The training yard of Winterfell was alive with tension. A wide circle had formed, packed shoulder to shoulder with guards, servants, squires, and smallfolk who had abandoned their tasks to see what was promised. The air carried the sharp tang of cold iron and churned snow, and beneath it, the murmurs of men and women wagering whispers of coin and pride. Something was about to happen, and the yard knew it.
At the center of the ring, two figures faced one another.
On one side stood Medrick Manderly, son and heir of Desmond Manderly, a knight whose sword was already inked with the blood of foes. Broad of frame, confident in stance, Medrick had earned his place among the North's finest young warriors. His blade-hand did not shake, for he had faced battle and lived.
Opposite him waited Theon Stark, youngest son of Rickon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell. The boy's dark hair and brooding face bore the look of his house, yet his eyes were something else entirely — sharp, unblinking, and cold, like the edge of a drawn blade. Men swore, quietly, that when Theon looked at you it was as though a dozen unseen swords pressed against your skin.
The yard was full — not only soldiers and trainees, but townsfolk who had slipped in from the Winter Town. Even the foreign mountain surveyors lingered at the edges, curious to see whether the little lord carried his legend as well as his learning.
Above, on the stone balcony, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gilliane looked down with quiet gravity, their presence lending the match the weight of judgment. Beside them stood Desmond Manderly, proud but guarded, and Bennard Stark with his wife Margaret, their faces unreadable.
Around the ring, the chatter of soldiers thickened into open wagers. Stark retainers and Manderly men argued heatedly. The Manderly guards wagered with absolute faith in their heir, scoffing at the notion that a boy who had never tasted true battle could withstand him. A genius with quills and clever talk, perhaps — but a warrior was made on the battlefield, where blood stained the snow.
Yet the Stark men knew better. They had seen the young wolf fight. They had watched him break the pride of men twice his age, outmatch seasoned warriors with movements too sharp, too perfect, to belong to a child. Theon Stark didn't just defeat opponents — he dismantled them, cutting through not only their guard but their confidence.
Now the two faced each other, blades in hand, still as statues.
Into the circle stepped Martyn Cassel, voice carrying across the yard.
"Listen well. What you are about to witness is no tavern brawl. Lord Rickon and Lord Desmond themselves are watching, so mind your honor. No underhanded tricks. No fouls. Stop when your foe yields. Do you both understand?"
Medrick gave a firm nod. Theon answered with a single incline of his head, eyes never leaving his opponent.
"Are you ready?" Martyn asked.
Two voices answered, one deep, one quiet, both resolute.
"Yes."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the crows upon the battlements seemed to hold their breath.
"Begin. Both fighters stood frozen, statues of iron and patience. The crowd pressed forward, breathless, as if waiting for lightning to strike.
Medrick's eyes narrowed, studying the boy across from him. There was something unsettling in the way Theon Stark stood. His feet were placed too naturally, his shoulders too loose, his blade carried without tension. It was the posture of someone untrained — and yet, to Medrick's seasoned eye, it was too untrained. No gaps in his guard, no wasted stance, nothing for a sword to exploit.
It was a snare. He had seen hunters do the same in the Wolfswood — let the prey believe the trap was safe, harmless, until teeth closed around its throat.
He's baiting me, Medrick thought. He wants me to strike first.
So he waited. So did Theon.
The yard was silent save for the faint rustle of the banners overhead. Soldiers shifted uneasily, as if the air itself were wound too tight. Then—
Theon moved.
It was not the deliberate step of a child testing his courage. It was a blur, a flicker of motion too sudden, too fluid. One heartbeat he was across the ring, the next his steel was whistling for Medrick's guard.
Instinct roared to life. Medrick's blade snapped up, steel shrieking against steel as the first strike landed.
TANG!
The clash rang out like thunder, echoing off Winterfell's grey walls. Sparks leapt where the blades kissed, bright against the cold.
The crowd jolted, a ripple of shock surging through them. Many had not even seen Theon move until the impact came.
Medrick's arm trembled from the force. He had blocked — barely — but the weight behind the boy's blow was wrong, impossibly wrong. This wasn't the strike of a four-year-old heir. It was heavy, disciplined, layered with the kind of precision born from endless battlefields.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked. Medrick saw no excitement, no childish thrill in Theon's gaze. Only steel. An abyss of discipline and killing intent honed far beyond his years.
Medrick shoved back, disengaging with a grunt. His lips curled into a grin despite himself. "Seven hells…" he muttered under his breath. "You're no pup."
