50 A Fight in Winterfell
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Ned Stark
As the first rays of sunlight streamed through the windows, Ned gradually emerged from his slumber, only to discover that the majority of his family had already awakened. Eager to join the bustling activity, he made his way towards the grand main hall, where his keen eyes swiftly caught sight of his son engrossed in conversation with Lady Nymeria. The words exchanged between them remained elusive to Ned's ears, yet the radiant smile adorning his son's face brought him an overwhelming sense of relief. Even though Lady Nymeria was a bastard, Ned couldn't help but appreciate the happiness she seemed to bring to his beloved child.
Ned remembered how much Bran had talked with Lyanna last night during the feast.
' Ned's attentive gaze remained fixed upon his son, Bran, engrossed in a conversation with Lady Lyanna Mormont. Their interaction seemed to be an effortless dance of words, captivating Ned's attention as he observed the genuine smiles that adorned Bran's face throughout the entire exchange. Ser Rodrik couldn't resist sharing with Ned the astonishing revelation that Bran had taken it upon himself to teach Lady Lyanna how to climb. A mix of emotions surged within Ned's heart, leaving him torn between the conflicting sentiments of pride and uncertainty. '
In the midst of his pensive reverie, the sudden intrusion of resounding footsteps shattered his concentration, pulling him back to reality with an abrupt jolt. As his gaze swiftly darted toward the source of the commotion, he beheld the captivating scene unfolding before his eyes: Arya relentlessly pursuing her brother Bran through the grand hall. Accompanying them, their loyal direwolves, Summer and Nymeria, effortlessly kept pace. Although the distance between them muffled the precise words being exchanged, Ned, seated at a distance, could discern the faint yet distinct sound of Arya's voice carrying through the air as if carried on a whispering breeze. Straining his ears, he managed to catch snippets of her conversation, catching phrases like "dreaming" and "being Nymeria,"
Ned figured she must have seen some strange dream; old Nan could tell her what the dream was about. She always knew everything.
As the snowflakes gently fell from the sky, blanketing the ancient fortress of Winterfell in a pristine white cloak, the Lord of Winterfell, Ned Stark, found himself lost in a labyrinth of thoughts. His eyes, filled with a mixture of concern and curiosity, scanned the grand hall where the feast had taken place the previous night.
Among the revelry and mirth, a sight had caught his attention, stirring an array of emotions within him. It was the enchanting dance of his first daughter, Alyanna, that had captivated him. The way her graceful form twirled and swayed with Jaehaerys had left Ned both intrigued and apprehensive. His observant gaze had not missed the stolen glances they exchanged, laden with a tender affection that spoke volumes. Memories flooded Ned's mind, harkening back to a time when he, too, had been ensnared by the intoxicating tendrils of young love. A bittersweet nostalgia washed over him, mingling with the uncertainty that now clouded his heart. He found himself torn between paternal protectiveness and the understanding that his daughter's heart was blossoming.
Despite the undeniable truth that he had been but a fleeting presence in his first daughter's life, his paternal instincts remained steadfast, yearning for what every loving father yearns for their children. Finding a good husband and, one day, cradling her own precious children in tender arms, but Ned knew his nephew wouldn't marry Alyanna, and her falling for him brought Ned sadness, knowing his daughter would be heartbroken.
Ned highly doubted his nephew would marry Alyanna, Ned didn't know Prince Doran that well, but he knew the man was ambitious; a man like him would want his blood on the throne.
As Ned observed the jovial feast, his keen eyes couldn't help but catch the subtle interactions between his nephew and Arianne. The stolen glances and tender touches they exchanged spoke volumes, revealing a palpable connection that was impossible to ignore. It was as if their emotions radiated in the air, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind about the depth of their affection. Even Prince Oberyn couldn't resist commenting on their undeniable chemistry, repeatedly highlighting their undeniable bond throughout the night.
With an air of pride beaming upon his countenance, Prince Oberyn would boldly declare that his beloved niece, Arianne, could give Prince Jaehaerys many beautiful and strong children whose strength and beauty would rival the very essence of the Seven Kingdoms. Moreover, Arianne's profound understanding and mastery of the intricate art of governance, meticulously imparted upon her by Prince Doran, rendered her an invaluable ally to Jaehaerys, enabling them to jointly steer the realm towards prosperity and harmony, with their sagacious rule illuminating the path to a brighter future for all.
In the midst of Ned's unwavering belief that Princess Arianne held the potential to ascend the throne as a mighty Queen, Ser Arthur interjected with utmost urgency, reminding everyone present that Princess Daenerys and Prince Viserys, trueborn Targaryens, were still out there. Ser Arthur deftly highlighted the possibility of Princess Daenerys forging an alliance through marriage with Prince Jaehaerys, a strategic move aimed at preserving the purity of the Targaryen bloodline and ensuring their yet-to-be-born offspring would inherit dragons.
