Yo! This is a slightly shorter chapter but i just kinda wanted to get it out there so here it is.
Thanks to all of you who reviewd (even those couple of weird ones that made me feel like i'd dived into a very hardcore ASOIAF fan page), favourited and followed! I appreciate it.
Enjoy.
Robb watched as Jon sparred with Theon Greyjoy, his father's ward. The Iron Islander was being put on his back foot as the lilac eyed boy pressed him with swift, consecutive strikes. The young heir to the North was of around the same age as his brother and despite his pride, he had to admit Jon was an excellent swordsman. Even Ser Rodrick Cassel had admitted that the boy had an almost unnatural grace when he had a sword in hand, utilising movements that weren't always those drilled by the Winterfell master at arms.
"C'mon bastard, I thought you were better than this!" Theon jibed as he pivoted around a sweeping stroke from Jon's wooden sword. Robb smirked at the interaction, more than aware of what his brother was doing. He was going easy on the older boy, lazily dancing around his attacks and countering with lackadaisical ones of his own.
"You're right." Jon drawled, a slow grin taking place on his lips, "I am."
In a sudden bout of speed, the boy surged forwards towards Theon, who hastily struck with a downwards slash to his torso. Jon easily parried the strike to the side and swung his sword faster than Robb could follow. In the next moment, Theon let out a cry of pain, his practice sword on the floor and his good hand cradled in his other.
"You cunt!" He shouted between moans of pain, "You broke my fucking hand!"
Jon watched with obvious distaste and rested his weapon on his shoulder, "Serves you for calling me a bastard." He grinned.
"You are a bastard." Theon ground out, his teeth clenched in pain.
"And you're a pussy." His brother quipped back and Robb had to hold back a snort of laughter. He liked Theon, but sometimes the boy pushed people too far.
Ever since the failed Iron Island rebellion, Theon had been held as a glorified hostage in Winterfell. As arrogant and lustful as a man of eight and ten could be, it was well known that Theon particularly disliked Jon. The boy had a tendency to vibrantly recall his exploits whether it be in the training yard or in the bedroom, the latter mostly being in brothels. Jon however, was always quick to discredit Theon's tales in one way or another. It did not help that Jon also soundly beat Theon when it came to sparring, despite him being 4 years his junior.
"Well fought Jon, excellent as usual." Ser Rodrick stepped in, his stern eyes ever watching, "Theon, go get your hand seen by Maester Luwin, and stop moaning, it's unbefitting of a man grown." He ordered and Theon cursed under his breath before striding off with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Enjoy the show?" Jon asked playfully and Robb laughed heartily.
"It was quite boring actually," He grinned, "You should try losing sometime."
His brother chuckled and ran a hand through his black hair, "I haven't lost yet 'cause you two do don't give me enough of a challenge!"
Robb smiled mirthfully, shaking his head and handed Jon a canteen of water from which he drank thirstily from.
A dismissive snort sounded from behind the two brothers and they turned to see a smirking Joffrey Baratheon and Sandor Clegane, the Hound. Before Robb or Jon could retort, Ser Rodrick turned his gaze to the young heir to the crown.
"Something you wish to add, Prince Joffrey?" he asked, the respect in his voice limited to that of the boy's status rather than his character.
Joffrey shook his head dismissively and rested his hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip, "You talk as if beating some Ironborn scum is anything to be proud of, all while playing with toy swords, like little children." He swept his cruel eyes over the men in the yard, "I thought you Northerners to be savage barbarians, but you're nought but children playing at being knights." He laughed to himself and looked up at the Hound who remained stoic. Robb had to bite down a retort, internally fuming at the prince's audacity. He also noted that Jon looked surprisingly calm, not showing any outward reaction to the brat's words.
"Perhaps then, my prince, you would like to partake in a bout, against our Lord Robb perhaps?" Ser Rodrick replied, not rising to the insult.
"I think not, I do not play at games." The prince bit back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What do you suggest then?" the master at arms questioned, a single bushy grey eyebrow raised.
"Live steel." Joffrey stated, a dangerous grin returning to his lips.
"Absolutely not." Ser Rodrick's voice was stern and unwavering.
"Just as I thought, you Northern folk are all cravens." The blond haired boy laughed again to himself.
Robb was furious. This upstart prince thought he could strut into his household and insult not only him but his people! To his right, the young wolf noted that even Ser Rodrick had gone red with a silent rage. The old swords master was a proud man. Respectful of authority and knowing of his place, he was a knight through and through. However even the most disciplined of men have their limits.