Theon didn't answer. He simply raised his blade again, stance light, unreadable, as if daring him to uncover the mystery of his form.
Around them, whispers surged through the crowd:
"Did you see that?"
"He moved like a shadow!"
"No boy should strike like that—"
From the balcony, Lord Manderly leaned forward, disbelief etched across his wide face. "That wasn't instinct," he murmured. "That was technique. Old technique… like a man who's fought a thousand duels."
Lord Rickon's mouth curved just slightly, pride hidden beneath the stone of his features.
Medrick exhaled, circling now. This was no simple spar. This was a test against something… unnatural.
Theon adjusted his grip, silent, patient, waiting for Medrick's next step.
And the yard held its breath once more.Both fighters stood frozen, statues of patience and iron.
Medrick's eyes never left the boy across from him. A boy. Four winters old. Barely taller than the sword he carried. And yet… something about him unsettled the knight to his marrow. The way Theon Stark stood was all wrong — or perhaps all too right. His stance was loose, natural, without stiffness or hesitation. A child should have been awkward, fumbling, nervous under so many eyes. But this boy's stillness was measured. Deceptive.
Medrick's gut twisted. He had lived too long as a knight to ignore instinct. This was not the posture of innocence. This was the stillness of a hunter before the kill.
Is he trying to bait me? Medrick thought grimly. No—he doesn't even need to. He just… waits.
The crowd leaned forward, restless. Whispers buzzed. Men expected Medrick to finish this quickly, to humble the child so they could laugh and go back to their cups.
Then Theon moved.
No warning. No hesitation. Just speed.
In the blink of an eye, the boy was upon him, his small frame blurring forward with a strike that screamed of experience, not play. His blunt steel sword came down with perfect weight and angle, aimed to shatter balance and guard.
Instinct took over. Medrick's blade snapped up.
TANG!
The impact rang like a hammer-blow against an anvil. Sparks leapt. The courtyard erupted in gasps as men and women realized they had not even seen the boy's approach — only the explosion of steel upon steel.
Medrick staggered half a step. Gods above… The boy's strength was real. Not childish flailing. Not luck. It was deliberate, measured, seasoned.
He forced Theon back with a shove, trying to reset his footing. His mind reeled. This isn't possible. He's four. Four. I've fought raiders, poachers, wildling marauders. None ever struck like this.
Theon, for his part, said nothing. His blade came up again, perfectly calm, eyes unblinking. There was no child's excitement there, no joy of a game. His gaze was steel. Ancient.
From the crowd came shocked murmurs:
"Seven hells, did you see—"
"He's not fighting like a boy—"
"That strike… gods, that was a warrior's blow!"
On the balcony above, Lord Rickon Stark remained still, though his eyes gleamed with a fire only a father could carry. Beside him, Lord Desmond Manderly leaned forward, voice low with disbelief.
"That… was not the swing of a child. That was the swing of a man who has lived a hundred lives with a sword in his hand."
Lady Gilliane pressed her lips tight, torn between fear and awe.
Medrick's grin returned, sharp and wolfish. "Seven hells… little lord," he muttered, circling warily. "You fight like no boy I've ever seen. You fight like someone who remembers."
Theon's blade twitched ever so slightly, as if in silent acknowledgment.
And the duel was only just beginning.Steel sang in the yard.
Medrick advanced, a knight's precision guiding every stroke. His blade swept high, then low, each motion crisp, drilled from years of training. He pressed the attack like he would against raiders on the shore or brigands on the Kingsroad — steady, relentless, decisive.
But the boy did not yield.
Theon's movements weren't rigid, weren't bound by knightly form. He bent where Medrick was stiff, he flowed where Medrick was straight. Every strike that should have broken a child's guard was turned aside at the last instant, redirected by the smallest twist of wrist or angle of steel. Theon didn't block so much as he guided the blade away, making Medrick's strength his own.
"Gods…" one of the Stark guards muttered, voice carrying. "He's… dancing around him."
The crowd swelled, the yard thick with cheers and shouts. Winterfell men roared every time Theon slipped past another cut, their voices pounding like drums. "Little wolf! Little wolf!" they howled.
On the Manderly side, the soldiers stood stunned into silence. Their knight — their heir — was being pushed back, not by a grown man, not even by a squire of ten winters, but by a boy barely out of swaddling clothes.