Caught in the midst of a perplexing dilemma, Ned found himself uncertain of his place in the grand tapestry of alliances and ambitions. On one side of the precarious tightrope, his nephew's union with Princess Arianne shimmered with the ethereal glow of genuine love, a testament to the enduring power of affection. Yet, on the other side, the prospect of his nephew's betrothal to Princess Daenerys beckoned like a dazzling mirage of legitimacy, capable of bestowing upon Jaehaerys the undeniable aura of a true Targaryen heir. The weight of this decision bore down upon Ned's shoulders; that decision could sway the beliefs of countless individuals.
As Ned reached for the glass of cold water, a throbbing sensation started to build in his temples, gradually transforming into a nagging headache. With each refreshing sip, however, he felt the icy tendrils of the water cascading down his throat, invigorating his senses and awakening a newfound clarity in his thoughts.
Ned's mind wandered back to the image of his first daughter, a captivating young woman whose friendship with Prince Jaehaerys had blossomed over the years. As Ned reflected on Oberyn's words, a mix of concern and hope swirled within him. He fervently prayed that the prince would never dare to tarnish Alyanna's honor, for such an act would not only devastate her but also jeopardize the promising prospects of a prosperous and blissful marriage that awaited her in the future.
Filled with anticipation, Ned's heart raced with eagerness as he eagerly yearned for a long-awaited conversation with Alyanna, his spirited and intelligent daughter. Today was the day when Lady Dacey was scheduled to engage in a fierce sparring match with Alyanna herself in the bustling training yard. With a resolute look in his eyes, he made a quick decision to defer their conversation until after the exhilarating clash of swords and shields had concluded, seeking solace in the tranquil embrace of God's Wood, a sanctuary nestled deep within the heart of Winterfell.
Imagining the serene surroundings of the sacred grove, where the ancient weirwood tree stood tall and proud, Ned's thoughts were consumed by the vivid image of finally being able to spend quality time with his beloved daughter - his only precious connection to Ashara.
His eyes caught a glimpse of Sansa gracefully gliding through the opulent surroundings, accompanied by the radiant Lady Tyene Sand. Following closely behind was Sansa's loyal Direwolf; the direwolf was the friendliest of the pack. A profound sense of concern enveloped Ned, evident by the crease that formed on his forehead, for just last night, his beloved wife had confided in him about the delicate matter of Sansa's future betrothal, leaving him with a heavy heart and a multitude of swirling thoughts.
' As they nestled into their bed, the soft glow of a solitary candle cast gentle shadows across the chamber, illuminating the weary expressions etched upon their faces. Catelyn, her voice filled with conviction, suggested, "I think you should talk with the King." Meanwhile, the howling wind, determined to penetrate the thick barriers of their sanctuary, whispered its relentless symphony through the tightly sealed window.
Ned's curiosity piqued as he raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixated on her. "Talk to him about what!" he said, his voice filled with intrigue. He turned his whole body to face her, captivated by her presence. Her clothes, once adorning her, had vanished, leaving her draped in a delicate nightgown that possessed a subtle transparency. The ethereal fabric clung to her form, teasing Ned's senses and granting him a glimpse into her allure.
With a gentle smile gracing her lips, Catelyn leaned closer to Ned, her eyes sparkling with maternal pride. "Ned," she began, her voice filled with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. "Our precious Sansa, she's blossoming into a remarkable young woman, don't you think?"
Catelyn's mind drifted to a vision of Sansa, resplendent in an elegant gown fit for a queen, gracefully gliding through a grand hall. The air would be thick with whispers of admiration and awe, for her daughter possessed a beauty that could make anyone fall in love with her.
"And you know, my love," Catelyn continued, her voice tinged with excitement, "I've heard the most intriguing rumor. It seems that Prince Joffrey is at the right age. And who better to capture his attention than our Sansa?"As Catelyn spoke these words, her heart swelled with a mix of hope and concern.
She envisioned a future where Sansa's hand would be sought after by the most prestigious suitors, each vying for the honor of being by her side.
Ned could see where his wife was going with this; he usually wouldn't have anything against it, his son would marry a Northern daughter, Bran, and Rickon would also marry daughters of the North; Ned wouldn't mind it, but he knew soon everything would change, from his reports, Robert was drinking and whoring to an early grave, Ned felt pity, he hadn't seen his friend for many years, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to at this point.
