Knight Training Manual chpt 3

On the third morning, the horn split the gray before dawn. Unrelenting.

Maren was already awake. She’d barely slept, her body restless after two days of forced stillness. Her muscles still ached, tight in her shoulders, sharp along the backs of her legs, but it was the good kind of ache, the kind that promised they hadn’t failed her completely.

She laced her boots slowly, careful with her bandaged hands, then slipped into the yard with the others. The air was cold , mist hanging low.

“Line up!” the sergeant snapped through the morning haze. The recruits moved like water, slotting into place. Maren followed, keeping her head down, her stride steady, as though she’d never missed a day.

The run was worse than she remembered, every step a reminder of the ground she’d lost, she didn’t falter. Slow and steady, her breath came ragged and her legs burned like the forge in midsummer. When the horn signaled the end, she was still on her feet, barely, but upright.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Rylan near the fence, his gaze cutting to her just for a second. The faintest shift of his jaw before he turned away.

Run. Block. Strike. Reset. Over and over until the motions sank into her bones, until thought gave way to instinct. Her hands throbbed under the bandages, her shoulders screamed, but she held her stance and pushed through. Work until the work is done.

By midday, sweat had soaked her shirt through to her spine, and her arms felt like lead. She caught glimpses of Brienne across the yard, her form clean even when the sergeant barked corrections at others. Once, their gazes met, before the next command sent them both moving again.

The afternoon brought sparring, the kind that left no room for hesitation. The sergeant barked out names, pairing recruits off with a precision that left little to chance. Maren kept her head down, waiting for her turn.

“Brienne. Maren. Yard center.”

The words landed heavy. She stepped forward, the weight of the wooden pike awkward in her hands, and found Brienne already waiting, her stance loose but ready.

“First to land three, Keep it clean. Keep it quick. Move.”

Maren swallowed hard, adjusted her grip, and tried to steady her breathing. Across from her, Brienne didn’t blink , she nodded and lift her pike into guard.

The yard seemed to fall away, the noise of the others fading. It was just Brienne in front of her now, brown hair plastered to her temples with sweat, green eyes steady and unflinching.

“Ready?” Brienne asked, her voice low enough that only Maren could hear.

Maren nodded once, her throat too tight.

“Begin!”

Brienne moved first ,quick, her pike cutting a clean line through the air. Maren caught it on instinct, the crack of wood against wood jolting up her arms, the force drove her a step back. Brienne didn’t press, just circled, her eyes never leaving Maren’s.

Maren reset her stance, and lunged. Brienne blocked it, their pikes locking in the space between them, the wood biting into Maren’s bandaged palms. Close enough now that she could see the faint curve of a smirk tug at Brienne’s mouth.

“Better,” Brienne murmured.

Heat climbed Maren’s neck, sharp and distracting, and she broke the lock too fast. Brienne slipped past her guard, and tapped her shoulder.

“One,” said the sergeant from somewhere behind them.

Maren exhaled hard, reset her stance, and came in sharper. She caught Brienne’s strike, drove forward with her shoulder, and for the briefest moment had the upper hand, until Brienne twisted, their pikes locked again. This time, neither of them gave ground. Up close, Maren caught it ,the faint glint in Brienne’s eyes. 

The next tap came hard across her thigh.

“Two,” the sergeant snapped.

Maren’s chest burned, she forced herself to breathe deep, fixed her focus on the girl across from her. Brienne straightened, pike held loose at her side, and for the briefest second, her mouth twitched , something like a smile.

The last round was faster , strikes and blocks blurring together. When the opening came, it was instinct that pushed her forward, her pike tapping Brienne’s side before either of them could blink.

“Three,” “Match!”

The yard noise roared back in, the hum of voices, the weight of eyes. Brienne stepped back, breath steady, and dipped her chin.

The yard emptied slowly, recruits trailing off toward the barracks and the mess hall, voices low with the kind of tired that sank all the way to the bone. Maren stayed where she was, her pike balanced across her knees as she sat on the low fence at the edge of the yard, the ache in her muscles deep and sharp.

She didn’t hear Brienne approach until the shadow fell across her boots.

“Not bad,” Brienne said, her voice quiet.

Maren looked up. Brienne stood there, pike resting easy against her shoulder, sweat drying in uneven streaks across her brow. Her gaze was steady, unreadable in a way that made Maren’s throat feel tight.

“You didn’t make it easy,” Maren said, meaning it.

Brienne huffed a quiet laugh. “Wasn’t supposed to be easy.” She tilted her head.

Maren swallowed, her hands tightening unconsciously on the pike. She wanted to say something back,  but the words tangled in her chest. Cheeks starting to flush.

Brienne’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer, before she nodded once and turned toward the barracks.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “Mess will be emptying soon. Eat before it’s gone.”

Maren sat there for another breath, the yard quiet around her, her chest tight, before she pushed herself up and followed.

The mess hall was little more than a wide tent pitched against the wind, its canvas patched so many times it looked like a quilt of old campaigns. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of boiled grain and thin stew, the kind of food meant to fill bellies, not satisfy them. Benches creaked under the weight of recruits eating in silence, too tired to speak, the clatter of spoons and bowls the only rhythm.

