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He leaned forward across the rough wooden table, deliberately looking away from his friend Robb Stark, who sat beside him, and fixing his gaze directly on Tytan. The smirk widened slightly.
…
Tytan took another sip of his wine, enjoying the dark, strong taste, when Theon Greyjoy's voice cut through the nearby chatter, a bit too loud, a bit too demanding of attention.
Tytan looked over at the Greyjoy heir, keeping his face neutral. He hadn't been particularly impressed by the arrogant swagger he'd seen from the boy so far tonight.
There was a restless, almost resentful energy about him. And maybe Tytan's opinion was already a bit soured by the dark stories everyone knew about House Greyjoy grim tales of treachery during the last big war, of raiding ships and coastal villages, pirates and killers staining their family name for generations.
The Iron Islands had a bad reputation for a reason, earned over centuries of blood and salt. "What's up?" Tytan asked coolly, setting his heavy silver goblet down on the rough wooden table.
"I heard…" Theon leaned further across the table, his somewhat bulging eyes gleaming with a mixture of drink and challenge in the flickering torchlight.
He swirled the wine in his own goblet, clearly enjoying the free-flowing drink and perhaps the boldness of questioning the Crown Prince directly.
A challenging smirk played on his thin lips.
"…that you're supposed to be one of the finest sword hands in all of Westeros. Maybe even the best they say down south. Is that true? Or just more pretty stories?"
Tytan just gave a slight, non-committal shrug, picking up his goblet again. He wasn't about to start boasting about his skills like some hedge knight.
"That's what some people say," he replied easily, taking another slow drink. Not denying it, but not confirming it either. Let the boy wonder.
"Hah! Just some people?" Robb Stark suddenly spoke up from beside Theon, leaning into the conversation. His cheeks were definitely flushed now from the wine, giving his normally serious face a more relaxed, open look.
A wide grin spread across his face as he looked over at Tytan, his grey eyes, so like his father's, holding a clear, friendly challenge.
"I thought everyone down south said you were practically unbeatable with a blade! Or are those just pretty tales they tell in the Red Keep to make the northern boys nervous?"
Tytan met Robb's gaze, a faint smile touching his own lips this time. He wasn't bothered by the young Stark's slightly drunken challenge; it felt more like youthful high spirits than any real aggression or disrespect. It was almost refreshing after the stiff courtliness he was used to.
"Well," Tytan replied smoothly, his voice calm amidst the growing noise of the feast hall, "you could always find out for yourself, couldn't you? Meet me in the training yard tomorrow morning? We can see if the stories hold up. If you're feeling lucky, that is…" He let the offer hang in the air, a subtle dare.
Robb let out a short bark of hearty laughter at that, slapping his hand down flat on the messy tabletop, rattling nearby plates.
"Done! You're on! I've never crossed swords with a proper southerner before, let alone a Prince. Should be… educational!"
Tytan just smiled again, nodding slightly in acceptance. The boy's confidence was… endearing, really. Admirable, in its own naive way.
But likely misplaced against someone with Tytan's training and experience real experience, not just practice yard spars. Still, Tytan wouldn't aim to embarrass him cruelly in front of his father's men.
He liked Robb's straightforwardness. But he would have to show him the difference in skill tomorrow. Not just to win, but because Robb seemed like a decent lad, the future Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
A hard lesson learned safely in the practice yard now was far better than learning about overconfidence when real lives were on the line in a real fight.
Better to understand your true limits before a battle, Tytan believed. Knowing what you needed to work on was more valuable than false pride.
"Well then," Tytan replied simply, raising his goblet in a slight toast. "You have that to look forward to." He took another slow drink of the strong northern wine, letting the warmth spread through him.
Around them, the noise level in the Great Hall was rising steadily as the rowdy guests got louder and more drunk with every passing hour.
Shouts, laughter, banging tankards, the occasional burst of off-key singing it was starting to grate on him. A part of him was already planning his exit strategy.
He'd done his duty, shown his face, eaten the food, drunk the wine, made polite conversation. Now… now he was thinking about the much more appealing company waiting for him upstairs. Yes, definitely time to slip away soon and delve back into the far more interesting pleasures of the flesh with Ros.
"Ha! I look forward to it!" Robb declared again, clearly excited by the prospect of testing his skills against the Crown Prince. He took another big gulp from his own tankard.
"It's just a pity you can't face my brother Jon too! Honestly, he's probably one of the best fighters in Winterfell, maybe even better than me some days!"
As Robb said this, Theon, sitting right next to him, let out a distinct, dismissive snort. It was quiet, but Tytan caught it easily.
Theon tried to cover it up quickly with a cough into his hand, but the contempt had been clear. Robb, however, seemed to either not notice or deliberately ignore it.
"Jon?" Tytan asked, setting his goblet down again, genuinely drawing a blank. He'd met Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, and Arya. He didn't recall a Jon among the Stark children presented earlier.
"Who's Jon?" Theon's barely hidden reaction made the question even more intriguing.
"Aye, Jon Snow. My bastard brother," Robb replied easily, with a simple shrug of his shoulders.
He seemed completely unconcerned about mentioning his father's illegitimate son, born outside of marriage, right here in front of the Crown Prince.
There was no shame or awkwardness in his voice, just simple fact. "He's dead set on joining the Night's Watch, you see. Wants to go guard the Wall. Been training like a madman for years, day in and day out, getting ready for it. He's really good with a sword," Robb repeated, his expression earnest.
"Who knows," he added thoughtfully, leaning back slightly, "he might even be able to give you a proper fight. Or he would, if… well," Robb hesitated for just a fraction of a second, "if he wasn't a Snow." The unspoken weight of that name, the difference between a Stark and a Snow, hung in the air for a moment, a reminder of the rigid lines drawn by birth and status in their world.
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