“Once more,” cried Rodrik Cassel, intent on seeing the arrogance washed out of the Greyjoy.
Theon spit muck from his mouth and lifted his sword.
This time he would not blindly jump in.
He circled more warily now, watching the shoulders and hips of Robb, not just the sword.
This drew a glimmer of approbation from Ser Rodrik, though the old knight said nothing.
Robb saw it too.
When there was shame involved, the youngster learned rapidly.
Well, somewhat.
Theon attacked with a feint to the left, then shifted the course of his stroke toward Robb’s ribcage.
It wasn’t pretty, but it was better than his first try.
Robb drew back and let the punch get close enough that Theon’s eyes lit with the appearance of accomplishment.
Then Robb went low; his blade swept downward, striking Theon across the shin with a sharp wooden crack.
Theon cried out and nearly collapsed, hopping back on one leg as he clutched at his wounded shin.
“I told you,” Robb said, smiling faintly.
“The leg suited you better.”
The watching boys laughed again, louder this time.
Theon’s face twisted with pain and fury again, and beneath it Robb felt his shame and resentment through the force.
A desperate hunger not to be weak in front of them.
Not to be laughed at.
Not to be the hostage boy, the squid, the unwanted guest tolerated beneath another man’s roof.
It was almost pitiful.
“Almost” being the key word.
Rodrik Cassel stepped forward before Theon could do something foolish.
“Enough. Greyjoy, walk it off before you make that leg worse. Stark, lower your sword, and you two shake on it.”
“Yes, Ser Rodrik,” he said.
“Strength is not only the point of practice,” the master-at-arms said, his voice rough enough to carry across the yard.
“Nor is showing off. You learn to fight so you may live long enough to protect those who stand beside and behind you. Remember that, all of you.”
Several boys muttered agreement.
Robb bowed his head, the picture of disciplined humility.
Inside, Palpatine almost laughed.
Protecting others.
Duty.
Honor.
Noble lies repeated so often that men forgot they were chains.
Eddard Stark had built his entire life around such ideas, and now he raised his children to kneel before them as if they were gods.
But power did not exist to protect weakness.
Power existed to decide what weakness was allowed to survive and what didn’t.
Power talked.
Theon limped back into line, still glaring.
Robb met his stare and held it just long enough for the Greyjoy heir to look away first.
Another small victory, but he wasn’t here to make an enemy of the squid.
But it was another strand tautened.
“Your turn, Jon?” Robb turned to his brother (cousin) to say.
The yard quieted slightly.
Jon glanced at Ser Rodrik, then stepped forward and took up his practice sword.
Rodrik grunted.
“Go ahead Jon—”
Robb looked at him.
Even though he was aware of Robb’s preference for him, he still expected his brother to treat him similarly to most of the lads here.
Robb seldom made sparring easy for anybody, particularly those he considered friends or closer.
But Robb had been acting differently toward him over the last few weeks.
Except for Father, Robb had appeared the most conscious of Jon’s position at Winterfell of all the family.
The uneasy silences The name he didn’t like.
Lady Catelyn’s presence can turn a warm hall frigid, serving as a constant reminder of his place in her eyes.
Robb saw those things, and he didn’t ignore them.
And more than that, he had made a special effort to make Jon feel the contrary.
He talked to him more, he exercised with him longer, and he listened when others didn’t.
Occasionally, when it was quiet, he’d tell Jon he’d show him something amazing someday, something only a few rare ones like them could do.
“They were distinct,” Robb always remarked, and special; he often lectured him as if he were Maester Luwin and they were not of the same age.
Robb smiled politely.
“Of course, brother. I wouldn’t trick you now on my honor.”
Jon heard the words.
He likely knew they meant nothing, and he snorted mentally.
The bastard boy raised his blade, both hands steady around the grip.
He did not sneer like Theon.
He did not charge like Cley.
He stood still, guarded and patient, watching Robb as if the yard around them had disappeared.
Jon Snow would not be as easy to humiliate; he wasn’t as arrogant as the others.
Sorry for the short Chapter.