"Might I suggest an alternative?" Jon's voice seemed to break Robb and Ser Rodrick out of their stupors as they, including the prince, turned their attention to him.
"Very well, speak bastard." Joffrey said with a slight nod of his head, the contempt in his eyes blatant.
"I believe Ser Rodrick's concern here with using live steel is that an injury could be inflicted on either Robb here, being the heir to the North, or you, being the heir to the crown, which would lead to unneeded animosity between the crown and the North." Jon paused and eyed Ser Rodrick who nodded slightly and then looked back at the prince, "In that case, how about I fight you." Ser Rodrick's mouth dropped slightly and budding seed of worry grew in the pit of Robb's stomach.
"Why would I, heir to the seven kingdoms, fight you, who are so beneath me?" Joffrey countered hotly.
"I must agree Jon, this proposition is ridiculous, if the prince where to get hurt-" Ser Rodrick began as he regained his composure.
"I haven't finished." Jon interrupted slyly, turning his attention back to Joff, "I agree, a humble bastard raising live steel against the crown prince would be foolish. So, how about you use your steel you seem so fond of, and I'll use one of our wooden practice swords? That way, if you injure, maim or kill me, it is not of an importance since I am but a bastard, and any potential injury inflicted on you would be minimalized to a bruise or two."
The prince paused at this, shutting his thin lips together tightly and furrowing his brow in thought. Robb meanwhile smirked at his half-brother. He was unsure of Joffrey's skill with a sword however he was fairly confident that Jon was better. Ser Rodrick also looked thoughtful however Robb thought the old knight was like to agree to the bout. Mostly because it meant that the prince would not be harmed too much, while he would also be put in his place.
"I give my consent to this bout." Ser Rodrick spoke up and Jon nodded to him thankfully. Joffrey on the other hand ignored the man and instead turned to converse quietly with the Hound.
After a few moments of hushed whispers, the crown prince faced the yard once more, his smirking façade having returned, "Very well. I will agree to your play fight." He announced, striding forward while unsheathing his live steel.
Robb was inwardly delighted, this maid of a prince was about to get a big shock.
Jon had quickly grown tired of the crown Prince. With his dirty blond hair and merciless emerald eyes, the prince who had somehow already won Sansa's heart, had labelled the Northern folk cravens. Jon could not wait to prove him wrong.
Looking up into the raised terrace Jon noticed that the King, Queen, his Lord father and Lady Catalyn had taken up residence to watch the bout. Robert Baratheon seemed to be conversing enthusiastically with Ned, who in turn was nodding reservedly at pointed intervals. Meanwhile, Cersei was making small talk with Lady Catalyn with a look on her face like she had smelt something foul. Occasionally, the Queen's eyes would flick to her son, linger for a moment then briefly glance over to Jon then back to the Lady of the North.
"I am not sure this is a good idea, Jon." Robb interrupted the boy's train of thought, taking the skin of water off him and taking a swig himself, "But, I won't stop you." He finished, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes twinkling playfully.
"Aye, this probably isn't a good idea." Jon agreed and leant in close to his brother, "But I long to see his royal arse splayed in the dirt." He quipped and Robb laughed heartily.
In the corner of the eye, the bastard of Winterfell noted Joffrey's scowl deepening. He was unsure whether the boy had heard their banter or whether he simply disliked seeing the young North men enjoy themselves but he did care either way.
"Well bastard, are you ready?" Joffrey near shouted, shifting their attention back to him.
"I believe I am." Jon replied, spinning his practice sword in hand with a rotation of his wrist, "That's a nice sword you have there." He commented, surprising himself at the genuine praise he'd given.
The Prince took a moment to admire his sword, seemingly pleased with the comment, "Yes it is. My grandfather gifted it to me for my last name day." He said. The steel itself gleamed dangerously. The guard consisted of two twinned points on opposite sides, the handle made of fine leather dyed black and red with a gold trim. The pommel was gold and shaped into that of a snarling lion. In fact, taking a closer look, the sword seemed to resemble the legendary Brightroar of the Lannister House, thought lost in Old Valyria. "It's called Lionsmaw. I think you'll be its first meal."
"We'll see about that." Jon replied grinning widely, eyes drifting back to the one-handed longsword. The similarities between it and that of the legendary blade were uncanny. Jon would admit openly that he wasn't the most avid scholar, however, when it came to tales, descriptions and myths of great warriors, battles and weapons, he was very interested.