Medrick's jaw clenched as frustration gnawed at him. Each thrust met nothing but empty air or the child's deceptively deft blade. He tried feints, reversals, knightly tricks meant to bait a reaction — but Theon never bit. Instead, the boy circled him like a predator, eyes cold, sword steady, his feet moving as if he already knew where Medrick would step before he did.
This isn't natural, Medrick thought, sweat beading at his brow. He reads me too easily… like he's fought me a hundred times before this moment.
Theon's expression never changed. No grin of triumph, no child's delight. Only that piercing gaze, unblinking, unshaken, as though measuring the knight's very soul.
Then it came — a strike unlike the rest.
Theon's blade whipped upward in a savage arc, rising from the ground in a perfect vertical cut, aimed to split Medrick's guard from below. The knight's instincts screamed — he twisted aside just in time, the steel hissing past so close he felt the wind shear across his armor.
Without thinking, he shoved hard with his shoulder, pushing the boy back to open space.
The yard erupted — gasps from the Manderlys, cheers from the Starks, cries of disbelief from both.
Lord Desmond himself leaned forward on the balcony, eyes wide, his voice low but clear:
"He is four years old. Four. And he duels my son as if he were a man grown."
Rickon Stark said nothing, but the weight of his gaze never left the boy in the yard.
Medrick reset his stance, breathing hard, his knuckles white on the hilt. Across from him, Theon Stark simply adjusted his grip — small, controlled, unhurried — and leveled his steel once more.
The duel was far from over.Theon narrowed his eyes, his small chest rising and falling in calm rhythm.
Medrick was fast, strong, and skilled — by the standards of knights. His footwork was drilled, his cuts sharp, his defenses reliable. Against most men, it would have been enough. Against raiders on the shore, more than enough. Against theon… it was nothing.
Because Theon could see it all.
Every twitch of muscle in Medrick's shoulder. Every shift of weight in his stance. The way his grip tightened before a thrust, the subtle lean of his neck before a feint. They were lines in a map Theon had walked a thousand times before. To the crowd, Medrick was attacking with the ferocity of a warrior in his prime. To Theon, it was like watching a play he had already memorized.
He will cut from the right. Step, half-turn, block. Next, he thrusts forward, then rises for a high strike. Easy. Predictable.
It wasn't magic. It was the result of lives upon lives of battle — countless duels against men, monsters, and legends. As EMIYA, he had fought until there was no end. Killed until there were no more names left to learn. His body in this life was a child's, but his mind — his instincts — were sharpened beyond any mortal's reach.
This was the Eye of the Mind.
Theon let Medrick come at him with all the fury he could muster. Every swing was turned aside with minimal effort, every thrust guided away as though by invisible strings. To the crowd, it looked like a boy dancing around a grown knight. To Medrick, it felt like striking at mist and iron at once — always there, always beyond reach.
Frustration poured off him like sweat. His movements grew harder, sharper, desperate. He pressed in, hoping sheer force would break the boy's calm. But Theon only saw it for what it was: anger. Rashness. A mistake.
Rage makes you blind. Calm sees everything.
Theon's small hand tightened on the hilt. His lips curled faintly — not a smile, but something colder, sharper. It's time.
In a heartbeat, he surged forward.
The crowd gasped. His body moved with speed no child should possess, steel flashing like white fire in the sunlight. Medrick's eyes widened — he barely had time to react as the boy's blade slipped past his guard, struck his sword aside with precision, and left him utterly open.
Before he could recover, cold steel pressed against his throat.
The yard went silent.
Theon's voice was smooth, unshaken, cutting through the hush like a whisper from a ghost:
"Yield."
The word wasn't a child's plea. It was a command. A voice that had spoken to heroes, to kings, to gods — before cutting them down.
Medrick froze, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his brow. He stared into those strange, ageless eyes that should not belong to a boy of four years. And for the first time in years, he felt the creeping weight of fear.
Slowly, stiffly, he let his sword fall from his hand.
"I… yield."
The crowd erupted into chaos — cheers from the Starks, disbelief from the Manderlys, gasps from the foreign scholars. But none of it touched the stillness between Theon and Medrick in that moment.
On the balcony above, Desmond Manderly's lips parted as he muttered:
"He fights… not like a boy, not even like a knight. He fights like a man who has lived a hundred lives with a blade in hand."
Rickon Stark said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with something fierce, something proud, as he looked down at his son.
Theon only lowered his sword, unshaken, untroubled. As though this duel had been decided long before it began.
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