His friend was no longer the man Ned remembered before the Rebellion; he had already started adding weight back in the Greyjoy Rebellion; Ned didn't want to know what he looked like now, six years later. Ned wished his friend had kept himself in shape, but Ned knew that was just wishful thinking.
"You mean to talk with The King about a betrothal between Sansa and the Crown Prince," Ned uttered, his words carrying both caution and urgency.
In response, Catelyn's face lit up with a radiant smile, a reflection of her undying dreams and aspirations. Through the countless nights spent pondering and imagining the future, Catelyn had crafted a vision in which her precious daughter ascended to the glorious throne as a revered Queen, her noble bloodline forever intertwined with that of royalty. The prospect of Sansa bearing the title of Queen and nurturing generations of royal offspring filled Catelyn's heart with immense joy as if she could already hear the echoes of future grandeur reverberating through the halls of King's Landing.
"King's Landing is a pit of snakes, my lady. The South is filled with snakes, and King's Landing is at the top. Our daughter doesn't know yet what the South is like," Ned cautioned, his voice resonating with an icy chill akin to the frigid Wall. In the depths of his thoughts, he fervently wished that she would never have to witness the dark underbelly of the realm. For he knew all too well that one must traverse the infernal depths of agony and despair to excel at the twisted game their adversaries played.
Sansa, a maiden pure and untouched, still harbored visions of the South as a realm adorned with noble knights and fair maidens. Yet, Ned understood the bitter truth that awaited her there—a truth that would tear her delicate dreams asunder, leaving her broken and shattered. The South, with all its machinations and deceit, would prey upon her innocence, stripping away her illusions and replacing them with the harsh realities of a world where honor is but a fleeting mirage
Catelyn, her expression poised to offer a rebuttal, found her words held captive in her throat as Ned's voice pressed on, unyielding. His confident tone carried an air of conviction as he voiced his doubts, "I don't think the King will agree, we might have Peace, but as we have seen, the so-called Peace can be as fragile as a piece of glass. The Prince is thirteen name days, they most likely already found a bride for him, and even if they didn't, Robert should wed his son to Lady Margaery. The Reach is the second-richest kingdom and has the most amount of food. One of the houses in the Reach under House Tyrell is House Hightower. They have a lot of influence on the Faith and The Maesters. If I were in his place, I would have done that," he explained, his words punctuated by a faint flicker of uncertainty that brushed across Catelyn's previously unwavering smile.
Catelyn's voice sliced through the air like a sharpened Valyrian steel blade. "That might be true," she began, her eyes blazing with determination, " but marrying Sansa will bring The Riverrun and The North, Two kingdoms instead of one."
Ned, his face etched with concern, countered her argument with a voice as steady and resolute as the Wall itself. "My lady," he implored, his gaze unwavering, "Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, knows full well where my loyalty lies. There is no need for Joffrey to marry our beloved daughter. Instead, he would surely seek to wed Lady Margaery, uniting the power of Highgarden with the might of the Iron Throne." As the words hung in the air, tension filled the room, thick as the mists of the Neck. Catelyn's eyes softened, her love for Sansa shining through the steel of her resolve. Ned, too, felt the weight of his decision, knowing Jae would take the throne and Sansa won't have an opportunity to marry him.
In the quiet solitude of their shared bed, where Catelyn and Ned had found solace and warmth for fourteen long years, Catelyn let out a weary sigh that seemed to escape from the depths of her soul. Her delicate hand, adorned with the fiery cascade of crimson hair, absentmindedly weaved through the strands, a subtle gesture of both comfort and contemplation.
As she lay beside her beloved husband, his strong chest rising and falling beneath her head, Catelyn's thoughts drifted toward their daughter, Sansa. With a voice that resonated with vulnerability, she softly expressed her deepest yearning, a mother's unyielding desire for her child's happiness. "I just want Sansa to be happy," The weight of her words was palpable.
Yet, Catelyn was torn, caught between her heartfelt wish for Sansa to ascend the throne and the unwavering loyalty she held for Ned. Even if her heart ached in silence, she would honor his words. With unwavering devotion, she vowed to follow Ned's lead, accepting whatever verdict he would impart. For if he were to deny Sansa's dream of becoming a Queen, Catelyn would not dare impose her own desires upon him. Instead, she would stand steadfastly by his side, offering support and unwavering love.
"I know, Cat, but we need to think this through before coming to a decision," In the serene ambiance of their cozy bedroom, Ned's voice resonated softly, caressing the ears of his beloved wife, Cat. As he embraced his wife, their bodies entwined in a comforting embrace, the duo found solace in the gentle warmth radiating from one another.
