Chapter 27: Truth Lesson
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This time, though, Robb was ready. Or at least, readier.
Seeing the lunge coming, he reacted instantly, throwing his shield forward and slightly to the side, managing to intercept Tytan's incoming blade with a solid thwack of wood and iron.
The parry wasn't elegant, more desperate than skilled, but it worked, deflecting Tytan's thrust just past his side. With a defiant shout, Robb immediately tried to seize the initiative, launching his own counter-attack with a quick, hopeful slash aimed at Tytan's exposed arm.
It was a valiant effort, but it didn't even come close to catching Tytan off guard. With what looked like barely a single, effortless movement, Tytan's own blade danced up, meeting Robb's incoming strike with a contemptuous flick of the wrist.
Clang!
Robb's sword was batted away easily, leaving him slightly overbalanced. Tytan didn't even seem to be looking directly at Robb's blade; his eyes seemed calm, almost absentminded, as if he could simply feel where the attack was coming from, anticipate Robb's movements before they even fully formed.
For the next minute or so, Robb threw himself into the attack, trying desperately to land a blow, any blow. He slashed high, stabbed low, feinted left and went right, pouring all his training and youthful energy into a flurry of strikes.
But it was useless. Tytan met every single attack with infuriating ease. His own blade work was incredibly quick, brutally efficient, almost like a machine.
Parry, deflect, block, shift each movement was precise, economical, leaving absolutely no openings in his defense. Robb felt like he was hammering against a stone wall that occasionally flicked his sword away like an annoying fly.
After letting Robb tire himself out for about a minute, Tytan clearly decided playtime was over. He switched instantly from defense to offense.
Without any warning, his practice sword lashed out, not in wild swings, but in a series of sharp, precisely aimed blows.
He wasn't just blocking anymore; he was actively attacking Robb's sword, flicking and deflecting Robb's desperate parries away with controlled force, deliberately creating openings, forcing Robb's blade out of position, leaving his chest and shoulders momentarily exposed.
Robb found himself completely on the defensive again, unable to launch any attacks of his own. All he could do was huddle behind his shield, weathering the relentless storm of Tytan's blows.
Clang!
Thud!
Clang!
The heavy practice sword hammered against his shield again and again, each impact jarring his arm, making his muscles scream.
His breath started coming in ragged gasps, his arms burning with fatigue. He could feel his shield getting heavier with every passing second.
Seeing Robb faltering, Tytan suddenly drove forward with his shield again, just like he had earlier.
THUMP!
He slammed his shield face-first into Robb's shield once more. The force of the blow knocked Robb staggering back yet again, breaking his low, defensive stance and leaving him wide open for a crucial moment.
But unlike the last time Tytan had done this, this time there was no pause, no teasing comment, no chance for recovery.
Capitalizing instantly on the opening he'd created, Tytan moved with a speed that seemed almost impossible for someone his size wearing armor.
He darted forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His practice sword found the gap in Robb's staggering defense a small, vulnerable spot between the top edge of Robb's leather breastplate and the rounded shoulder piece, known as a pauldron.
Thwack!
The blunted steel sword struck hard against the mail shirt underneath, right on the point of Robb's shoulder.
Following up immediately, before Robb could even register the hit properly, Tytan lashed out again, this time with the edge of his shield, a brutal backhand blow aimed at Robb's legs.
The impact swept Robb clean off his feet, sending him crashing down onto his arse in the dirt for the second time, shield flying one way, sword skittering the other.
"And that'll do!" Ser Rodrik Cassel shouted loudly, stepping forward quickly, his voice sharp with authority. He looked between the victorious Prince standing over the downed Stark heir, then back at Robb sprawled on the ground.
As the spar officially ended, a wave of polite clapping broke out from the onlookers gathered around the edges of the training yard.
A few of the Baratheon and Lannister guardsmen let out louder cheers and whoops for their Prince, celebrating his easy victory over the Heir of the North.
Not that the outcome was really a surprise to anyone present. Even way up here in the isolated North, stories of Crown Prince Tytan's legendary fighting skills were well-known.
He was rumored to be one of the best warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, maybe the best. Today, they'd seen proof.
"Good fight, Robb," Tytan said, his voice normal again, no longer holding that sharp edge of combat focus.
He calmly stabbed the tip of his borrowed training sword into the hard earth beside him, freeing up his hand. He then reached down and offered it to Robb, helping pull the younger man back to his feet.
Robb took the offered hand, grunting slightly as he got up. He automatically reached up to rub his left shoulder where Tytan's final blow had landed.
A dull ache was already beginning to spread from the impact point.
The blunted practice sword hadn't been sharp enough to cut through his mail shirt, thankfully, but the force behind the blow had definitely been enough to leave a nasty bruise forming underneath.
"Yeah… you too," Robb replied, managing a slightly breathless grin despite the soreness and the defeat.
He turned and retrieved his own dropped sword, leaning on it for a second. He looked back at Tytan, genuine respect shining in his eyes now, any lingering trace of hangover completely gone.
"Have to say, Prince Tytan… you really are as good as they say. Maybe even better. I barely even felt like I had a chance out there." He acknowledged the skill difference honestly, without bitterness.
Tytan gave a slight nod, sensing Robb might be feeling a bit down about how quickly and easily he'd been beaten. "Don't be too downhearted about it," Tytan advised kindly.
"Truth is, most real fights don't last much longer than that anyway. Very few battles turn into long, drawn-out duels like in the songs. Usually, on a real battlefield, a fight is decided in the first couple of blows, maybe even the first one. Or," he added realistically, "it gets interrupted by someone else charging in, arrows flying, the general chaos of a proper melee. A single mistake, no matter how skilled you are, can leave just enough of an opening to end things right then and there." He spoke the simple truth, hoping to offer some perspective.
"I suppose," Robb grunted again, looking up at Tytan thoughtfully, considering his words. He straightened up, his pride stinging a little perhaps, but his spirit seemingly undimmed.
"Well," he said, a challenging glint returning to his eyes as he nodded towards the edge of the yard, "now you have to face off with Jon. He might actually give you a real match."
Tytan followed Robb's gaze and smiled wryly. "I welcome the challenge," he murmured.
Sure enough, Jon Snow was already walking onto the training yard, picking up a practice sword and shield from the racks.
His expression was set in a deep, serious scowl, very reminiscent of his father, Lord Eddard Stark.
He gave Tytan a flat, unreadable look as he took his position in the center of the yard, clearly ready, and maybe even eager, for his turn. This might be more interesting.
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