A Marriage of Swords
Below, in the mist-shrouded knot garden, two figures moved.
One was a guard—Petyr, from his bulk—and he was on the ground, clutching his wrist, his training sword lying in the dew-slick grass several feet away. Standing over him, holding a practice longsword with an alarmingly familiar ease, was Leigh.
Her hair, freed from its severe knot, was a dark braid over one shoulder. She wore not a dress, but men's riding leathers, fitted and worn soft with use. They did not hide her form; they revealed it as something functional, powerful. She wasn't breathing hard.