Sansa Stark could scarcely believe her own behavior from the previous night.
That she had been so forward—after knowing the prince for mere hours—seemed now like the actions of some other, bolder girl who had briefly inhabited her body. The very memory brought heat rushing to her cheeks.
A night's sleep had restored her customary reserve, the careful composure expected of a highborn maiden. Today, she dared not risk being alone with the prince again, though separation from him left an unfamiliar emptiness in her chest, rendering all other activities dull and lifeless.
She found compromise in a secluded spot upon the covered bridge connecting the Great Keep to the armory. From its narrow windows, she could gaze adoringly at her golden prince while maintaining a proper distance. The bridge offered an unobstructed view of Winterfell's training yard spread below like a map for her inspection.
Her enjoyment would have been complete if not for Arya's unwelcome presence nearby, her little sister's excited commentary an irritating distraction from Sansa's romantic musings.
In the yard below, Prince Tommen and Bran Stark circled one another, wooden practice swords gripped tightly in small hands. Both boys were wrapped in padded leather, their faces flushed with exertion beneath helms that seemed too large for their heads. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's white-bearded master-at-arms, stood between them, calling instruction and ensuring the match remained within bounds.
Sansa paid the younger boys little mind, her gaze fixed solely upon Prince Joffrey, who observed from the edge of the yard with languid grace.
The small combatants had been clumsily exchanging blows for quite some time when finally, the slightly heavier Tommen overextended and toppled forward. Bran was quick to seize his advantage, pressing his wooden blade against the prince's chest with a triumphant smile.
Arya gave a whoop of approval, pounding her small fist against the stone sill. "Well struck, Bran!" she shouted, though her voice could scarcely carry to the yard below.
Ser Rodrik turned toward the sidelines, his voice carrying clearly in the cold morning air. "Your Highness, Crown Prince, and Lord Robb—would Your Graces honor us with another bout?"
The knights and retainers surrounding Joffrey exchanged knowing glances, several laughing behind gloved hands. An earlier match had seen the Crown Prince triumph over Robb Stark with surprising ease. Had it been a duel to first blood rather than first yield, the heir to Winterfell would have found himself thoroughly bested.
Joffrey silenced his men's discourtesy with a subtle gesture. "Let us vary the challenge," he called. His eyes scanned the watching faces until they settled on one in particular. "Theon? Would you care to cross blades?"
Theon Greyjoy, a youth of nineteen with sharp features and the salt-sea look of the Iron Islands about him, started visibly at being singled out.
"Me?" he asked with poorly concealed surprise. "Prince Joffrey, surely you've mistaken your man?"
Joffrey's confidence was palpable even at a distance.
The punishing training regimen imposed by his uncle Jaime over the past month had not been endured in vain. Beyond mere effort, the spiritual enhancements bestowed by his growing collection of runes had significantly amplified his natural aptitude. He knew with absolute certainty that his swordsmanship now approached that of the renowned Kingslayer himself.
Whatever disadvantage he might suffer in experience, his physical advantages more than compensated. The arcane energy generated daily by the Growth Rune steadily increased his strength, while his expanding mental capabilities allowed for unprecedented control over his body's movements. Even without resorting to his more obvious magical abilities, his current martial prowess exceeded that of any ordinary man.
Joffrey and Theon strode to the center of the yard, where stable boys rushed forward to assist with protective padding and helm straps.
Both contestants took up blunted practice swords, circling one another with measured steps, each seeking weakness in the other's stance.
The watching crowd grew still with anticipation.
Theon was the elder by several years, with the benefit of extensive training and natural ability honed through countless hours in the practice yard. Yet the Crown Prince had already demonstrated his skill by besting Robb Stark. The match promised to be fiercely contested.
Joffrey had resolved to end this contest swiftly, to teach the Greyjoy heir a lesson in humility he would not soon forget.
Though he had not come to Winterfell specifically to demonstrate his martial prowess, such a display would serve his larger purpose—to leave an indelible impression upon these future players in the great game. He would make them wary of opposing him, perhaps even secure their loyalty through a carefully balanced mixture of intimidation and reward.
For one like Theon—insecure beneath his arrogance, hungry for validation yet fearful of rejection—a sound defeating followed by calculated magnanimity might prove the most effective approach.
The two combatants locked eyes across five paces of churned earth.
Joffrey seized his moment, exploding forward with startling speed, closing the distance in the space of a heartbeat. His wooden sword became a blur of motion, raining blows upon his opponent with inhuman swiftness.
Theon glimpsed only a flicker of movement before impact.
The clack of wooden blades striking together grew impossibly rapid, each impact reverberating through the yard like summer hail upon a castle roof. The onlookers could almost hear the practice swords groaning under strain, threatening to splinter from the force of the exchange.
Theon fell back upon years of training, desperately maintaining his grip as he parried blow after punishing blow. "Impossible," he gasped, the word torn from him by shock rather than addressed to any listener.
He could not reconcile what he witnessed with what he knew to be true. However tall and well-formed the prince might be, he remained a boy of twelve. How could such monstrous strength reside in those young limbs?
Yet the evidence was undeniable—Theon's arms had gone numb from absorbing the impacts, and each step carried him further backward across the yard.
With a sharp crack that echoed off the stone walls, Theon's wooden sword shattered into fragments. He staggered backward, regaining his balance only to stand dumbfounded as reality asserted itself.
