Time Skip - 7 years
The snows had grown deeper, the winds had grown sharper, and the long, dark nights had stretched further into the days. But the ancient stronghold of the North had not simply endured the cold. It had used the bitter years to forge its children into iron.
Deep within the thick, mist-choked timber of the Godswood, the silence of the early morning was shattered by a sound that resembled a crack of sudden thunder.
It was not the sky breaking. It was the heavy, brutal clash of steel against steel.
Prince Tommen Baratheon stood in the center of a wide, frost-covered clearing, his heavy leather boots planted firmly in the frozen dirt. He was no longer the soft, terrified boy who had arrived from the Red Keep, flinching at falling platters and hiding behind his sister's skirts.
Fifteen years of age, Tommen had grown into a true, terrifying reflection of his royal father. He stood tall, his shoulders broad and thick with dense, corded muscle built from years of chopping wood and hauling stone in the bitter cold. His hair was a thick, unruly mop of coal-black strands, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes were the deep, stormy blue of the Narrow Sea, carrying the fierce, unyielding pride of the Stormlands. The golden lie of the lion had been burned away completely, leaving only the stag.
In his large, heavily calloused hands, he gripped a massive practice warhammer. It was not a wooden toy. It was forged of solid, blunted iron, its heavy haft wrapped tightly in boiled leather. It was a weapon that would have broken the wrists of an ordinary squire just to lift it. Tommen held it easily across his chest.
Standing ten paces across from him, holding a long, blunted castle-forged longsword, was Rickard Stark.
Rickard was leaner than the Prince, built with the traditional, rangy strength of the First Men. His dark hair was tied back tightly at the nape of his neck, and his sharp, calculating grey eyes were fixed steadily on Tommen. He held the longsword in a relaxed, low guard, his breathing slow and measured.
For seven years, Cregan Stark had marched the boys into these woods at the break of dawn. He had not just taught them how to swing heavy steel or block a downward cut. He had taught them the ancient, hidden truth of the North.
Alongside them, Princess Myrcella had also been brought to the heart tree, learning to draw a yew bow and mastering the deep, unseen currents just as fiercely as her brother. Cregan had taught them all how to listen to the roots, how to feel the blood rushing in their veins, and how to harness the quiet, heavy magic of the living earth.
They had learned the Force.
"You are breathing too hard, Tommen," Rickard called out, a faint, challenging smirk touching his lips. "We have barely warmed the steel."
Tommen let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the ancient bark of the sentinel pines. He rolled his thick shoulders, the heavy leather of his jerkin creaking in the cold air.
"I am breathing in the frost, Rickard!" Tommen yelled back cheerfully, his grip tightening on the leather-wrapped haft of his hammer. "It fuels the fire! Are you going to stand there all morning, or are you going to fight?"
Rickard did not answer with words. He answered by stepping fully into the currents of the world.
To a common man watching from the edge of the woods, Rickard Stark simply vanished.
He did not fade into thin air; he moved with a swift, terrifying speed that defied mortal muscle and bone. Fueling his legs with the deep, rushing strength of the earth, Rickard closed the ten paces in a single heartbeat. He appeared directly in front of the Prince, bringing his blunted longsword around in a swift, flat sweep aimed squarely at Tommen's ribs.
Tommen did not panic. He did not even blink. His own connection to the living world had warned him a fraction of a second before Rickard even moved.
Tommen dropped his weight, bending his knees, and brought the thick iron haft of his warhammer up.
The heavy steel sword crashed into the iron haft with a deafening, ringing clang. The sheer impact of the blow pushed Tommen's heavy boots backward, carving two deep trenches into the frozen mud.
Before the ringing could fade, Rickard smoothly turned the blocked momentum into a spinning, upward reverse cut aimed at Tommen's chin.
Tommen leaned his head back, feeling the wind of the heavy steel rush past his nose. Instantly, the Prince drew upon the deep, heavy roots of the earth, pulling the raw strength of the Force directly into his broad chest. He stepped forward, putting the entire, crushing weight of his body behind a brutal, sweeping counter-strike with the iron hammer.
