Feast and Meeting Others

Sounds of merriment and cheers came from all around me as I clasped my hand around my supposed father's hand.

Despite being out of shape and fat, let it not be said that he was a weak man in terms of physical strength. His physical strength was a natural result of genetics and training - take away the training and you're still left with the natural muscle mass someone his size and height would have.

Which meant outside of extremely well-trained Knights and others with such naturally prodigious strength, Robert was a near-unbeatable opponent in an arm-wrestle.

...But let it also be said and known that I was one such case of being born with inhuman strength.

I'd also taken the time to train said strength until it was damn near unmatched in all the realm. Even Gregor Clegane would be hard-pressed in an arm-wrestle against me. An arm-wrestle which I had 100% confidence that I could win, in fact.

All of this meant that while Robert pushed against my hand as hard as his drunken strength could push, not much was really happening. I put on a show and forcibly made my face somewhat red while looking like I was pushing myself a little to keep us in this stalemate but anyone with a pair of eyes that weren't tricked by their drunken state would be able to see I was saving the king some face.

In the end, with one 'titanic' exertion, I slowly arched Robert's hand downward toward the table where I finally won. The crowd around us erupted into an uproar of cheers, the air around and above us filling with foam and ale as a few overly excited people threw their hands up in excitement while forgetting about the fact they were holding cups of ale in those same hands.

Opposed to how you'd think the loser would react, Robert burst into merry laughter, the booming of his voice somehow overpowering the sounds of everyone else's cheers.

He stumbled up before dragging me up as well. I complied and stood as he lifted me so as to not make him fall over from the drunken exertion. He reached down and grabbed my nearest hand before thrusting it up into the air as he continued shouting boisterously, "Is he not as strong as an Auroch?! He's beaten everyone in this hall and he refuses to even let his old man win!" he threw up his other arm in cheer, putting on a mock sad face which caused the surrounding crowd to laugh.

I just let him do his routine, a placid smile on my face. Looking over at the man, I could see he was enjoying his time here a lot more than anything he'd done back down south in King's Landing. And I can't blame him.

A feast down in King's Landing isn't nearly as wild as this one, and I have the feeling that wild out-of-control feasts are what Robert likes the most.

...He'd done right by me to an extent. I wouldn't say we were close with one another but he never beat me, he never swore at me nor did he deride me maliciously. He was a very hands-off father - mainly because he was usually drunk or fucking another woman besides his wife - but he still supported my decision to learn the sword when Cersei nearly banned me from going near swords like she had Joffrey. He even asked Barristan Selmy to squire me himself.

So, I guess in his own way, he tried. I guess I can only say it's a shame I'm not his real son.

Continuing to wear the placid smile I'd been wearing throughout most of the night, I brought my arm down and put it around Robert's shoulder, gesturing him with a tug to follow me, "Father, how about we go and have a drink over to the side. I have some things I'd like to talk about," I said, telling the truth.

Robert looked to me and smiled, "Ah, my boy, finally wanna have a drink with your father? Come on then. Let's drink Ned into debt!" he roared with laughter before looking to the side and pointing at two handmaids, "You two, pick up some jugs of ale and bring 'em over," he said and we began to walk over to the side of the hall. It was by no means away from the feast but it was definitely a little quieter and away from prying ears.

Picking up one of the smaller round tables that had been moved to the side to make way for the long benches and tables the majority of people were sitting at, I moved it to the wall and grabbed a pair of chairs as well, positioning them on opposite sides of the table.

Sitting down, I accepted one of the cups from the handmaid nearest to me, thanking her, before pouring myself a cup of ale.

Robert sat opposite me, collapsing onto the chair in such a way I was almost scared it'd break under his weight. Luckily, no such thing occurred and he grabbed a pitcher of ale instead of a cup before looking to me, "What do you want to talk about, lad?"

Instead of answering straight away, I took a sip of ale and looked over the crowd drinking and caught sight of Sansa chiding Arya who wasn't too far from her and was playing with some pie, stabbing it with a fork like it'd somehow offended her.