"I wouldn't mind if Sansa married someone else. The ones that I can think of are Willas Tyrell, one of Prince Doran's sons-" "What about Robert Arryn?" he asked, his gaze shifting downward to his wife Catelyn, whose face contorted with a mixture of disbelief and disgust, resembling someone on the verge of an unpleasant bout of nausea.
"Ned," Catelyn's voice quivered with a mixture of concern and caution as she leaned in closer to her husband, her eyes filled with earnestness and empathy. "I-I know Lord Arryn is close to you, but the rumors of his son aren't what you might think," Catelyn's words hung in the air.
Ned's brows furrowed with a perplexed expression, his mind swirling with doubt like a tempestuous storm. The notion of Jon permitting his beloved son to lead a mundane existence seemed inconceivable. In a voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of urgency, Ned posed a question, his words slicing through the air like a sharpened blade: "Pray to tell, what do you mean?" His inquisitive nature yearned to unravel the mystery of what Catelyn had overheard.
With a trembling voice and a slight shudder, Catelyn leaned in closer to Ned, her eyes flickering with a mix of surprise, disbelief, and a hint of repulsion. The memory of her uncle's letter received several months ago resurfaced in her mind, its contents still fresh and unsettling. It had been a comprehensive account detailing every aspect of their family's affairs, including an unexpected update on Lysa's son. "Can you believe it, Ned?" Catelyn whispered, her voice tinged with both astonishment and revulsion. "He...he says the child is still nursing." As the words left her mouth, she fought to mask her disgust, her gaze meeting Ned's, who wore a sudden expression of both bewilderment and discomfort, mirroring the complex emotions that swirled within her own being.
"But the boy has already celebrated his fifth name day," Ned interjected swiftly, his voice laced with bewilderment. He yearned for this to be a macabre jest orchestrated by his wife, unable to fathom how Jon could allow his own son to endure such an unconventional upbringing.
"I'm sorry, dear husband, but Uncle Brynden wrote an entire letter dedicated only to Lysa and her looking after Robin. He wrote that Lysa never leaves him out of her sight and doesn't allow him to play with children or anything. I know I should have told you, but I didn't think it was that important, and knowing how much you respect Jon Arryn..." As her words trailed off, the unspoken weight of her silence became palpable, elucidating her reasoning behind keeping this revelation hidden. In response, Ned inhaled deeply, feeling conflicted as a part of him secretly wished that his wife had safeguarded this secret a while longer, shielding him from the burden it now imposed. '
As the grand doors of the hall swung open, Ned's eyes were immediately drawn to the captivating sight before him. Stepping gracefully into the room, Jaehaerys made his entrance. He was accompanied by Princess Arianne, her regal presence accentuated by the gleaming jewels adorning her gown. But what truly captured the attention was the white direwolf, its piercing red eyes mirroring the intensity of the room's gaze.
Whispers of intrigue rippled through the crowded hall as every eye fixated on the trio. The quiet hum of conversations hushed to a mere whisper, the sound of their arrival reverberating through the stone walls of Winterfell. Ned couldn't help but smile to himself, knowing that the entire Winterfell was abuzz with excitement and conjecture. Rumors spread like wildfire, weaving tales of ancestral bloodlines and hidden connections. The guards, ever vigilant, exchanged fervent whispers, their curiosity-fueling their imaginations. Some boldly ventured to suggest that Jaehaerys was more than just a visitor but rather Lord Stark's own flesh and blood, borne from a union with Ashara Dayne.
As the sun gently embraced the morning sky, Ned eagerly gathered with his beloved family around the rustic wooden table. The tantalizing aroma of sizzling sausages wafted through the air, mingling with the delightful scent of freshly baked bread, its golden crust glistening with a generous drizzle of fragrant oil. Accompanying this delectable feast were perfectly boiled eggs, their delicate whites harmoniously encasing the vibrant yolks. As Ned savored each delectable bite, his heart danced with anticipation, for he had recently received word from Ser Rodrik of the thrilling events that awaited him at the Training Yard that day. A medley of fierce battles were set to unfold, featuring not only some of his valiant knights but also an impressive array of skilled warriors, including Dacey Mormont, Alyanna Dayne, Jon Sand, and Robb Stark.
Ned wondered why his son wanted to fight. There was no point in showing his skill; keeping his abilities with a sword hidden would be better, but he figured his son wanted to impress Lady Nymeria. Catelyn told him later that Prince Oberyn had already spent over ten gold dragons on brothels; Ned wasn't sure what to make of the man yet; his taste was definitely questionable.
