“Ouch! That hurt!” exclaimed eleven-year-old Cley Cerwyn when his fingers were hit by the wooden sword.
He clasped his hand, his training sword falling from his fingers onto the mud, tears already brimming in his eyes.
Look at him,” said Theon Greyjoy, with a snicker, and looked at the other boys.
“He’s going to whine like a baby.”
“Quiet, squid!” Cley yelped
The Cerwyn heir had been taken to Winterfell to be fostered on Eddard Stark, and in time he had fallen into the tiny circle of youths who gathered about Robb.
But that camaraderie had done nothing to shield him in the training yard.
The Sith Lord buried under Robb Stark’s flesh didn’t indulge, not even in those he thought might be of service.
Allies were good, but only if you could mold them into something useful.
If they could not improve themselves to a helpful standard, then their friendship meant little.
Theon Greyjoy was different.
But no less broken.
The youngster was an outcast in everything but name, a hostage heir to a fallen kingdom, son of a family that Robb took private pleasure in thinking of as nothing more than crowned pirates.
The Iron Islands were a kingdom in name only, a rough and backward civilization of raiders that would be corrected or destroyed in time.
Palpatine had begun to turn Theon’s mind away from the teachings of his upbringing, toward a new allegiance, a new way of thinking, and potentially a more useful future.
And then there was the problem of need.
If commerce along the western coast were ever to equal the richness of the eastern ports, the Ironmen would be more than a nuisance.
They would get dangerous.
And if dangers could not be contained, they had to be destroyed.
“Next, Theon,” remarked Rodrik Cassel.
Theon’s laugh dried up immediately.
The master-at-arms appeared to derive some little gratification from it.
He understood just how haughty and sharp-tongued the Greyjoy youngster could be, and he realized why none of the boys wanted to confront Robb in the yard.
The heir to House Stark was already a notorious figure in the yard.
He was obscene in his agility, deadly with his parries and lunges, and capable of quick backflips, somersaults, and acute evasive moves that made him a continual pain in the ass to combat.
It wasn’t just that Robb was speedy.
Even worse, he could switch up his style with disturbing ease.
In one instant he fought as Ser Rodrik had taught them, clean and disciplined in the northern style.
Then he changed to something more pointed, more bizarre, and considerably more pushy.
There was a mercilessness about him that made every spar feel less like training exercise and more like survival.
Robb turned his eyes to Theon and grinned fiercely.
“Don’t worry, Theon,” he said easily.
“I won’t attempt to break your fingers like I did Cley’s.”
“Be easy, Master Robb,” Ser Rodrik spoke in warning, and the young heir nodded in reply, though the predatory look didn’t leave his face.
“A hit on the leg would suit you better, wouldn’t it? You squids always talk about sea legs; let’s see if it’s true.” Robb taunted, and that made Jon and the other boys laugh.
Theon gulped and lifted his wooden sword, forcing himself into place.
Bring it on, Stark,” said the Greyjoy heir, attempting to sound bolder than he felt.
Robb snorted softly at his false courage.
“As you desire.”
Robb made the first move, pushing off from the balls of his feet and slipping into Theon’s space.
There was no cry, no warning, and no flourish of the blade, as if it were a theatrical performance.
He was standing a few feet off, wooden sword down in what seemed almost a casual gesture.
One heartbeat.
Next thing he knew, he was crossing the yard at scary speed, boots thumping the packed earth in a brief controlled surge.
Theon acted on impulse.
His sword rose to meet the first blow, and there was a loud crack of wood against wood.
The contact slammed his arms down, harder than he’d imagined, and his teeth crunched together.
Robb was smaller than some of the larger lads, but there was a peculiar power behind his strikes, a force that made every blow fall where it hurt most.
Theon pushed himself away and struck at Robb’s shoulder, but Robb was gone.
He ducked away, and the practice sword whistled through nothing but air.
Theon hissed, pulling back quickly.
“Too wide, greyjoy,” Robb said.
“Be quiet, Stark!” Theon let out a huff indignantly.
He lunged again, this time with more rage than judgment.
Robb fell back, step by measured step, letting Theon follow like a puppet.
It looked almost like the Greyjoy heir had gotten the upper hand on the lads viewing it.
He sprang forward, swinging again and again, pushing Robb across the yard toward the muddy spot by the outer ring.
Cley, still clutching his fingers, gazed with wide eyes
Theon was brave again, for a time.
Robb then went different.
He halted so quickly that Theon almost bumped into him.
Robb’s sword sprang up, turning Theon’s blow aside.
His shoulder rotated, his foot slipped beneath Theon’s ankle, and with a short, violent shove, he sent the Greyjoy heir flying backwards into the muck.
Theon lay flat on his back.
The lads who were watching laughed.
Even Rodrik Cassel’s whiskers trembled around his lips.
Theon’s face got crimson.
He climbed upright, mud smeared across his tunic and the back of his neck, his pride injured worse than his body.
“You tripped me,” he said, furiously.
Robb cocked his head innocently.
“You tumbled down.” The stark heir replied.
“I said, you tripped me!” Theon shouted again.
“And I said you fell down.” Robb said, as if comically denying the accusation
Theon strengthened his grasp on the wooden sword.
His eyes were apprehensive, and wrath flared in them for a moment.