I cracked a grin as I leaned back into the chair I was in, finally ready to answer, "May I ask who will get the honor of marrying Sansa Stark, father?" I asked, my tone continuing to be even but my interest in the subject nowhere near hidden. Robert enjoyed straight-forward people and found people like Varys and Peter Baelish troublesome to deal with. So, speaking my intentions honestly would only gain me brownie points with him.

"Ha!" he laughed, foam flying off his top lip as he reached over the table and slapped me on the shoulder, "I knew the Stark girl had caught your eye, Tommen. But I never knew it was enough that you'd come to ask your old father about it!" he teased, no doubt enjoying this in the same way any father would. Teasing your children is a favored past time, I hear.

"But what I wish to know, is how you figured I'd asked Ned about it?" I saw him narrow his eyes across the table from the corner of my eye, and I smiled innocently as I answered.

"There's only one reason we'd come up this far North - for you to ask Lord Stark to become Hand of the King," I paused to drink some more of the strong ale before continuing, turning to look at Robert, "And what better way to secure it all, than to join the two families together through marriage? He has a beautiful daughter and you have two eligible sons. It's an obvious outcome."

Hearing me, Robert put the jug of ale down, a slight bit of it splashing over the top, and he shook his head as he looked at me, "...Sometimes, I think you gained a bit too much of your mother in you," he said before smiling, "But that doesn't mean you're wrong. Yes, it's true, I spoke to Ned about it and he'll agree if he knows what's best for him."

"I like to think that I gained what I have from my grandfather rather than mother," I said mirthfully before adding on a more serious note, "And who have you decided to marry to her?"

"Haha! I suppose what you say is true, you cheeky git," he laughed before nodding, "You did page for Tywin when you were a boy - I suppose some of him rubbed off on you through his teachings," he scratched his beard before looking directly at me, "I suppose you asking this implies you wish to be the one I choose?" his gaze was serious and I met it with my own sincere one before I nodded in affirmation.

Things went silent between us and I went back to perusing the crowd.

While I did so, I downed the rest of my cup before pouring myself another. I barely even felt the strong alcohol, my body seemingly immune to the effects of the stuff - which meant I could just drink and drink. At most I'd only ever get a slight buzz going on. Nothing more.

We continued to sit in silence, the only noise coming from the rest of the feast. All until Robert finished off the whole pitcher before putting it back down on the table with a dull thud.

Looking to him, I saw him slowly nodding his head, "...Alright then, Tommen. You rarely ask anything of me, so allow me to do my duty as both King and father - You'll marry the Stark girl. Rejoice."

"Thank you, father," I smiled and lowered my head a little in appreciation.

Like I'd said - I wasn't in love with Sansa. But marrying her was better than letting Joffrey get his grubby little hands on her. Both for her mental state and for my own plans. Besides, marrying in Westeros rarely ever happened with someone you loved. Especially for highborn people of major Houses. At the very least both Sansa and I found the other attractive. I also knew I'd treat her well, unlike Joffrey or that bastard Ramsay Snow. Or that creep Peter Baelish.

Raising a cup to Robert, I let out a laugh as I downed the cup before putting it back down on the table and pushing myself up, "With this business concluded then, father, I'll bid you farewell. Enjoy the rest of the feast but don't forget we're hunting tomorrow," I reminded him before turning around and walking toward the exit of the hall.

On the way, I was offered drinks and I accepted them easily enough, downing them without much hassle.

If they'd been poisoned, I'd have smelled it. My nose was incredibly sensitive. As were my other senses. I'd done some tests and I could pretty much smell poisons that were placed in drinks and whatnot. Odorless poisons were a bit trickier but I had another biological defense mechanism for those types.

As I walked past Sansa, I greeted her and distracted her while my hand blurred and caught the lump of...whatever Arya had just catapulted at her. Some sort of mashed up meat alongside some porridge.

Nonetheless, I left a smiling Sansa and a somewhat shocked Arya behind as I made way for the exit.

As I arrived, I saw Tyrion wander into the feast. Smiling, I walked up to him, "Hello uncle," I called out to him and he looked to me before returning my smile. "I would greet you with a hug but you still stink of wine and whores. If I were of a better mind, I'd toss you into the bathhouse," I chided him jokingly to which he gave a low chuckle in response. Jokes aside, I bent down onto one knee and pulled my uncle into a bear hug. Out of all my family, he was probably the one I was closest to.