As he swallowed some bread with boiled eggs, Ser Rodrik informed him that the soldiers during the night reported seeing something flying above the clouds, but they couldn't see it due to the lack of light and the half-moon. Ned was almost tempted to tell him that perhaps a Dragon was flying above Winterfell, but Ser Rodrik quickly dropped it as drunken fools, seeing things that weren't there.
As the sun's golden rays cast a warm glow upon Winterfell's courtyard, the tantalizing aroma of a sumptuous morning feast filled the air, enticing the hungered souls within the castle walls. With each bite savored and the last morsel consumed, an air of anticipation swirled among the gathered throng, their hearts brimming with excitement for the forthcoming spectacle awaited them.
Emerging from the Great Hall, a sea of eager faces spilled out into the crisp morning air, their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and admiration for the valiant heir of Winterfell, poised to engage in a glorious battle. The moment had arrived, and the clamor of armor clashing, swords unsheathed, and shields raised reverberated across the courtyard.
High above the fray, on a regal balcony adorned with intricate carvings of direwolves, Lord Ned Stark stood tall, his gaze fixed upon the warriors below. By his side stood Lady Catelyn, her eyes reflecting both maternal pride and unwavering determination.
Their attention was undivided as they observed the dance of steel and strategy unfold beneath their watchful eyes. Among the combatants, Ned's keen eyes were magnetically drawn to two figures in particular: his valiant son, Robb, and his nephew, Jae.
With bated breath, he witnessed the ebb and flow of the battle, his heart swelling with paternal pride as Robb showcased his indomitable skill, deftly weaving through the chaos of clashing swords and swirling dust.
In a display of remarkable talent and unwavering resolve, Robb faced off against the renowned Ser Rodrik, a paragon of knightly virtue and skill hailing from Winterfell's hallowed ranks. With each calculated move, Robb's blade shimmered like ice in the morning light, effortlessly parrying Ser Rodrik's blows and launching his own lightning-fast counterattacks. The clash of swords echoed through the courtyard, the intensity building with every strike. In a single defining moment, Robb's prowess proved triumphant, his blade finding its mark with a resounding impact. Ser Rodrik, though valiant in his own right, fell to the ground, defeated by the sheer determination and skill of the young heir. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause.
With a swelling sense of pride, Ned's smile stretched across his face as he witnessed his son, Robb, win against Ser Rodrik. Ser Rodrik, despite his advanced age, proved to be a formidable opponent. As Ned's eyes scanned the jubilant scene, he couldn't help but notice the subtle glances exchanged between his victorious son and the enchanting Lady Nymeria. A mischievous whisper escaped her lips, delicately reaching Robb's ears, causing a sudden surge of crimson to flood his cheeks, transforming his fair complexion into a vibrant hue of scarlet. The unexpected display of bashfulness elicited a symphony of laughter and amusement from the onlookers.
As Catelyn stood on the balcony, her eyes narrowed with distaste; she couldn't help but voice her dissatisfaction with the sight before her. "I don't like this," she commented, her voice laced with annoyance as her gaze fixated on the training yard below. The snowflakes, delicate and ethereal, danced down from the sky, creating a mesmerizing spectacle that contrasted starkly with her sour mood. Gripping the rustic wooden railing with both hands, she felt a surge of frustration and unease, as if the falling snow mirrored her own unsettled emotions.
With a determined tone in his voice, Ned swiftly came to his son's defense, addressing Cat's concerns about Robb's loyalty. "Robb won't dishonor her, Cat. You don't have to worry," he reassured her. As a father who had imparted his wisdom and values onto Robb, Ned knew that his heir was far from being foolish enough to besmirch the honor of Lady Nymeria, for he understood the dire consequences that would follow, including incurring the wrath of the fierce and vengeful Prince Oberyn. Through countless lessons and heartfelt conversations, Ned had instilled in Robb the importance of integrity and respect, molding him into a young man who embodied the principles of honor and virtue.
"I'm talking about Theon. I don't like the way he's looking at Princess Arianne and Lady Alyanna," Catelyn quickly said before pointing with her eyes at Theon; her gaze subtly shifted towards Theon, who stood at a distance; his intense stare fixated upon Arianne and Alyanna. Despite the vast space separating them, Catelyn discerned the subtle motion of his tongue caressing his lips, a sight that resembled a dog anticipating its meal. Aware of the discomfort that such behavior might provoke, Catelyn had previously cautioned Ned, urging him to tighten the leash around Theon's neck. However, Ned, ever loyal, defended Theon, claiming that he was Robb's sole confidante and trusted companion.
"I will have a conversation with him," Ned lovingly assured, his warm lips gently pressing against his wife's forehead, leaving behind a tender kiss mirrored their shared affection. In that tender moment, her eyes softened, and a proud, radiant smile graced her face.
