body mid-motion, his footwork light and fluid. The downward chop transformed into an upward slash, the blade streaking toward Robert's neck with a sharp whistle.
Robert's pupils shrank.
He blocked again—but the disruption threw off his balance.
Garon seized the opening.
He stepped in and struck twice in rapid succession, targeting Robert's abdomen.
Bang! Bang!
Robert retreated while blocking, his movements growing frantic.
Shock filled his eyes.
Is this really the swordsmanship of a ten-year-old?
Robert could have charged forward and overwhelmed Garon with sheer mass—but that would have been blatant bullying.
He couldn't bring himself to do it.
Instead, pressure mounted.
This felt worse than sparring with Eddard.
Realizing he couldn't let this continue, Robert suddenly jumped back.
He inhaled deeply, muscles tensing.
With a growl, he exploded forward, unleashing his full strength.
The wooden sword descended like thunder.
Boom!
Robert didn't hold back.
But even then, he instinctively aimed at Garon's sword, not his body.
If the blade shattered, the remaining force would knock Garon down without breaking bones.
That was the best compromise he could manage.
Garon's expression turned serious.
With his heightened perception, Robert's movements slowed in his vision. Flaws revealed themselves clearly.
Three options flashed through his mind.
Dodge.
Block.
Or gamble everything.
Garon chose the third.
At the instant Robert's sword fell, Garon advanced instead of retreating.
He leaned back sharply, knees dropping to the ground as his body slid forward on the grass, narrowly avoiding the blow.
The wooden sword swept over his head with a violent rush of wind.
Robert's strike missed.
His balance shattered.
In that frozen heartbeat, Garon slid past him, half-kneeling.
Snap!
Garon's sword struck Robert's left abdomen.
The sound was short and sharp.
Robert froze.
The two passed each other, dust drifting in the air.
Silence fell.
Robert stared blankly at the mark on his side.
Eddard's mouth hung open.
Garon stood, brushing grass from his knees.
"Looks like I won," he said lightly.
Robert let out a dry laugh.
"…You're incredible."
He stabbed his sword into the ground, emotions tangled—embarrassment, awe, excitement.
At ten years old… what would Garon become as an adult?
Eddard stepped forward slowly, still stunned.
That final move…
It was flawless.
Even without real blades, Robert had lost.
Garon smiled modestly.
"Just a fluke."
Robert slapped his shoulder, making him grimace.
From that day on, Robert Baratheon trained harder than ever.
Because losing to a ten-year-old little brother…
That hurt.