Mainly because he was by far the most forward thinking. He was a thinker and years of being discriminated against made him a lot more understanding of other's circumstances. Or at the very least he tried to understand other's circumstances. Either way it was a far cry from how Cersei and the rest of our family acted.

He was also the one to source most of the books I asked for as a child. Which I'm still grateful for to this day. I also lack the same viewpoint as most people in this world - I neither care whether a person is a bastard or a Dwarf, as long as they're not a horrible person, I'm willing to give them a chance.

Obviously, this has endeared my uncle's view of me as I'm one of the only people to not judge him because he's a Dwarf.

Pulling back from the bear hug, I stood up once again and Tyrion looked up at me, "I'd ask if you wanted to have a drink with me, nephew, but it seems like you're leaving the feast early."

"Sadly that is the case, uncle," I nodded with a wry look on my face, "Though I assure you there's more than enough drinking company in this feast for you. Go show them how much the legendary Tyrion Lannister can drink," I clapped him on the shoulder before walking passed him and out of the feast hall.

Getting outside, the cold air of the Northern night hit my face and my breath quickly became visible in front of me. Every inhale cooled my insides in an enjoyable way, and every exhale made pillowing pillars of condensation. It'd been a lifetime since I'd seen my breath like this.

It'd been summer throughout all of my life here and King's Landing was naturally in one of the hotter parts of Westeros.

Meaning such cold air was refreshing and unfamiliar to me by now.

Reminiscing, however, was cut off by the furious sounds of a sword hitting a wooden dummy dressed in a sack stuffed with hay.

Looking over to it, I saw a man my age hacking at the dummy, his swings obviously fueled with anger and frustration. He had recently cut black hair that was curly, his body was well-built in the way most nobles were and his height was average. Maybe around 5'9"...5'10" at most. There was some definite skill behind his movements but it was more of an unpolished talent at this point. Whatever was eating at his mind was also effecting his swordplay.

...It wouldn't hurt to give the lad a bit of help, would it?

Walking toward him, I called out to him, "You find that dummy sleeping with your wife-to-be or something?" I cracked a joke, causing the guy to nearly jump out of his skin as he spun around.

His black eyes widened when he realized who I was while he rapidly descended into a kneeling position, his head facing downward, "Prince Tommen," he addressed me before nervously sputtering on, "I-I was just getting in some late night practice, milord."

Not really caring all that much for my princely title, I leaned down and hoisted the supposed bastard up off his knees, "Just call me Tommen, please, and you don't need to kneel when it's only us. I'm not one of those princes high off their own fumes like my twin brother, Joffrey. I bloody hate all the fanfare and etiquette around being a prince - and I'm fully aware how privileged that makes me sound," I took a step back and laughed at my own words before I gestured to the dummy behind the man who was obviously Jon Snow, "Unless you're training to fight cripples who can't fight back, battering a practice dummy won't make you a better fighter."

He averted his gaze, a little embarrassed as he knew that I knew he wasn't practicing and that he was in fact taking out his frustrations on the dummy.

"Jon, was it? I didn't introduce myself to you earlier but you weren't in the front line, so I didn't want to move through people to shake your hand," I gave him an apologetic smile that was sincere to an extent, outstretching my hand in the form of a handshake. Jon just looked down at the hand and made no motion to take it, which caused me to roll my eyes, "Just shake my bloody hand. It won't be considered treason, you know?"

Seemingly spurred into action by the notion that maybe I was getting impatient, he awkwardly shook my hand before realizing what I'd said, "...You know me, Prince Tommen?"

Hearing him still call me 'Prince', I rolled my eyes but what could I do? If he wants to call me that, he can. Regardless, I nodded to his question, "Yes, I do. I thought it best to know about all Lord Stark's children before I came to Winterfell," I explained before looking to the side and seeing a dulled sword like the one Jon was using. Walking up to it, I pointed to it, "How about it? A small spar may help you improve a little."

"I-I don't know, Prince Tommen. If you get injured--" he started to say but I cut him off with a laugh.