As their attention shifted towards Robb, a multitude of emotions surged through their hearts, intertwining with anticipation and concern. Ned's smile widened, mirroring the flicker of excitement within his soul when he caught a glimpse of Robb's determination to prove himself in combat. The cheers erupted from House Martell, echoing through the courtyard. Amongst the crowd, Princess Arianne stood tall, her regal presence commanding attention. Her unwavering belief in Jae's prowess was evident as she nodded approvingly, silently conveying her confidence to Robb that his defeat was inevitable.
Meanwhile, Arya, a flame of enthusiasm in her eyes, eagerly awaited the commencement of the upcoming clash. Her tiny frame trembled with anticipation. Lady Dacey and Lady Alyanna's impending duel promised to be a spectacle of skill and bravery, a display that Arya couldn't help but yearn for with an insatiable curiosity.
Ned's perceptive gaze fell upon Sansa, the delicate flower of Winterfell; her brows furrowed with genuine concern for her dear brother Robb. A flicker of understanding passed through Ned's eyes, but he knew Jae would never harm Robb.
Meanwhile, Bran, the young and restless observer, shifted eagerly on his feet, his impatience palpable as he eagerly awaited the spectacle, his youthful mind less concerned with the outcome of the impending clash than the thrill of the battle itself.
Just as the tension in the air reached its crescendo, the maester at arms, a figure of authority clad in resplendent armor, raised his voice to the heavens, commanding attention as he unleashed a mighty bellow reverberated across the courtyard. "Start!" the maester's voice boomed
With unwavering attention, Jaehaerys keenly observed his cousin, captivated by the intensity radiating from his eyes as they locked onto the impending swordfight. The strength of his grip on the pommel showcased his determination, leaving no doubt that he was fully committed to this encounter. Anticipation filled the air as the first swing resonated through the training grounds, its forceful impact reverberating in Jaehaerys' ears. Yet, like a nimble dancer, he gracefully sidestepped the attack, his agility allowing him to evade his cousin's strike effortlessly. Seizing the opportune moment, Jaehaerys swiftly retaliated, delivering a precise blow to his cousin's arm before swiftly following it up with a strike to the side.
Robb, undeterred by the forceful blow that had struck him, displayed an admirable resilience as he steadfastly maintained his composure. Rather than succumbing to the impact, he astutely chose to create a safe distance between himself and Jaehaerys. With a single deft swing of his sword, Jaehaerys instinctively retreated, the metallic weapon coming into contact with the earth, its reverberations echoing through the air. Unwavering in his pursuit, Robb persistently launched a series of swift and graceful strikes, each one executed with precision and finesse, as he relentlessly sought the satisfaction of a successful strike against Jaehaerys.
As the intense duel unfolded, Jaehaerys gracefully glided backward after skillfully evading two swift strikes from Robb. With a calculated and confident demeanor, Jaehaerys patiently awaited Robb's next move, inviting him to take the initiative once more. However, this time, Jaehaerys showcased his masterful swordsmanship by deftly parrying and executing a series of deceptive feints before delivering precise strikes that found their mark on Robb's arm and side. Astonishingly, Robb found himself unable to match Jaehaerys' lightning-fast reflexes, causing a mixture of astonishment and disbelief to wash over his face. It was a testament to Jaehaerys' unrivaled skill that he had already landed four strikes while Robb remained unable to land a single hit.
Maintaining a vigilant distance of precisely two meters, Robb's heart thumped vigorously, reverberating in the confines of his throat like a war drum. The weight of his heritage as the rightful heir of Winterfell bore down upon him, casting a formidable shadow over his thoughts. The weighty burden of expectation whispered through his mind, a resolute determination refusing to accept defeat. With each beat of his pulse, Robb's clenched jaw mirrored his unwavering resolve, his determination etched upon his face. Unbeknownst to him, beads of perspiration adorned his forehead, glistening like crystalline jewels despite the unforgiving bite of the frigid air.
As the intense duel unfolded, it became evident that Robb had acquired a valuable lesson from their previous encounter. With a newfound sense of caution, his attack displayed a measured approach, each swing possessing a touch less force compared to before. On the other hand, Jae reveled in his control over the match. A smile crept across his face as he immersed himself in the exhilarating dance of combat. Skillfully, he deflected a powerful blow aimed at his left side, swiftly countering with a deceptive feint that compelled Robb to retreat a step. Seizing the moment, Jae lunged forward, closing the distance between them with remarkable speed. With a deft thrust followed by a graceful arc to the right, he skillfully exploited the opening he had created, asserting his dominance in the battle.