"Prince Joffrey, are you ready to begin?" Ser Rodrick asked respectfully.
The legendary Brightroar, wielded by Tommen the second, the King of the Rock himself was thought lost when the Lannister ancestor attempted to plunder the ruins of Old Valyria and never returned. If this was the sword itself, then the Lannisters had somehow retrieved it.
"Of course, let's get this farce over with." Joff replied.
But if the Lannisters had retrieved the blade the blade then why had they gifted it to this upstart Prince? Why had Tywin Lannister not kept it hold up in Casterly Rock or given it to Jaime Lannister, one of the best swordsmen in Westeros?
"Then, begin." Ser Rodrick announced loudly and the young Prince charged forward, his sword held high above his head.
Looking closely at the steel, Jon grew convinced that it wasn't the ancient blade. If he recalled correctly, Valyrian steel was supposed to have a rippling pattern throughout the metal, like water flowing along a shallow pebbled stream. A product of the alloy being folded a thousand times. This metal however was smooth.
The prince swung down and Jon sidestepped almost lazily and watched as the boy stumbled slightly, his momentum catching him off balance.
Jon internally sighed to himself. There was only one way to find out if it truly was the legendary blade.
Joff regained his balance and lashed out with a sweeping attack towards Jon's torso. The bastard was surprised by the power behind the attack. He supposed it came from the weight of the sword more than Joff's own power. Not fazed however, Jon took a quick step backwards allowing the tip of the sword to pass a good inch or so from his stomach.
"C'mon boy! Stop flailing around and strike like a man!" shouted the King from the catwalk.
Joff's face soured, his form hunched over with the sword loose in his hands resting against the dirt. It looked heavy in his arms, like he had never wielded it before. He grit his teeth and struck again. It was an upwards, diagonal strike straight from the blades position on the floor attempting to slash up Jon's torso.
Watching as the metal approached him, Jon leant back and allowed it to pass over his face.
The prince's body swayed slightly as the sword carried through over his left shoulder and from the terrace Jon caught the King shaking his head slightly and cursing under his breath.
The look on Joff's face soured more still and Jon could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for the boy. Yes, he was a spoilt, cruel and perverse soon to be man grown. Yet it was clear he still yearned after his Father's praise and acceptance, which the King almost dutifully seemed to ommit.
"Stay still bastard!" Joff ground out, his golden locks now matted slightly with sweat.
"Why would I do that?" Jon replied in genuine curiosity.
"Because I'm your Prince and I demand it!" the boy fired back, and with another roar he raised his sword once again over his head, striking down towards Jon's neck.
This was getting boring now. He had made it clear that Joff was completely inept with a sword in hand, the whole courtyard could probably see that now. The boy's lightly tanned cheeks were flushed red and his lips were tightly sewn together.
Jon leant his body to the side, only taking a half-step backwards while pivoting on the foot that remained, allowing the blade to pass by him safely. Catching another closer look at the steel, he grew more certain that it was not Brightroar.
"Your attacks are hasty and rushed. You allow anger to rule your movements and it shows. If you were to enter battle like this, you'd be dead before you manage to lift you sword."
"Shut up!" Joff near screamed, and Jon caught the Queen talking in angry hushed whispers to the King out of the corner of his eye, "What do you, a wildling bastard of the North, know?" he breathed heavily and allowed the sword to rest in the dirt, his knuckles now white from clenching the blade, "Born of a craven Lord and a whore no less!"
"My Lord Father is no craven, and I will ask you to watch your tongue," Jon replied, determined to not raise his voice. The Prince had touched a nerve there and he was slightly ashamed to admit it. He had never known his Mother, so she may very well have been a whore for all he knew, but his Father was no craven. Lord Eddard Stark was the epitome of a man with honour, a warrior with pride and a father with strict compassion. He was no craven.
"That's all you Northern savages are, wild cravens freezing in their dirty homes moaning about the winter coming." Joff smiled cruelly and Jon felt whatever previous sympathy he had felt for the boy wither and die.
"Very well." Jon rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders, "I shall show you just how craven we North folk are." He almost drawled.
Even before Joffery could consider the words or blink, Jon was on him. He drew his wooden weapon back to the side in two hands and brought it upon the boy in a blur of black and muddy brown.
