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Hearing Theon's crude, bitter words about Ros calling her a bitch, a dog in heat Tytan felt a sudden flash of hot anger flare up inside him.
He had to physically restrain himself, clenching his jaw for a second, fighting the urge to just deck the arrogant little prick right then and there.
Knock him flat on his arse in the dirt. He didn't appreciate anyone talking about Ros like that, especially not some frustrated, spoiled noble brat who couldn't handle being turned down.
Even if Tytan had only known Ros for a short while himself, he respected her, enjoyed her company, and certainly wouldn't stand for her being insulted like common trash.
But… they were about to spar anyway. Tytan took a slow, calming breath. Fine. He wouldn't punch Theon now.
He'd just make sure to be… extra rough… maybe accidentally land a few harder blows than necessary during their practice bout later.
Payback could wait a few minutes. Instead of showing his anger, Tytan forced a casual, almost sympathetic expression onto his face.
"Well," he said lightly, deciding to throw out an old saying from his past life, just to see their reaction, "you know what they say, Greyjoy. Plenty more fish in the sea, right?"
As the words left his mouth, both Theon and Robb just stared back at him, blank looks of confusion on their faces.
Fish? Sea?
What the hell was the Prince talking about?
Clearly, that particular saying hadn't made it to Westeros yet. Before either of them could ask him to explain the strange expression, Tytan smoothly shifted his attention, turning deliberately towards the third young man in their group. Jon Snow.
The shorter, dark-haired boy was still standing there silently, looking pretty miserable, his gaze fixed on the ground.
He glanced up quickly as he realized the Crown Prince was now looking directly at him, then immediately looked away again, his shoulders hunching slightly.
"So," Tytan began, his tone curious but friendly, "you're Jon Snow then? The famous bastard of Winterfell I heard about last night?" He watched Jon's reaction closely.
As expected, the boy's already present scowl deepened instantly at hearing the blunt title used so casually.
Clearly a bit thin-skinned about his birth status, Tytan noted. Didn't like being reminded he was a bastard, even though, well, he was a bastard.
"Aye," Jon replied, his voice quiet but with a definite cold edge to it. He finally lifted his head fully, meeting Tytan's gaze directly. The scowl remained firmly in place.
"And you're the Crown Prince." His grey eyes, so like Robb's and Lord Stark's but somehow colder, flicked quickly up and down Tytan's form, taking in the quality of his mail, the expensive leather armor, the dragon bone hilted sword at his hip. Assessing him.
"That I am," Tytan acknowledged easily, nodding. He was already starting to get a little bored with the bastard's constant scowling and prickly attitude.
Self-pity was one thing Tytan had absolutely no patience for. Time to change the subject.
"So," Tytan continued, his voice becoming more cheerful, "Robb here was telling me last night you're supposed to be a damn good fighter? Holds his own against anyone in Winterfell, he said."
"I do alright," Jon replied stiffly, his tone immediately becoming defensive, guarded. As if he expected Tytan to follow up the comment with mockery or dismissal. "Lord Stark made sure I was trained from a young age, alongside Robb."
"Good," Tytan said briskly. "Then we'll definitely need to put that training to the test today, won't we?" He glanced over at Robb with a grin.
"I did promise last night, after all. Told Robb I'd buy a drink for any man here who could actually manage to land a clean blow on me during these spars. Bastards included," he added pointedly, his eyes flicking back to Jon.
Jon's head snapped up at that, his eyes widening slightly in genuine surprise. "You… you would actually fight a bastard?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief. The idea seemed completely foreign to him.
"I did just say I would, didn't I?" Tytan replied with another casual shrug.
As he spoke, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his brother Joffrey, over on the other side of the yard, had stopped his sneering conversation with the Hound.
Joffrey was now staring over at Tytan, a look of clear disapproval twisting his petulant features.
Obviously, the idea of the Crown Prince lowering himself to spar with a lowborn bastard offended Joffrey's delicate sense of propriety.
Tytan couldn't give less of a damn what Joffrey thought. "Why wouldn't I?" Tytan continued, addressing Jon again.
"Makes no difference to me. Besides, think about it. If I ever end up on a real battlefield, am I more likely to be fighting some fancy highborn lord in shining armor, or some common bastard foot soldier swinging an axe? Those common soldiers tend to outnumber us nobles quite a bit, wouldn't you say?"
Jon just grunted softly at that, a low sound in his throat. He didn't smile, but the hard defensive look in his eyes softened just a fraction. He gave Tytan another short, curt nod, acknowledging the logic in his words. He had a point.
Holding back another sigh gods, this bastard was hard work, not exactly Mr. Personality Tytan decided to change targets again.
He looked over at his uncle Jaime, who had been standing silently nearby, watching the exchange with his usual unreadable expression.
Tytan's own face broke into a grin as he noticed Jaime looked… well, a bit tired himself this morning. Maybe the Kingsguard weren't immune to hangovers after all.
His usual dry wit seemed to be missing, replaced by a look of quiet endurance, just going through the motions of guarding his princely nephew.
"What about you, Uncle?" Tytan called out cheerfully. "Fancy joining the fun? Dust off that golden armor? It's been too long since you and I had a proper chance to spar."
Jaime Lannister shifted slightly, his plate armor clanking softly. He moved casually over to lean against a nearby stone wall, crossing his arms over his gleaming breastplate.
His white cloak dragged slightly in the muddy dirt at the edge of the yard. "Tempting offer, nephew," Jaime replied, his voice dry as dust, though maybe lacking its usual sharp edge.
"But I think I'll give it a pass for today. Prefer to watch the young lions and wolves test their claws."
"Suit yourself," Tytan replied with another shrug, not particularly surprised.
"Alright then," Ser Rodrik Cassel spoke up then, stepping forward into the center of the small group. The experienced Master-at-Arms eyed Robb, Theon, and Jon, then Tytan, assessing their readiness.
His gaze lingered for an extra moment on the weapons belted at Tytan's waist the long bastard sword and the Valyrian steel dagger.
He noticed, as Tytan knew he would, that both blades looked sharp, deadly real. "Who'll go first?" Ser Rodrik asked gruffly. He then looked directly at Tytan.
"Though, Your Grace, if you are going to fight these lads, I must request you use proper training blades. Blunted steel. I don't want any of you boys cutting each other to strips out here. Accidents happen, even in practice."
Tytan shrugged again, perfectly agreeable. He wasn't here to actually injure anyone. "Fair enough, Ser Rodrik." He unbuckled his sword belt, the heavy bastard sword and the priceless dagger hanging in their sheaths.
He walked over to where Jaime was leaning against the wall and handed the whole belt over to his uncle.
"Hold these for me?" Jaime took them without a word. Tytan wasn't bothered about using the practice weapons.
They were usually a bit heavier and less balanced than real swords, which would just make it slightly more challenging. Fine by him.
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