Sharpening the Sword

Several days later, in a secluded courtyard within the Red Keep, the sounds of fighting shattered the afternoon tranquility.

"Step forward! Parry to the left! Thrust! Slash!"

"You are dead."

The hound always liked to curse and swear at times like this, his burned half-face looking particularly ferocious under the sweat.

Joffrey rubbed his aching shoulder and winced as he took a deep breath.

After being busy for several days in a row, he finally found some free time to call his hunting dogs to train with him.

But this person didn't know what humility meant. Even though they were both using blunt swords and wearing thick leather armor, the impact that went straight to their bones was still unbearable.

"Again!" Joffrey rallied his spirits.

Swords flashed and the two exchanged seven or eight more blows.

The hounds' attack was like a storm, and each clash made Joffrey's arms go numb.

After barely managing to block a powerful horizontal slash, Joffrey's expression hardened, and he seized the opportunity to thrust his sword straight into the Hound's chest.

But the opponent flicked his wrist, and the sword blade flipped up like a venomous snake, easily deflecting his attack.

Immediately afterwards, a heavy blow slammed into his right arm.

"You're too preoccupied when you're fighting." With these sarcastic words, the Hound spun swiftly, the tip of his sword lightly touching Joffrey's neck.

He smirked smugly from the intact side of his mouth: "After all that scheming, he ended up revealing his own weaknesses."

Joffrey pushed the sword aside, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, walked to the wall, and plopped down on the floor.

"That's enough fighting, let's rest for a bit." He grabbed a wine flask from the ground, took a big gulp, and then tossed it to the hunting dog.

Sandor reached out and caught it, then tilted his head back and drank it down in one gulp.

Dark red liquor trickled down his chin: "Summer Red. Damn it, this is a special treat only available during holidays, and you guys drink it like water."

"Hey! Watch your mouth in front of my brother."

In the corner, a chubby boy was launching a fierce attack on a scarecrow tied to a wooden stake.

Although he said he had free time, Joffrey actually skipped class and ran away today.

After all, Pycelle's Seven Kingdoms Laws were so long-winded that they were nauseating; it would be much more satisfying to let him read the book himself.

As a result, his younger brother Tommen Baratheon followed suit and secretly came over, even clamoring to practice swordsmanship together.

Joffrey had no choice but to have the hounds bring him a scarecrow to appease him.

Logically speaking, as the Crown Prince, Joffrey's schedule should be packed with classes.

Whether it's history and politics, military and strategy, or economics and finance, he should be trained as a polymath.

Yet, in such a large place as Redburg, it's impossible to find a single truly good teacher.

His father spent his days either drunk or hunting, occasionally spouting a few words about father-son affection before handing him over to Jon Arryn.

That was the former prime minister who has already passed away.

As for his mother.

Haha, it's a blessing from the gods that I'm not causing any trouble.

"Xiao Qiao, it's okay, do whatever you want."

"Because you are the son of the Lannisters."

He had heard this phrase since he was a child.

Joffrey often thought to himself that if he weren't inherently a noble and kind person, it would be strange if he hadn't become a troublemaker growing up in this environment.

Moreover, Joffrey originally had a more suitable all-rounder military instructor than a hound that only knew how to kill on the battlefield.

That was Ser Barristan Selmy, captain of the Kingsguard, the "Fearless".

This was a carefully chosen opportunity for him, where he could learn real skills and also gain favor with this highly respected old knight in advance, making it easier to win him over later.

But things went wrong.

The problem is that his mother found out.

"What can an old man teach you?"

Cersei waved her hand and made a slight modification.

Then Joffrey was handed over to James.

His famous uncle was known as the "King Killer".

On the surface, this arrangement doesn't seem bad. After all, Jaime is a recognized swordsmanship genius throughout the Seven Kingdoms and has fought in many famous battles.

Over the years, if Joffrey hadn't taken the initiative to get the hounds to give him some extra lessons, he probably wouldn't have learned anything at all.

Because James's hand is still intact, he's still the same jerk who abandoned the Cavaliers' code of conduct, given up on himself, and completely tanked.

I'd rather spend all day lounging around and doing some damn shady stuff.

They couldn't be bothered to spend any more time on Joffrey.

What's more troublesome is that he also holds the title of "Prince Coach," which makes other coaches who care about their reputation afraid to get involved.

In his spare time, Joffrey could only play with his crossbow.

"My turn! My turn!"

After working hard for a long time, Toman was finally knocked to the ground with a "bang" by the cloth nail hammer wielded by the scarecrow, and lay there in a daze for a while.

Then he found his brother and Sandor chatting in the corner, and immediately jumped up and rushed over shouting.

"you go."

Joffrey nodded.

Sandor's face fell instantly.

"I...I must have owed you guys something in my past life." Looking at Toman, he swallowed the profanity back. "I've been taking care of your kids all day long."

Even so, he resignedly stood up.

Then, carrying a wooden sword, he cautiously engaged the excited chubby boy in battle.

After watching for a while, Joffrey laughed and shouted, "Hey dog, why can't you be a little gentler with me?"

"If you were half as polite and cute as your brother," Sandor said, blocking Tomman's weak attack and casually patting the chubby boy's bottom with the flat of his sword. "Anyone would be happy to hold back."

After being knocked to the ground in a few moves, Toman wasn't angry; his round, bright green eyes darted around a few times.

He asked innocently.

"Sir Sandor, when will I be as good as you?"

"At least until you grow as tall as me."

"And, kid, don't call me 'Sir'," the Hound replied in a muffled voice.

That's probably hopeless.

Joffrey pinched the bridge of his nose.

He just glanced at his Destiny Points, and they hadn't increased much.

Furthermore, although the Hound was not as tall as his brother The Mountain, he was still extremely robust and strong, standing at six feet six inches and nearly two meters tall.

"What about my brother? He's been fighting with you for so long." Tomman persisted.

"Him?" The hound glanced back.

Joffrey was intently studying the patterns on the wall.

"The power and accuracy are not bad, enough to bully some low-level soldiers." The Hound chuckled, deliberately raising his voice, "But considering my skill level?"

"He needs at least another six or seven years of hard training!"

After saying that, Hound suddenly remembered something and turned to stare at Joffrey.

"Wait a minute, how old are you this year?"

"twelve?"

Joffrey blinked innocently.

The hound was silent for two seconds, then suddenly threw the wooden sword to the ground in anger.

"I joined the army at the age of twelve, and I've risked my life to get to where I am today."

"How can someone like you exist in this world? It's fucking unfair!"

It's much more unfair.

Joffrey propped himself up.

At least the hounds don't have to deal with a father who is a king.

As the last person in the Red Castle to receive the rumors from the streets, Robert has already smashed several cups this morning.

"That damned Tully!"