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———
"Well fought, my Prince. Very well fought indeed."
"Thanks," Tytan replied easily, lowering his practice sword, the tip resting lightly on the hard-packed earth.
He offered Ser Rodrik a friendly, genuine smile, acknowledging the Master-at-Arms's authority.
Then, he turned his attention back to Jon Snow, who was still catching his breath, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed.
"You fought well too, Jon!" Tytan added, meaning it sincerely this time. The boy had shown spirit, decent technique, even if he was ultimately outmatched.
Jon just nodded abruptly in response, his face still flushed red from exertion, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to his forehead.
"My Prince," he managed to say, his voice a bit rough, before quickly looking away again, clearly uncomfortable with the praise or perhaps just the attention.
Giving another internal nod still not exactly Mr. Warmth, this one Tytan let his gaze sweep around the training yard again.
He noticed that quite a crowd had gathered while they were sparring. More Stark guardsmen, servants peering curiously from nearby doorways, even a few lesser nobles who hadn't gone hunting yet.
And perched up on a wooden balcony overlooking the yard, attached to the side of the main keep, was young Arya Stark.
She was leaning eagerly over the railing, an incredibly excited expression plastered across her face, her eyes practically shining.
Her gaze never left Tytan, flicking between where his sword now rested and his empty hands, as if she wasn't sure which impressed her more his obvious skill with a blade, or the memory of the water magic he'd shown her last night.
Seeing the eager faces, feeling the lingering buzz of energy from the spars, Tytan felt a wide grin spread across his own face.
He wasn't even breathing hard. He could do this all day. He raised his borrowed practice sword slightly, gesturing around the yard.
"Right then!" he called out cheerfully, his voice full of energy. "Who's next? Anyone else feeling brave enough to try their luck against the southerner?" He looked pointedly towards Theon Greyjoy, maybe even a few of the tougher-looking Stark guardsmen.
——
It was later that same day, after Tytan had indeed indulged in another hour or so of sparring easily dispatching Theon Greyjoy (perhaps with a few accidentally harder hits than strictly necessary, just to make a point about insulting Ros) and then taking on a couple of the more experienced Stark guardsmen two-at-a-time just for fun that things finally wound down.
Followed by a quick wash-up using a basin of icy water back in his room to get rid of the sweat and grime, Tytan found himself back outside in the main courtyard of Winterfell.
He was still wearing his practical mail hauberk and leather armor; there hadn't been time or reason to change into fancier clothes yet.
He was mounted on a sturdy northern horse, reins held loosely in one hand, watching the organized chaos unfolding around him.
Alongside him sat the King, already looking impatient on his massive warhorse, and Lord Eddard Stark, mounted on a more sensible-looking grey steed.
A small army of guardsmen, stable hands, dog handlers with leashes straining against eager hounds, and servants hurried back and forth across the muddy courtyard.
They were making the final preparations for a mid-afternoon hunt bows being checked, quivers filled, spears sharpened, horses saddled, supplies packed.
King Robert had apparently insisted on going hunting almost immediately upon arriving, eager for some blood sport.
And Tytan? He was here because his father had insisted. Commanded, really. The fat King often boomed about how hunting was one of the true ways a man could prove he was a man.
Stalking prey, making the kill… Robert lived for that sort of thing. Tytan, personally, found it mostly tedious, especially the long, boring waits involved.
But Father had insisted the Crown Prince join him and Lord Stark, so here Tytan sat, trying to look interested.
He shifted slightly in his saddle, a thoroughly bored expression settling onto his face as he watched a servant struggle to attach a wineskin to the King's saddle.
His ever-present golden shadow, Uncle Jaime, wasn't here at the moment. Cersei had apparently assigned Jaime some other urgent task just before Tytan came down.
Tytan didn't need three guesses to figure out what that meant his mother and uncle stealing a few precious, risky moments alone together somewhere within the sprawling castle.
Tytan wouldn't begrudge them their brief, complicated happiness. He understood their bond, even if it made things… awkward.
Still, it did mean he'd lost his usual partner-in-crime, his sarcastic buffer, for the rest of the afternoon. Now he was stuck dealing with his father's boisterous company alone, with only the stoic Lord Stark for conversation. Great.
"Ned!" Robert suddenly boomed, turning his red, beaming face towards Lord Stark. The King looked genuinely excited, practically vibrating with anticipation for the hunt.
"You still as good with a boar spear as you used to be back in the day?" A huge grin split his face, showing teeth stained slightly red from wine.
Ned Stark actually chuckled, a low, rough sound. His normally stern, stoic expression broke for a moment, softening into a rare, genuine smile.
It was one of the first real signs of warmth Tytan had seen on the Northern Lord's face since arriving.
"No, Robert," Ned replied, his voice holding amusement. "Probably not. But," he added, the smile lingering, "I reckon I'm still better than you."
Robert roared with laughter at that, slapping his thick thigh. "Hah! We'll see about that!" His laughter died down, and his expression turned suddenly serious, almost sentimental.
He reached over, clapping Ned firmly on the shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong, emphasizing his words. "Ned… I know what I'm putting you through, asking you to come south. Thank you for saying yes. I… I only asked because I need you, Ned. You hear me? I need you down there. You're a loyal friend. One of the last true friends I've got left in this world."
Tytan listened intently, easily reading between the lines.
So, the King had officially offered Ned Stark the position of Hand of the King.
Replacing Jon Arryn, the man who had raised them both. And knowing his father, that offer hadn't really been optional. It was a royal command wrapped in the guise of friendship.
"I hope I serve you well, Your Grace," Ned said quietly, his gaze steady, accepting the weight of the duty with a solemn nod of his head.
He then glanced briefly over at Tytan, a flicker of something unreadable in his grey eyes. Curiosity? Assessment?
"You will, Ned! You will!" Robert boomed again, his boisterous mood returning instantly. "And by the Gods, I'll make sure you don't look so fucking grim all the time down in King's Landing! We'll liven you up!" He chuckled again, then dug his heels hard into the flanks of his massive horse, urging it forward into a clumsy trot towards the castle gates where the hunting party was assembling.
"Come on! Let's go kill something!"
As the King lumbered off, Tytan watched him go, then turned slightly in his saddle towards Lord Stark, a dry, slightly sarcastic tone entering his voice.
"And there he goes… my father. The King." He let the words hang there for a moment, getting the Northern Lord's attention.
Ned Stark turned his head fully towards Tytan, his expression serious again, but his eyes held a thoughtful curiosity as he studied the young Prince beside him.
"Robert's a good man, Prince Tytan," Ned replied simply, his voice steady and firm, loyalty evident in every syllable.
"A good man, and a good friend."
——
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