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———
Tytan and Jon Snow now stood facing each other in the center of the training yard. The brief flurry of excitement from the previous spar died down slightly, replaced by a quieter anticipation for this next match-up.
Tytan deliberately maintained his relaxed stance, the heavy practice sword held loosely in his right hand, shield low at his side.
Instead of focusing intensely on Jon just yet, he let his gaze wander around the yard again for a moment, taking stock of the audience.
He saw Robb and Theon watching eagerly from the sidelines, their earlier fatigue seemingly forgotten, leaning forward now with keen interest.
They clearly wanted to see if Jon could live up to Robb's boasting. Nearby, Uncle Jaime still leaned against the wall, looking thoroughly bored now, his arms crossed over his golden chestplate.
Tytan smirked inwardly. Jaime clearly thought he had better things to be doing than watching practice spars.
Well, Tytan thought, Jaime wasn't the one stuck going on a probably tedious hunting trip with Father and Lord Stark this afternoon, so he could just deal with being bored for a little while longer.
On the opposite side of the yard, Tytan's eyes landed on his younger brother, Joffrey. The sneer was still firmly in place on Joffrey's face, but there was a flicker of something else there too a kind of unpleasant eagerness as he watched the proceedings unfold.
Tytan wasn't fooled for a second into thinking Joffrey was actually rooting for him. No, the little shit was probably hoping for one of two things: either he wanted to see Tytan humiliated by losing to a northern bastard, or, even better in Joffrey's twisted mind, maybe Tytan would suffer some sort of fatal 'accident' during the spar.
Then Joffrey, the second son, would suddenly find himself next in line for the Iron Throne. Tytan scoffed silently. Like that would ever happen while Tytan still drew breath.
Pulling his gaze away from his scheming, useless younger brother, Tytan focused fully on the young man standing opposite him. Jon Snow.
The bastard of Winterfell. Tytan took a moment to properly inspect his opponent's stance this time. It was definitely better than Robb's had been.
More balanced, lower to the ground, shield held properly, sword grip firm but not too tight. Jon wasn't just watching Tytan's sword either; his grey eyes flicked down occasionally, tracking Tytan's footwork as well.
Smart. He knew fights were often won or lost with the feet. The boy's basic technique looked solid, well-drilled. But, Tytan mused, good form in practice didn't always hold up under real pressure.
Often, as a fight dragged on, as people got tired or desperate, their carefully learned style tended to fall apart, replaced by wild swings and sloppy footwork.
Would Jon Snow keep his cool? Debatable.
For a silent moment, the two young men just stood there, weighing each other up, the only sound the cold wind whistling faintly around the stone walls of the yard. The tension stretched… then snapped. Jon Snow made the first move.
With a sudden shout maybe trying to startle Tytan or just psych himself up the young bastard darted forward. He launched a quick, slashing attack aimed at Tytan's sword arm.
It wasn't an all-out, reckless charge, though. Jon kept his shield raised high, ready to block a counterattack, clearly aware he was facing a dangerous opponent.
He must have figured Tytan wasn't going to make the opening move himself, but he also knew a simple rush probably wouldn't be enough to take down the skilled Prince. It was a testing blow, cautious despite the speed.
It was also easily dealt with. With barely more than a casual flick of his wrist, Tytan's practice sword met Jon's blade mid-air, batting it effortlessly aside.
Clang.
Before Jon could even think about recovering or launching a follow-up, Tytan stepped forward smoothly, closing the distance instantly. He didn't bother using his sword this time. Instead, he slammed his heavy shield directly into Jon's raised one.
THUMP! The impact was surprisingly powerful, driven by Tytan's demigod strength. Jon staggered back several steps, completely unprepared for the sheer force behind the seemingly simple shield bash.
He almost tripped, windmilling his arms wildly for a second as he fought just to stay on his feet. Tytan's easy counter had made a complete mockery of Jon's careful preparations and cautious opening move.
Tytan watched Jon scramble to regain his balance, a slight frown touching his own lips. He lowered his shield slightly and made a small, beckoning motion with his free hand.
Come on.
Try again.
He felt a flicker of disappointment. After all the hype from Robb last night about Jon being one of the best fighters in Winterfell, that first attempt had been… well, pretty weak. Lackluster.
"Come on, young bastard," Tytan called out, his voice carrying clearly across the yard, deliberately loud and maybe a little goading.
"Don't be afraid to actually hit me! Hell, I encourage it! Tell you what," Tytan added, a challenging grin spreading across his face, "if you actually manage to land one clean blow on me just one solid hit I'll give you fifty gold dragons, right here and now!"
A sudden wave of murmurs swept through the onlookers gathered around the training yard. Fifty gold dragons! That was a fortune to most common folk, even a decent sum for minor nobles.
And the Crown Prince was offering it to a bastard? Just for landing a single hit in a practice spar? People exchanged surprised, even shocked glances.
Over by the wall, Joffrey's lip curled up in disgust at Tytan's words. How inappropriate! How utterly un-princely!
Rewarding some lowborn bastard for daring to strike royalty?
Joffrey knew he would have any man who dared lay a hand on him flogged bloody, maybe even lose the hand.
He certainly wouldn't shower them with gold!
This, in Joffrey's small, cruel mind, was just yet another perfect example of why his older brother was completely ill-suited to ever sit the Iron Throne.
Too soft, too common, no understanding of proper dignity.
——
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