With a swift and fluid motion, Jae deftly snatched the opportunity, his gleaming sword striking Robb square in the chest and propelling him backward, causing him to land unceremoniously on his rear end. In this moment of triumph, Jae's eyes narrowed with determination as he pointed his sword menacingly at his defeated opponent, who looked utterly stunned by the turn of events.
"Yield?" Jae's voice rang out, laced with a hint of challenge, as he leaned his sword closer to Robb's face, the glint of victory dancing in his eyes.
"I-I yield," Robb stammered, his voice trembling with defeat. As the weight of his surrender settled upon him, the once tense courtyard erupted with thunderous cheers, the jubilant cacophony filling the air. Robb, momentarily shutting his eyes against the overwhelming noise, hesitantly reopened them to find a surprising sight before him. While he had expected all eyes to be fixated on Jae, instead, their hands clapping together in a symphony of admiration and respect, their applause directed towards him.
As Robb's weary eyes met Jae's outstretched hand, a subtle spark of gratitude ignited within him. The weight of exhaustion and the remnants of the intense battle seemed to momentarily dissipate as a genuine smile of relief gracefully curved Robb's lips. With a sense of shared triumph, Robb eagerly clasped Jae's hand. As he rose from the ground, a surge of renewed energy coursed through his veins. With each labored breath, he took, a radiant smile adorned Robb's face.
Swiftly pivoting on his heels, he pivoted to face none other than Robb. With a subtle yet genuine smile playing on his lips, Robb extended his hand toward Jae, an unspoken symbol of respect. "Well fought, Jon," he uttered with a touch of awe lacing his words, his voice brimming with newfound comprehension.
Jae's gaze met Robb's unwaveringly, his eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and camaraderie as he clasped the proffered hand. "You fought well, too, Lord Robb," he replied earnestly, his voice carrying the weight of mutual respect.
Jae gracefully retreated, making way for the imminent clash that was about to unfold. The air crackled with anticipation as Alyanna and Dacey stepped forward to engage in a battle of strength and skill. The crowd hushed in awe, their eager eyes fixed on the two combatants, eager to witness the spectacle that was about to unfold. With a swift and fluid motion, Alyanna brandished her weapon, a short sword without a blade, its hilt gleaming in the fading light.
The mace Dacey now wielded glistened in the sunlight, its polished surface reflecting both her determination and the weighty responsibility she felt. A silent prayer escaped Jae's lips as he watched, hoping against hope that no ill fortune would befall them in this fight. As the clash commenced, a symphony of steel and fury, both combatants showcased their extraordinary prowess and unyielding resolve. Dacey, mindful of the formidable weight of her weapon, gripped her mace firmly with both hands, utilizing every ounce of her strength to strike with devastating force. Yet, Alyanna, agile and nimble, danced elegantly across the courtyard, evading each blow with graceful precision.
Alyanna gracefully evaded each attack, her lithe form effortlessly leaping and twirling to avoid the menacing swings of the mace. With bated breath, he watched as the deadly weapon came perilously close to striking her arm, the arm that firmly gripped the gleaming short sword. Yet, Alyanna, blessed with swiftness akin to the wind itself, managed to dance out of harm's way just in the nick of time. It was a display of agility that Dacey Mormont, with all her might and strength, could only dream of possessing. Maintaining a cautious distance, Alyanna's piercing eyes locked onto the formidable Mormont warrior, her gaze fixated on her opponent like a hawk, ready to strike at any given moment.
As Alyanna's gaze sharpened, she caught sight of another imminent attack, causing her to swiftly leap back with nimble grace. The moment's intensity was etched upon her face, revealing her acute awareness that Dacey's composure remained unyielding. With a deftness honed by experience, Alyanna deftly evaded two more oncoming strikes, her movements fluid and precise. In a seamless display of agility, Dacey lunged forward in a desperate attempt to land a blow upon Alyanna's arm. Yet, the latter anticipated the maneuver, deftly sidestepping to her right. In one swift motion, Alyanna's strike zeroed in, targeting the biceps and the surrounding sinews that encapsulated Dacey's arm, leaving no room for defense.
Dacey winced as a sharp, searing pain shot through her arm, causing her to grimace in discomfort. The sensation was so intense that it nearly rendered her arm numb, an overwhelming wave of tingling spreading across her right limb like an electric current. With a determined grip, she tightly clutched her mace, but the agony pulsating through her right arm was too intense to bear any weight. Only her left arm could offer her any semblance of strength and support in this moment of duress.
