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As for Jon Snow, his grey eyes widened slightly at the mention of fifty gold dragons. A fortune like that could change a man's life, especially a bastard with no inheritance to look forward to.
But the surprise quickly vanished, replaced by a tightening of his jaw. He grit his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his practice sword even tighter.
Tytan could see the thought process plain on his face: Jon likely figured this ridiculously generous offer wasn't genuine encouragement at all.
Based on past experiences with sneering nobles and mocking squires, Jon probably assumed the rich, powerful Crown Prince was just finding a new, cruel way to mock him, dangling an impossible prize just to highlight Jon's inability to even touch him. The bastard's pride bristled visibly.
"Come on, young Snow!" Tytan tried again, injecting genuine encouragement into his voice this time, hoping to break through the boy's defensive shell.
Forget the gold, maybe appealing to his pride would work.
"Give us a good fight! Your brother Robb was singing your praises last night! Said you're one of the best blades in Winterfell! Show me what you've got!" Tytan genuinely hoped Jon was good. He craved a real challenge.
Back in King's Landing, only Ser Jaime and the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy could consistently give him a proper, sweat-inducing fight anymore.
And fighting the same two opponents over and over again, predictable patterns emerging, just got… stale. Boring.
He'd even tried taking on multiple opponents at once in the training yards sometimes, but usually found their lack of teamwork and the sheer difference in individual skill meant it still wasn't enough to truly push him. Maybe this northern bastard could offer something different.
Whatever Jon thought of the encouragement, it seemed to work. Letting out a sharp, determined shout, Jon rushed Tytan again.
This time, there was more commitment, more fire in his attack. Seeing this, Tytan made a split-second decision.
As Jon charged, Tytan casually tossed his borrowed iron-rimmed shield aside. It clattered noisily onto the hard earth behind him.
He would face Jon with just the practice sword. Maybe fighting one-handed, or switching between one and two hands, would make things a little more interesting, force him to rely purely on skill and speed rather than brute force shield bashes.
Within moments, the two met in the center of the yard again, the clang of blunted steel echoing in the cold air. Without his shield, Tytan immediately had to play a much more tactical, evasive game. He couldn't just block and bash anymore. He had to rely on footwork, parries, and timing.
The pace of the fight instantly quickened. Steel rang against steel as Jon pressed his attack, clearly trying to take advantage of Tytan's lack of a shield.
But even without it, Tytan seemed untouchable. Jon couldn't even get close to landing a clean strike.
He found himself constantly on the defensive, relying heavily on his own shield just to keep Tytan's blindingly fast blade away.
Tytan, meanwhile, seemed to be almost toying with him, effortlessly switching up his fighting style. One moment, he'd be delivering a flurry of quick, stinging one-handed cuts aimed at Jon's wrists or arms, forcing Jon to frantically block.
The next moment, Tytan would suddenly grip the practice sword with both hands, putting his full strength behind heavy, chopping blows that hammered against Jon's shield, driving him back step by step.
The sudden, unpredictable changes in rhythm and power kept Jon completely on edge, constantly reacting, never able to find his own footing.
A few of Tytan's faster strikes slipped past Jon's defenses, landing solidly on his arms or ribs not hard enough to cause serious injury with the blunted blades, but definitely enough to leave more painful bruises forming.
As the fight progressed, maybe a minute or two of this relentless pressure, Jon began to get visibly frustrated.
He was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face despite the cold air.
He'd likely never been so thoroughly outclassed before, never felt so helpless against an opponent. His technique started to get sloppier, his movements wider, more predictable.
Finally, frustration boiling over, Jon made a desperate move. With another yell, he lowered his head and charged straight at Tytan, trying to ram him with his shield, just like Tytan had done to him earlier.
He clearly hoped to stagger the Prince, knock him off balance, create any kind of opening. He held his own sword low and tight against his side, ready to thrust it forward past his shield the instant he got an opportunity.
"You're trying too hard now, Jon," Tytan said, his voice calm but tinged with irritation. He saw the desperate, telegraphed charge coming a mile away. Sloppy. Predictable.
"Your moves are getting reckless." With a small grunt more of annoyance than effort Tytan didn't try to meet the charge head-on.
Instead, as Jon rushed in, Tytan simply shifted his weight, pivoted smoothly on the balls of his feet, letting Jon's shield bash slam into empty air.
As Jon stumbled past, Tytan deftly moved around the other side of Jon's shield, ending up momentarily behind him.
Twisting around sharply, realizing his charge had failed, Jon instinctively went for another wild slash, trying to catch Tytan as he turned.
But Tytan had predicted that too. He stepped forward smoothly, meeting Jon's incoming blade not with a parry, but by locking their swords together, hilt to hilt.
Clang!
For a split second, they were locked in a contest of strength. Tytan's demigod power immediately came into play. With a sharp, powerful twist of his wrists, Tytan ripped Jon's sword right out of his grasp. The practice blade went flying through the air, landing harmlessly several feet away in the dirt.
Before the disarmed Jon could even react to losing his weapon, Tytan executed a simple, brutally effective takedown maneuver.
He hooked his right leg behind both of Jon's ankles, then rammed his shoulder hard into Jon's chest. Off-balance and weaponless, Jon had no chance.
He went crashing down onto his arse in the dirt once again, landing with a solid thud that knocked the breath out of him.
"And that's the match!" Rodrik Cassel shouted out immediately, his voice booming across the yard.
He strode quickly into the center of the ring, making his presence known, placing a firm, steadying hand on Jon Snow's shoulder as the young man pushed himself slowly back to his feet, looking dazed and thoroughly beaten.
Ser Rodrik then turned to Tytan, giving him a respectful nod.
"Well fought, my Prince. Very well fought indeed."
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