274 AC, Winterfell
POV: Brandon Stark
The day was cold, but dry. Perfect for training. Or — as it was now officially called — "Survive as the Stark heir".
Nine had already fallen.
Two were still lying in the mud, one was still trying to recover from choking, and the rest... well, their pride was buried somewhere deep — under snow, mud, and shame.
Now only Rodrik Cassel remained before me.
I took my position and lunged at him with my sword.
I didn't wait. I didn't analyze. I wasn't playing chess.
This was a moment for a brutal opening.
My sword — large, heavy, one could say a replica of Ice — cut through the air with a hiss, as if Winterfell itself held its breath.
Rodrik reacted quickly, as befits a veteran. He raised his long sword in a wide arc, clashing with me with a bang that echoed off the walls. Steel struck steel, and my arms burned from the force of the impact.
I moved to the side, taking heavy steps. In fighting with a greatsword, there was no room for dancing — only weight, feeling, patience. And the moment.
Rodrik pulled the blade along, changing position. He took the center. Classic. Certain. And predictable.
He attacked from above.
I blocked, tilting the sword and bending my legs — almost to a kneel.
I pushed him back and made a turn over my left shoulder, immediately continuing the swing.
It wasn't enough. This time, he moved first.
I reflexively raised my sword, blocked — and again felt the familiar pain in my forearms.
I pushed the blade away, jerked my shoulder, threw him off balance. He took a step to the side, but too slowly — I got under his sword, using the moment, and struck the flat of the blade against his hip.
The sound was satisfying.
Rodrik stepped back, breathed. He was no longer certain.
He narrowed his eyes.
This time, he moved first.
A side cut — quick, decisive. Block. Dodge. Another cut from above. I blocked, but I had to go down on my knee to withstand the force of the blow.
Rodrik pressed on.
Wide swings, controlled, strong — each could knock down an adult warrior. But I was still standing. Parrying. Avoiding. Sometimes even counterattacking.
I began to push him back.
I got under his guard, hit his side — with the flat of the blade, but hard.
Then again. Thigh. Shoulders. I felt it. He felt it too.
He shifted his weight to his back leg. Observed. Waited.
I attacked first. A false cut to the torso, then a low blow to the knee.
I hit.
And then I made a mistake.
I attacked again. Too quickly. Too confidently.
He went low, blocked my attack close to the hilt — and then pushed with his shoulder. My sword threw me off balance. I stepped back, trying to find my ground, but it was too late.
A blow to the side. With the flat of the blade. Hard. The air escaped my lungs. A second blow — to the knee. It buckled under me.
The third — the flat blade stopped just by my neck.
I fell to one knee. Breathing heavily. The sword dropped into the mud, and my hands trembled from the effort.
Rodrik didn't raise the blade. He stood, breathing just as heavily, with temples wet from sweat.
And then he said:
„You fought well. As if I were fighting alone... I wouldn't have defeated you."
He raised his gaze. There was no pride in his eyes. There was respect.
I nodded, catching my breath.
And then it happened.
A small hurricane in the form of my younger sister burst onto the courtyard. With windblown hair, mud on her knees, and determination worthy of a storm. Lyanna.
„Brandon!" she called out, breaking through the guards and two squires who wisely moved out of her way.
I hadn't managed to get up when she was already by my side. She looked from me to the sword, then back to me. Her eyes were sparkling.
„Teach me!" she said with enthusiasm that shouldn't fit in an eight-year-old's body. „How to fight like that! With that big sword! And do those turns! And strikes from below! I saw everything!"
Rodrik burst out laughing, and I was about to respond when a new figure emerged from behind Lyanna.
„Brandon!" Benjen called out, running across the courtyard with a look as if he had just discovered fire. „Brandon, I saw! You knocked down almost everyone!"
Benjen was still saying something, gesturing like a madman, but I didn't have time to listen.
„Brandon!" a new voice rang out. Quiet, but with a tone that no one in Winterfell ignored.
I looked towards the gallery. Mother was standing there.
Lady Lyarra Stark. In a cloak lined with white fur, with her arms crossed over her chest and a gaze that could stop a storm.
„Leave him alone" she said calmly, but firmly. „Your father is calling you, Brandon. To the solar."
Everyone fell silent. Even Lyanna, who moments ago looked like she was about to build her own sword and throw herself at three opponents, now just sighed.
„But he was supposed to show me the strike from below..."
„Later" her mother replied, not raising her voice. „If your father calls, don't make him wait."
Getting up, I brushed the mud off my hands and put down the sword.
I headed towards my father's solar, passing my mother, but before I could move away, I heard her calm voice:
„You don't need to hurry. I came for these two." She nodded towards Lyanna and Benjen. „ They escaped from the maester as soon as they heard you were training."
Lyanna looked like she had something to say, but one look from her mother was enough. She sighed heavily and moved towards her, dragging Benjen behind her, who began to mumble something under his breath about the injustice of fate.
I didn't hurry.