Alyanna, witnessing Dacey's struggle, furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes, her gaze filled with concern and intensity. In the midst of this harrowing ordeal, Alyanna couldn't help but imagine a scenario where this was a real fight. In that alternate reality, she envisioned herself unleashing a swift and calculated strike, aiming precisely for the adversary's eyes and neck or perhaps swiftly slicing through their biceps. Such an attack would not only incapacitate the opponent but also render their arm limp and almost useless, just like the pain and weakness surging through Dacey's right arm at this very moment.
With a determined stride, Dacey pressed forward, her every movement weaving a captivating dance as she swung her weapon toward Alyanna's torso. However, this time, her strike bore the grace of a feather's touch as if carrying the weight of a whisper on the wind.
Yet, in a display of nimble agility, Alyanna evaded the incoming attack, her body fluidly contorting to evade the deadly trajectory. Undeterred, she retaliated swiftly, aiming a swift strike toward Dacey's arm with her trusty short sword.
Alas, fortune favored Dacey in this fateful moment, granting her the precious gift of time and the surge of strength required to unleash the mighty force of her mace once more. With a resounding impact, her weapon found its mark, colliding with Alyanna's outstretched arm. In a fleeting instant, panic flickered in Alyanna's eyes. However, her warrior's instincts kicked in just in time, empowering her to employ her own sword as a shield to lessen the blow's destructive force. Despite her valiant efforts, the sheer power behind Dacey's strike proved too overwhelming, sending Alyanna tumbling helplessly to the unforgiving ground below.
Spring growled in a fury, her purple eyes ablaze as she ran towards Dacey, ready to bite her throat out when Ghost and Nymeria suddenly stopped her; Spring growled back at the two of them for stopping her, especially Ghost.
Alyanna winced in agony, her face contorted with pain as a sharp sting shot through her arm, crimson droplets staining the fabric of her shirt. Dacey, witnessing the distressing sight, cautiously approached Alyanna, her grip on the mace tightening with determination in her left hand.
As Alyanna summoned her inner strength, pushing past the searing pain, she mustered the willpower to rise from the ground, executing a swift and graceful kip-up, disregarding the throbbing ache that permeated her body. Her eyes blazed with an unwavering resolve as she prepared herself to continue the fierce battle. However, before the clash could resume, a commanding voice shattered the charged atmosphere that had enveloped the training yard as the Maester at Arms bellowed, "Stop!"
"This is enough," declared the man with conviction, his gaze shifting between Dacey and Alyanna. The intensity of the fight dissolved as his words hung in the charged air, diffusing the tension like a tranquil breeze.
Alyanna, her eyes unwavering, reluctantly tore her gaze away from Dacey, her arm throbbing with a dull ache that she valiantly tried to ignore. However, the bear woman, feeling the weight of the man's command, released her grip on the menacing mace, surrendering it to the ground.
As the adrenaline subsided and tranquility gradually settled within her, Alyanna's racing heart gradually slowed its frantic tempo, allowing her to become acutely aware of the lingering pain pulsating through her arm, evident in the telltale bruise that adorned her skin like a somber badge of honor.
"Good fight, Alyanna," Dacey's voice broke her out of her thoughts; she turned to look at her, a smile spreading on her face.
"You too, Dacey. You truly are a warrior," Alyanna complimented, breathing heavily; Dacey reminded her of Nymeria and Obara. They all were good swordswomen, especially Nymeria.
Jae briskly strode towards her, his eyes filled with urgency as he closed the distance between them. "We need a maester to see it," he voiced his concern, his voice laced with worry and empathy, deliberately avoiding any physical contact on her arm. Alyanna, aware of the impending pain that awaited her, silently acknowledged that this particular bruise would be more than just a temporary mark on her skin; a badge of honor she would proudly display to the world.
As a sharp pang shot through her body, Dacey's right arm suddenly felt like it had lost all strength, rendering it almost useless. With a mixture of frustration and determination etched on her face, she mustered every ounce of willpower to coax her arm into motion, only to be met with a searing surge of pain that halted her efforts. "Oh, Fuck me." Dacey whispered under her breath, her thoughts echoing with exasperation, "This hurts!" Seeking solace from the torment, she gently massaged the afflicted area, desperately hoping to numb the relentless throbbing.
.
As Maester Luwin meticulously examined Alyanna's arm, delicately feeling for any signs of injury, he issued a solemn decree, advising her to grant her arm a respite from excessive use for the forthcoming days and pondering the prospects of indulging in the company of Arya and Sansa. Lost in her thoughts, a gentle creak resonated through the air, capturing her attention as the wooden door gracefully swung open. To her astonishment, the figure that emerged through the threshold was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.
Fun Question: In the first version of GoT, Targaryens were supposed to be able to use Pyromancy instead of having Dragons. What do you think about that version?
