Robb Stark swung his blunted practice sword in a heavy, satisfying arc, the air whistling with the force of it. The clang of steel on steel echoed across the yard as Theon Greyjoy met the blow with a quick, flashy parry, laughing as he did.
"Too slow, Stark!" Theon taunted, his grin wide. "A kraken would have you in its coils before you could land a blow like that."
Robb just grunted, resetting his stance. Sparring with Theon was a release, a necessary escape. Here in the yard, with steel in hand, he wasn't the heir to Winterfell, the boy who had to sit through his father's lessons on vassalage and crop yields. He was just Robb, a boy testing his strength against his friend, free from the weight of the North settling on his shoulders like a winter cloak. Theon, with his swagger and salt-laced jests, was an easy companion. He didn't carry the weight of the world in his eyes; he carried the thrill of the sea, and for a few precious hours, it was enough to wash away Robb's own burdens.
Lately, Robb had found himself needing that lightness more and more. His gaze drifted across the yard to where Jon—his half-brother—stood watching them, half-hidden in the shadow of the armory.
A familiar pang of guilt and frustration twisted in Robb's gut. The relief he'd felt when Jon had woken after the boar attack had been immense, a suffocating weight lifted from his chest. But in the weeks since, that relief had soured into quiet unease. It wasn't that Jon had become more sullen; he had always been the more somber of the two. His melancholy had been a known quantity, a familiar silence at the dinner table that Robb had learned to live with, even find comfort in. It was an unspoken grief for the mother Jon never knew and the name he couldn't have.
But this was different. The silence that clung to Jon now was not born of sadness. It was sharp, focused, and watchful. It showed in his movements—a startling new grace that made almost no sound on the stone flags, as if he were consciously erasing his presence. It was in his eyes, which seemed distant, fixed on something no one else could see. The old Jon had been a shadow in the corner of the room. This new Jon felt like a predator waiting in the trees, utterly still and unnervingly alert.
"Your turn, Jon!" Robb called out, his voice a little too loud in an attempt to connect with him. "Come, knock some of the rust off."
Jon pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. As he walked toward them, Robb was struck again by the subtle contradictions of his brother's appearance. He had the long face and dark, curling hair of a Stark, but his features were sharper, his build leaner, almost too refined for the rugged men of the North. And then there were his eyes—a deep, piercing violet, a color so unusual it was unsettling, a constant reminder that he was only half a Stark, a living piece of a story Robb was not allowed to know.
"Don't go easy on him, Robb," Theon said, clapping Robb on the shoulder as he stepped away.
Robb frowned at the comment but let it slide. Theon was always looking for a weakness to poke at, a way to remind everyone that Jon was the outsider, perhaps to make his own status as a ward feel less like that of a prisoner. Jon didn't even seem to hear the jibe, his focus entirely on the task at hand. He picked up a blunted longsword from the rack, testing its weight with a fluid motion. He met Robb's eyes across the small, circular training ground.
"Ready?" Robb asked, settling into his powerful stance. This was his element. He was a Stark of Winterfell, built broad and strong. His strategy was simple: overwhelming force, driving his opponent back until their guard broke under the relentless pressure. It was the way of the North—unyielding and direct.
"Ready," Jon replied, his own stance lighter, more fluid. Where Robb was an advancing shield wall, Jon was a coiled spring.
Robb opened with a powerful overhead chop, a blow meant to test Jon's strength and re-establish their familiar dynamic. In the past, Jon would have met it with a solid, two-handed block, the impact jarring them both in a contest of strength Robb always won.
But this time, Jon didn't block.
At the last possible second, he shifted his weight, a subtle pivot of his back foot. His sword moved in a short, precise arc, not to stop the blow, but to deflect it. A sharp, ringing ting of steel cut through the air, a sound completely different from the usual dull clang of practice swords. Robb's blade was turned aside, its momentum carrying it wide, leaving him momentarily off-balance and exposed.
Robb stared, his mind struggling to process what had happened. It wasn't a block; it was a redirection. It had felt… effortless. As if Jon hadn't absorbed the force of the blow at all, but simply guided it away. Where had he learned that? Ser Rodrik taught a straightforward, brutal style of combat, not these delicate, precise movements.
"Lucky move," Robb grunted, a flicker of irritation sparking in his chest. He recovered his balance and pressed the attack, a series of powerful, driving slashes meant to overwhelm Jon with sheer aggression.
But it happened again. And again. Each time Robb's sword came down, seeking to overpower, Jon met it with that same unnerving precision. Ting. Ting. Ting. Robb felt like he was hammering against a wall of water. His strength, his greatest asset, was being rendered useless. Jon wasn't matching his power; he was simply negating it, turning Robb's own force against him with an economy of motion that was both frustrating and, on some level, beautiful to watch.
Frustration mounting, Robb feinted left and brought his sword around in a wide, sweeping arc aimed at Jon's legs. It was a faster, more difficult blow to counter. But Jon seemed to anticipate it, hopping back a single step, the wind from Robb's blade whistling harmlessly past his shins. He hadn't overreacted; he had moved just enough.
Robb lunged, putting all his weight behind a forward thrust. Jon didn't retreat. He parried it with that same infuriating ease and, as Robb's momentum carried him forward, Jon stepped inside the arc of the swing. The flat of his blade tapped against Robb's chest with a dull thud.
"Yield," Jon said, his voice quiet but firm.
Robb stood frozen, his sword held uselessly out to the side. He hadn't been overpowered. He'd been… dismantled. He looked at Jon, at the intense, unnerving focus in those violet eyes, and saw not just his quiet half-brother, but a swordsman of terrifying potential. The silence that surrounded Jon now didn't feel like melancholy anymore. It felt like focus. It felt dangerous.
"I yield," Robb admitted, the words tasting like ash. A new, unfamiliar respect was dawning, but it was mixed with a deep, brotherly concern. He still didn't understand what had changed in Jon since the attack, but he knew, with unshakeable certainty, that whatever secrets his brother now held, he would face them together. Jon was his brother. That was the only truth that mattered.