Brienne cut a path through it, her shoulders square, her pike balanced against her leg as if she hadn’t just spent the day drilling it into the dirt. Maren followed in her wake, her own pike dragging at her side, the ache in her arms making it feel twice as heavy.

They found space at the far end of a bench. Brienne slid a bowl across the table without a word, the wood already warm against Maren’s bandaged palms. The stew smelled faintly of onions and horse, but Maren didn’t care. She ate.

Brienne didn’t rush. She ate with the same steady patience she’d fought with in the yard. For a while, they said nothing. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it pressed in on Maren all the same, filling the space between each spoonful.

Finally, Brienne set her spoon down and leaned back, eyes flicking toward Maren. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. 

Maren swallowed her mouthful, the broth burning all the way down. “The drills?”

“The ache,” Brienne said. “The way it doesn’t leave, even when you’re sleeping.” She picked up her spoon again, stirred the stew once, then let it go. “You stop noticing after a while. Or maybe you just stop caring.”

Maren wanted to ask how long that took, but she didn’t. The words lodged behind her teeth. Instead, she nodded once and went back to eating, the taste of the stew already fading into the quiet between them.

When the bowls were empty, Brienne stood. She didn’t say goodnight, didn’t offer a smile. Just gave the smallest tilt of her head, the kind that could mean anything, before she turned toward the barracks.

Maren sat a moment longer, her hands curled around the empty bowl, the hum of the camp settling low around her. Her chest stayed warm, though the stew was gone.

The days blurred together, one bleeding into the next until they felt like beads on a single string: run, drill, spar, eat, collapse. Dawn came sharp and cold, clinging to her skin like a second layer of sweat, and every morning her legs ached and her healing arm throbbed. Slowly, so slowly she almost missed it, something began to change. Her steps grew surer. The clumsy weight in her feet gave way to something more deliberate, and her blocks, once wild and desperate, began to land cleaner, tighter. The sergeant still barked and snarled, but less at her; his eyes lingered for a moment, as though weighing whether she was worth the effort of correction, and then moved on. 

Rylan noticed ,not that he’d ever admit it. They’d started talking more, short exchanges over meals or during equipment checks, his words as dry as old iron but useful all the same. She’d catch him sometimes, leaning against the fence at the edge of the yard, dumb-ass. His arms folded, his expression carved from stone, like he was judging her footwork 

 Brienne was different. Brienne made sure she knew she was being watched. She tested. In sparring, her strikes were deliberate and punishing, her footwork quick and confident, her blows carrying enough weight to rattle Maren’s teeth and leave dark blooms under her shirt. Afterward, a look, quiet as falling ash, that left a quiet ache blooming in her chest.

The days blurred together, one bleeding into the next until they felt like beads on a single string: run, drill, spar, eat, collapse. Dawn came sharp and cold, clinging to her skin like a second layer of sweat, and every morning her legs ached and her healing arm throbbed. Slowly, so slowly she almost missed it, something began to change. Her steps grew surer. The clumsy weight in her feet gave way to something more deliberate, and her blocks, once wild and desperate, began to land cleaner, tighter. The sergeant still barked and snarled, but less at her; his eyes lingered for a moment, as though weighing whether she was worth the effort of correction, and then moved on. 

Rylan noticed ,not that he’d ever admit it. They’d started talking more, short exchanges over meals or during equipment checks, his words as dry as old iron but useful all the same. She’d catch him sometimes, leaning against the fence at the edge of the yard, dumb-ass. His arms folded, his expression carved from stone, like he was judging her footwork 

 Brienne was different. Brienne made sure she knew she was being watched. She tested. In sparring, her strikes were deliberate and punishing, her footwork quick and confident, her blows carrying enough weight to rattle Maren’s teeth and leave dark blooms under her shirt. Afterward, a look, quiet as falling ash, that left a quiet ache blooming in her chest.

At night, the camp grew still. The drills wound down, the barracks filled with the slow, heavy breathing of men too tired to dream, and the yard emptied. That was when Maren moved. Silent as she could manage, she’d slip from her bunk and into the cool dark, her boots whispering across the dirt. The night air tasted different, sharp and clean, without the smoke and sweat that clung to the day. Alone in the yard, there was only the steady scrape of her steps and the soft whistle of her blade as it cut the empty air. Sometimes she drilled with the pike until her arms trembled and her shoulders burned so badly she couldn’t lift them. Other nights, she drew the old kitchen knife ,her father’s knife, plain and nicked from years of honest work , and ran the same drills in smaller, tighter arcs. The blade was nothing special, but it balanced in her hand as though it had been waiting for her.

In the hush of the yard, long after the camp had gone still, the change crept into her bones. What had once been nothing but raw, stubborn strength began to sharpen, every movement pared down to its cleanest edge. Her body learned to obey the blade, to guide it rather than wrestle with it. The knife stopped feeling like a relic of the life she’d lost; it became something more, something that belonged wholly to her. When she finally stopped, the right kind of ache, she’d hold it at her side and feel its weight like a steady hand at her back.