"Injured?" I asked a rhetorical question, "I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, Jon. I'm made of sterner stuff than most - a dull blade would hardly be able to hurt me," I laughed at the insinuation that I'd get injured from a spar. I sparred with Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy at the same time, every now and then - I'd hardly have trouble against a greenhorn like Jon.

Regardless, Jon still seemed reluctant about the whole ordeal. With caused me to sigh, "I give you my word, Jon. Even if you injure me, I won't pursue it," I promised him and the reluctance in his eyes faded a little, which led me to picking up the training sword, "So come on and have a little spar with me. If you want some practice, I'm sure I can give you some pointers."

I walked a few meters away from Jon, making a somewhat considerable distance between the two of us as I studied the training sword in my hand.

Average length for a longsword, so about 110-120ish centimeters. Good balance. Top quality steel. A little light for my tastes but it'd do for a spar.

Twirling the sword in my hand, I brought it's tip toward Jon's direction while I held my other hand behind my back. A classic fencing stance. Smiling lightly, I gestured for Jon to come at me with my head while verbally announcing it to him as well, "Let's get this started then, Jon Snow."

I don't know whether my emphasis on 'Snow' annoyed him or anything...but I do know he was quickly pacing toward me with that same frustration he held earlier when he was whacking that practice dummy. When in front of me and when his momentum was at it's highest, he went for a wide swing that was quite telegraphed.

Though admittedly, it did have decent power behind it and it was surprisingly fast.

Alas, I'd been taught by the best Knights in the realm and I had a few years of real battle experience under my belt. Which meant it took more than decent power and surprising speed to overwhelm me.

Taking half a step back, the attack barely just missed my fancy tunic and I brought the training sword in my own hand toward his neck in a thrust that blurred through the air with an almost audible whistle. The sword stopped just against his neck and so did he, his eyes wide and filled with disbelief.

"Don't go into a fight by swinging wide. It'll leave you open to counters," I started in a stern voice that mimicked Barristan's when he lectured me oh so many years ago. "Your other main mistake is swinging with emotion. You telegraphed that attack by you even made it, Jon. Now, back up a few steps and try again," I lowered the sword at his neck and settled into the same neutral fencing stance as before.

It took a few seconds for him to process what I'd said before he nodded and backed up, his face turning serious and losing that frustrated edge. He seems to have finally realized he can actually learn something from this.

What followed was Jon attacking and me casually parrying, blocking and even riposte him a few more times. All of this with bits of advice and instruction in between each attack and each block or parry. Like I'd said, he had talent for swordplay but it'd been left unpolished for a bit too long. He should've had combat experience by now but it seemed Ned Stark was protective of his late sister's only child. I can't blame him, I guess.

"Are you annoyed whenever you're called a bastard, Jon?" I questioned as Jon was bending over, one of his hands on his knee as he tried to catch his breath. Yet as soon as I asked that, his head shot up from looking at the ground and his eyes were fierce like I'd just poked him with a red hot fire poker and asked 'Did that hurt?'.

He looked at me for a few seconds and seemed to pick up on the lack of heat behind my words as he looked away and answered, "...Yes, it's annoying. But it's true, so what can I say?"

"I suppose," I scratched my chin, knowing now was not the time to reveal Jon's real heritage, "But at the very least, if you keep practicing the sword, you'll be able to thrash them whenever the chance arrives. Show them that being a bastard doesn't make you any less than them and the such," I encouraged him, looking up at the clear and starry night sky above. Walking back to where I'd picked up the dulled sword, I put it back where it belonged and turned to Jon who seemed to be deep in thought, "I'll be going then. Farewell for now, Jon Snow," I called out to him before walking off toward my chambers.

Yawning, I gave a light stretch as I thought about the hunting tomorrow. I'd most likely be going with them but it'd be the older generation hunting together and the younger generation hunting together. Meaning I'd be with Robb and probably Theon while Ned and Robert speak about things.

...I wonder if I could convince Robert to let Jon come along? Would be pretty fun to stir the pot like that. 'Bastard from the North dares go hunting with royalty'. I can already see the outrage.