The Crown Prince's practice blade rested against his throat, positioned for a killing stroke had they fought with steel.
From her vantage point on the bridge, Sansa's face glowed with adoration. "I knew it," she whispered, more to herself than to her sister. "My prince is surely the most extraordinary of men."
Beside her, Arya pursed her lips, unimpressed.
In the yard below, those who had accompanied Joffrey from King's Landing applauded without restraint, while even the Stark men muttered appreciative comments to one another.
"Truly his father's son," one northman remarked. "The Demon of the Trident has found a worthy successor."
"King Robert's warhammer struck terror throughout the Seven Kingdoms," another agreed. "It seems the Crown Prince will inherit not only his father's crown but his reputation as well. The realm shall prosper under such strength."
Theon Greyjoy stood rooted to the spot, his mind struggling to process his defeat.
Though he lived as a ward—some might say hostage—in Winterfell, often bearing the brunt of jests and sidelong glances, Theon had never doubted his own abilities.
I am the heir to the Iron Islands, he reminded himself, born of the ironborn, strong as the sea!
His skill with bow and blade had never been questioned. Even Robb Stark, raised from birth to be a warrior lord, could not consistently best him in the training yard.
Yet now, in the space of moments, he had been thoroughly humiliated by a boy barely past his twelfth nameday.
Theon felt the last vestiges of his pride crumbling beneath the weight of this defeat. A storm of conflicting emotions boiled within him, temporarily washing away all awareness of rank and propriety.
"Real steel!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "Do you dare to face me with real swords, Baratheon?"
Ser Rodrik strode forward, his face darkening with anger. "Theon! Have you lost your wits entirely? Only blunted blades are permitted in the practice yard. Accept your defeat with what grace you can muster!"
Robb Stark moved to intercept his foster-brother, concern evident on his face. "Peace, Theon. Control yourself—do not compound error with insult to the Crown Prince."
Most onlookers regarded the scene with cold detachment, recognizing the pathetic display for what it was.
Joffrey, however, appeared unbothered by the outburst.
"No matter," he said with casual indifference. "If Greyjoy wishes to test his mettle against true steel, I am more than willing to oblige."
He paused, allowing his gaze to settle on Theon's flushed face. "A word of caution, however. My blade is no common sword—it could shatter yours with minimal effort. Any consequences will rest upon your own head."
Theon's smile twisted into something closer to a grimace.
Joffrey glanced toward his sworn shield, who stood watching from the edge of the yard. "Sandor," he called.
The Hound stepped forward, bearing Joffrey's personal weapon across his massive palms.
Every eye in the practice yard fixed upon the approaching sword.
Joffrey extended his right hand and closed it around the hilt of Dragonflame.
With the whisper of metal against scabbard, a streak of brilliant white light seemed to emerge from thin air, momentarily dazzling those watching too intently.
As the prince lowered the blade into his shadow, its full splendor became visible to all.
The assembled crowd fell silent, captivated by what they beheld.
Dark, mysterious patterns rippled across the blade's surface, while an eerie crimson light flickered within its depths, as though a living flame had been imprisoned in steel.
A Valyrian steel sword? many wondered. Yet even that rare substance held no comparison to the beauty and nobility of the weapon before them.
Theon, already diminished in the eyes of the onlookers, now found himself utterly forgotten as attention shifted entirely to the prince's magnificent blade.
Robb and several others renewed their efforts to dissuade Theon from this foolhardy challenge.
Though Theon himself felt the shadow of inevitable defeat looming over him, his pride prevented retreat. Having come this far, he must see the matter through, regardless of the outcome.
After considerable delay, an attendant reluctantly provided Theon with a standard steel longsword from the armory.
Joffrey remained motionless in the center of the yard, watching with evident amusement as Theon advanced and retreated experimentally. The prince appeared so unconcerned that he even found leisure to raise a hand in greeting toward the covered bridge.
Sansa gasped softly and shrank back against the stone wall beside the window. How had he known she watched from this hidden vantage point?
Arya snickered at her sister's discomfiture, earning herself a sharp glare.
The spectators surrounding the practice yard had grown restless, some calling for Theon to either attack or yield with what little dignity remained to him.
Theon drew a deep breath, as if preparing to plunge into icy water. With a strangled cry, he launched himself toward Joffrey, his sword held high.
Dragonflame danced through the air to meet him, leaving a trail of crimson light like the tail of a falling star.
Metal met metal with a sharp clang, followed immediately by the clatter of steel upon stone.
The upper half of Theon's sword had been cleaved away with a single stroke, tumbling to the ground at his feet. He managed only a few more desperate parries before the remainder of his truncated blade was similarly dislodged from his grip.
The conclusion had never been in doubt, yet the observers remained stunned by the effortless shearing of good castle-forged steel.
If such a blade were carried into battle, how many lives might it claim? How much blood might it drink before being sated? The thought sent a chill through even the most hardened warriors present.
Joffrey sheathed Dragonflame with a fluid motion that spoke of long practice.
Robb, Jon, and Theon all stood nearby—the perfect opportunity for his next gambit.
"Mere sparring holds little interest," the prince announced, loud enough for all to hear. "Single combat is best left to men-at-arms and sworn swords."
He paused, allowing anticipation to build.
"I've conceived of a game far better suited to men of our station."
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