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Finally alone in the room assigned to him, Tytan let out a long sigh of relief. He reached up, his fingers fumbling slightly with the stiff leather buckles holding his chest piece in place.
Clack, clack.
The buckles gave way, and he shrugged the shaped leather armor off, letting it fall onto a nearby wooden chair with a dull thud.
Next came the mail hauberk, heavier and more awkward. He wrestled it up over his head, the tiny metal rings whispering against each other, a sound like falling sand. He dumped it beside the leather armor.
Instantly, he felt lighter, almost like he could float. Tytan rolled his bare shoulders, stretching the muscles that had been bunched up under the weight and constriction.
Gods, it felt good to be free of it. That was always the damn problem with armor, he knew. The better it protected you, the more it weighed you down, the slower it made you. You traded safety for speed, protection for comfort.
A small, wry smile touched his lips. It was really a pity he hadn't kept the Curse of Achilles from… before. Having skin that no blade could pierce would be incredibly useful in a world like this, full of sharp steel and pointy arrows.
But sadly, whatever blessing he'd picked up wading through the River Styx down in Tartarus hadn't stuck with him when he woke up screaming as a baby in Westeros.
His other gifts, his demigod powers, those had come along for the ride, thankfully. But no magic skin. A shame.
Still, he thought, glancing at the pile of gear, the tough leather jerkin and the mail shirt he usually wore were way better than the full suit of plate armor he sometimes had to wear for tournaments or state occasions.
That stuff was like being trapped in a metal oven, heavy and clanking with every step. He honestly wasn't sure how guys like his uncle Jaime, or the rest of the Kingsguard, managed to wear that heavy plate day in and day out without going mad or collapsing from heatstroke.
Dedication, he supposed. Or maybe they were just used to being uncomfortable.
Shaking the thought off not his problem right now Tytan picked up the discarded armor pieces. He walked over to a simple wooden stand tucked in a corner of the room, meant for exactly this purpose.
As he draped the mail and leather over it, his nose wrinkled slightly. Ugh. The stale, sharp smell of old sweat clung to the inside linings.
Definitely needed a good cleaning. He made a mental note: find one of the Stark servants later, or maybe one of his own squires if they weren't busy, and get them to scrub this stuff down properly.
Turning back towards the center of the room, Tytan glanced at the large bed. It was covered in thick furs, looking warm and inviting against the northern chill filtering through the stone walls. But sleep wasn't an option yet.
There was the welcoming feast tonight, a big formal affair. He needed to get dressed in the clothes his mother had insisted on having made for this trip.
He walked over to a chest where his clothes had been laid out. A rich red leather jerkin, expertly stitched. It had the golden lion of Lannister embroidered proudly over the left breast, and the crowned black stag of Baratheon gleaming on the right.
Symbols of his divided heritage, plain for all to see. With it came tight black leather breeches, boots made of fine, soft leather that probably cost more than a farmer earned in a year, and the finishing touch a heavy, chunky gold chain meant to be worn around his neck.
Tytan picked up the chain, feeling its weight in his hand. It felt a bit much, definitely showy. Not really his style. He preferred practical, simple things.
But his mother had gone to the trouble of ordering it, and sometimes it was just easier to humour her than argue about clothes. He'd wear it. For tonight, anyway.
He was just about to start pulling on the breeches, standing there in nothing but his skin, when a sound interrupted him.
A light knock echoed on the heavy wooden door of his room.
Tap-tap-tap.
Tytan froze, raising an eyebrow. That was… odd. He specifically had two of his own guardsmen posted right outside that door.
Standard procedure. Their orders were clear: if anyone needed him, they were supposed to enter first, announce the visitor, and wait for Tytan's permission.
Nobody should be knocking directly like some serving girl. Confusion pricked at him. Who would ignore the guards?
"Come in," Tytan called out, his voice steady but laced with caution. He didn't move towards the door. Instead, still completely bare, he smoothly reached down beside the fur-covered bed.
His hand closed around the familiar, worn leather grip of his sword, which was propped up against the bedframe, always within easy reach.
It wasn't a fancy blade. No gold inlay, no jewels glittering on the pommel like you might expect a prince to carry. Just a practical, deadly bastard sword, about four feet of castle-forged steel honed to a razor edge.
Simple, reliable, and surprisingly undecorated. As his right hand tightened on the grip, ready to draw it from its simple sheath in an instant, he felt a familiar tingle in his other hand.
He subtly flexed his left fingers, drawing on his innate power.
The air around his palm seemed to shimmer slightly, growing colder as he pulled on the unseen moisture hanging in the room's atmosphere, gathering energy, preparing.
His sea-green eyes stayed locked on the door, sharp and focused, waiting to see who would walk through. Ready for anything.
As it turned out, though, all that cautious, the sword grip, the tingling power gathering in his hand, wasn't needed at all. Not for this visitor.
The heavy wooden door creaked open slowly, and instead of an assassin or an enemy soldier, the familiar figure of a stunning redhead stepped quietly into the room.
She wore a dark, hooded cloak pulled low over her face, trying to be unseen.
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