The yard is alive with the sounds of clashing steel and the heavy thud of boots against packed dirt. Winterfell's guards and young squires gather to watch, leaning against the wooden railings, their breath misting in the cold air. The practice yard has always been a place of proving, where boys train to become men, where names are made and reputations are built. Today, it will be something else.
Robb and I face each other, our wooden practice swords gripped tightly in our hands. His expression is focused, but I see the flicker of unease beneath his confidence. He knows how this will end. He knows I am better. But not because I am stronger, we are nearly equal in that regard. It is because I am faster, more precise, and more adaptable. He fights like a wolf, all power and instinct, but I fight like a shadow, slipping past defenses and striking where the gaps appear.
Ser Rodrik's voice cuts through the murmurs. "Begin."
Robb lunges first, his sword cutting through the air in a wide arc. I sidestep easily, parrying with a sharp crack of wood against wood. He follows with another strike, heavier this time, trying to use his strength to push me back. I absorb the blow, twisting my wrist at the last second, and switch my grip to my left hand, bringing my sword down fast at his exposed side. Robb barely blocks in time, his boots digging into the dirt as he stumbles back.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd, and I hear Theon's amused chuckle. "Come on, Robb," he calls. "You can't let your little brother beat you, can you?"
I grit my teeth, pushing the sting aside. Robb grits his, too, but his face is red now, a flash of frustration in his eyes. He hates it when I switch hands mid-fight, a trick I picked up from a traveling sellsword who lived in Winter-town for a while, due to not being allowed to train with the others before. It confuses him, throws off his timing, and makes him look sloppy when he hesitates. And I know, in this moment, he can feel the weight of all the watching eyes, judging him.
I smile slightly, just enough for him to see. "You're hesitating, brother," I say, my voice light, teasing. "Thinking too much again."
His jaw clenches, and he lunges again, swinging with all his strength. I block and twist away, switching hands again as I pivot, my sword coming in low at his knee. He barely manages to deflect, but his footing is off. I step in, forcing him to react, driving him back step by step. He tries to match my pace, to anticipate my movements, but he is a fraction too slow, a fraction too predictable. And he knows it.
A flash of desperation flickers in his eyes. He hates that I am always a step ahead. It fuels him and makes him reckless. He tries to overpower me again, but I am already moving, ducking low and spinning behind him, my blade tapping lightly against his back before he can turn. Another point for me.
The crowd is silent, though I see the flickers of approval in some of the men's eyes. They are impressed, but they do not cheer. Not when Lady Stark is watching from the balcony above, her arms folded tightly across her chest. The wrong word, the wrong reaction, and any one of them could find themselves missing by the next morning. I see it in their faces—they know who I am, and more importantly, they know who I am not.
Robb breathes heavily, his frustration thick in the cold air between us. "Fight me properly," he snaps, anger seeping into his voice.
I tilt my head, gripping my sword loosely. "I am."
His grip tightens. "Stop switching hands like some damned sellsword."
I smirk. "If it works, why stop?"
His patience snaps. He lunges, feinting high before swinging low. It's a good move, a smart move. But it's one I've seen before. I meet his attack, blade to blade, our swords locking. He pushes, trying to force me back, but I hold my ground. For a moment, we are face to face, muscles straining, breath heavy. And I see it there, deep in his eyes—something that has always been between us but has never been spoken aloud.
Resentment.
It is not just his mother who hates me. Robb tries to fight it, tries to be the noble heir, the honorable son. But I see it now, as clear as the frost on the ground. He resents that I am here, that I am good at what I do, that no matter how much Lady Stark whispers in his ear, he cannot deny the truth: I am his equal.
And I hate him for it.
I let my anger fuel me, drawing strength from it as I break our lock and twist, sweeping his legs out from under him. He crashes to the ground, his sword clattering against the dirt. The crowd falls silent.
For a moment, all I hear is my own breathing. Robb looks up at me, his face flushed with exertion and something else—humiliation.
I extend a hand to help him up, but he slaps it away and pushes himself to his feet. His jaw is tight, his fists clenched. The sting of defeat is clear in his eyes. And then, he says it.
"You got lucky cheap tricks and all, but what do you expect from a bastard?"
The words hit harder than any blow he could have landed. A sharp, cutting wound that slices through the last shreds of belonging I have held onto. The yard is silent, all eyes on us. Robb's own face flickers with regret, but it is too late. The damage is done.
I nod once, feeling something inside me harden. Without a word, I turn and walk away. Behind me, I hear Ser Rodrik reprimanding Robb, hear Theon's low chuckle, hear the murmurs of the men. None of it matters.
Because in that moment, I realize something. Winterfell is not my home. It never was.
And it is time for me to leave.
Hours Later – Ned Stark's Perspective
The fire crackles in the hearth, but I barely hear it. I sit behind my desk, fingers steepled, listening as Maester Luwin delivers his daily reports. The usual: lessons, training, household affairs. Routine, expected. But when Luwin hesitates before speaking of today's sparring match, I already know it is something worth concern.
As he recounts the events, I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair. A frown settles deep on my face. I am disappointed—not in Jon for winning, but in Robb for allowing the whispers of others to shape his judgment. Jon is no threat to his place, no enemy to be cast aside. People are shaped by their upbringing, their circumstances. No one is born evil, no matter what the septons preach.
But to say so aloud—to act on that instinct—would only invite more strife. A fight with Catelyn would do no good, not for Jon, not for Robb. Yet, doing nothing feels just as wrong.
Perhaps I have been too distant. Perhaps it is time I take a firmer hand in their education. A hunt, I think. Time away from Winterfell's walls, where blades are turned on prey, not one another. Maybe shared purpose can mend what resentment has taken root.
Yes. A hunt may be just what they need, that and fatherly wisdom.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hope you enjoyed the chapter, their are more to come and if you would like to check out some of my other work try my other fanfiction Natures Deviation. Also would anyone be down for a Shadow Hunter fanfiction based on the show with an Male oc with book elements?.
PowerStones!!!!!