The Prince managed to raise his mummers Brightroar tight to his chest and the wood connected with the metal with a loud clang. Jon made sure to make contact with the flat of the blade, less his practice sword be cut in half.
The weight of the attack was enough to send Joff sprawling backwards. After a few stumbled steps, attempting to regain his balance the Prince fell backwards into the mud.
"Stand up." Jon commanded, his voice as cold as the Northern winter.
"Do not tell me what to do, bastard!" The boy shouted back, but slowly stood nonetheless, sticking his sword in the mud to prop him up.
As soon as Joff was on two feet and his sword once again poised in front of him, Jon attacked again. Blurring forwards, Jon slammed his practice sword into the right thigh causing the prince's to shout out in pain. He then brought his sword up hard against the boy's hands and Joff cried out, dropping his blade in the process.
"Enough!" cried the Queen from the side-lines, her voice fierce and unwavering.
Jon wanted to continue, to beat the Prince into the floor, however he couldn't deny a direct a direct order from the Queen. Nodding slowly he placed his practice sword over his shoulder and took a step back, turning his back to the Prince.
"Robert, are you going to allow this?" Cersei continued, shrill with anger, "That bastard could have maimed Joff for all we know!"
Meanwhile, Joff was still whimpering behind Jon and Ser Rodrick nodded at him appreciatively, taking the wooden sword off him in the process.
"They were sparring woman, and Joff was using live steel yet!" The King dismissed with a blubbery shake of his head, "If I were to act against the boy it would not only disgrace Joff more than he's already disgraced himself already but also the crown." Robert spared one last look towards the Prince before turning away, "Come Ned, let us get a drink, I need to wash this bad taste out of my mouth." He said before stomping away.
Robb smirked reservedly at Jon and handed him a skin of water, "That was…" he began, seemingly unable to find the right words.
Jon merely grunted in response, taking a long drink from the skin.
From the terrace, the Queen was conversing tersely with Lady Stark, her eyes constantly flickering to her son. The boy in question was knelt in the in the mud clutching his hand with the Hound holding his sword by his side, his scarred face as stoic as ever.
Jon once more felt sympathy for the boy.
"How is your hand?" Jon asked, turning slightly.
Joff moved his lips slightly as if contemplating a reply, "I'll have you thrown in the black cells." He ground out eventually, beads of spit flying into the dirt.
"No you won't." He eyed the blond carefully, not rising to his taunts, "You're not much of a fighter."
"You should watch your mouth, bastard, this is the Prince you're talking to." The Hound spoke up, his hand ont he pommel of his sword.
"And you should watch your mouth dog, especially when you're not spoken to." Jon stared into the man's haunted eyes and Clegane stared back, meeting his gaze.
"What's your point?" Joffrey snapped irritably, rising from his crouched position.
Jon drew his stare away from the Hound, looking straight into the boy's emerald eyes, "Do you want to be?" He asked calmly.
"What?" Joffrey gawked, his face contorting with a confused anger.
"Do you want to be a fighter, to be strong, like your Father was?"
"'Is'. Like my Father 'is'." Joff corrected with pain visible in his gaze.
"'Was'" Jon repeated sternly, "Answer the question."
The Prince mumbled something inaudible and Jon frowned deeply, "I didn't hear you."
"Yes!" Joff shouted before catching himself, "I said yes. I want to be strong."
"Then train." Jon stated simply and confusion once again etched its way across the boy's face.
"I have trained, my Father hired a swords master… I-"the Prince grovelled before Jon interrupted.
"Not just your swordsmanship," The lilac-eyed boy sighed, "Your anger. Your anger clouds whatever talent or skill you may have. Learn composure. Your Father treats you like shit, like a bastard, like me." Jon stared deep into the Joff's eyes, "Rein your anger, hone your swordsmanship. Prove you are no bastard, Joffrey Baratheon."
"I-I can't."
"You can." Jon stated with a finality that seemed to resonate in Joff.
The bastard in the North turned his back to the Prince and walked towards Robb, who awaited him next to a torn Ser Rodrick, both with bearing faces of uneasy apprehension.
"I will get stronger." Joff suddenly called out, his voice harder with more certainty, and Jon turned to meet his eyes once more, "And when I do, i'll beat you back into the dirt you crawled out of."
A slow grin etched its way across Jon's face and his glistened like a flame reflected in an amethyst, "You can try." He said before turning his back once more, leaving the broken Prince and his loyal dog to ponder, in the softly falling snow.
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