Rickard did not try to block the iron. Catching a Baratheon hammer directly on the blade was a fool's death.
Instead, Rickard leaped backward, using the Force to throw himself lightly into the air. He soared backward over a massive, snow-covered root, landing squarely on his feet five paces away, his sword already raised in a perfect defensive guard.
The heavy iron hammer smashed into the frozen earth where Rickard had stood a second before. The impact hit like a falling boulder. The frozen mud shattered, sending thick chunks of hard dirt and sharp ice flying wildly through the air.
Tommen did not stop to admire the crater.
He roared, ripping the heavy iron from the dirt, and charged.
He moved with a speed that was unnatural for a man of his immense size. Bound to the heavy, grounded magic of the North, Tommen fought like a rolling avalanche. He swung the heavy hammer in a relentless, terrifying rhythm—left, right, down, across—turning the massive block of iron into a blurring circle of ruin.
Rickard was forced on the defensive. He retreated swiftly through the dense, mist-choked trees, his grey eyes narrowed in intense focus. He parried the glancing blows, turning his blade at the last possible second to deflect the crushing weight rather than absorb it. The sound of their clash was a continuous, deafening rhythm of ringing steel and splintering wood as Tommen's missed swings shattered the thick branches of the surrounding pines.
"You fight like a blind bear!" Rickard shouted over the clash, ducking smoothly under a sweeping horizontal strike that cleaved a thick pine branch clean in half.
"And you run like a frightened hare!" Tommen bellowed back, stepping hard into a heavy, downward smash.
Rickard sidestepped the falling hammer. He saw his opening. As the iron head struck the earth, Tommen's heavy arms were fully extended, leaving his chest exposed.
Rickard stepped directly inside the Prince's long guard. He did not swing his sword. He pulled his left hand back and thrust his open palm forward, driving a heavy, concentrated push of the Force squarely into Tommen's breastplate.
The unseen strike hit Tommen like a charging draft horse.
The young Prince was lifted off his feet, thrown violently backward through the air. He crashed heavily through a thick patch of winter rosebushes, snapping the thorny branches, and slammed hard into the thick trunk of an ancient ironwood tree.
The impact shook the snow from the high branches, burying the Prince in a sudden cascade of white powder.
Rickard lowered his sword slightly, his chest rising and falling evenly. He waited, knowing the fight was far from over.
A loud, rumbling laugh erupted from the pile of snow.
Tommen pushed himself up, shaking the snow from his black hair like a massive dog. He rolled his thick shoulders, unbothered by the brutal impact. The heavy leather and his own dense muscle, hardened by years of harsh Northern winters, had absorbed the worst of the blow.
"A coward's push!" Tommen grinned fiercely, picking up his iron hammer. "If you want me on the ground, Stark, you will have to put me there with steel!"
Tommen did not charge blindly this time. He closed his eyes for a brief, fleeting moment.
Seven years ago, when Cregan had first taken him to the heart tree, Tommen had struggled to find the quiet center of the magic. But the deep woods had taught him patience. He reached into the dark, damp earth beneath his boots. He found the slow, heavy, immovable pulse of the world, and he bound it directly to the blood beating in his own veins.
When Tommen opened his blue eyes, the jovial warmth was gone, replaced by the cold, terrifying focus of a seasoned killer.
He stepped forward.
Rickard instantly felt the shift in the currents. The air in the clearing grew heavy, pressing down on his shoulders. The Prince was no longer swinging wildly; he was anchoring his weight.
Rickard tightened his grip on his longsword, dropping into a low, ready stance. He reached into his own deep connection, pushing the Force entirely into his legs, preparing to outmaneuver the oncoming storm.
Tommen moved.
He did not run. He stepped forward, and with a sudden, sharp thrust of his free hand, he sent a massive, sweeping wave of the Force rushing across the clearing. It was not a targeted strike to the chest; it was a broad, heavy wall of pressure meant to catch the legs.
Rickard felt the invisible wave ripping through the snow. He jumped, using the old magic to launch himself high into the air, leaping completely over the rushing pressure.
But Tommen had expected the leap.
As Rickard hung suspended in the cold air, lacking solid footing, Tommen was already waiting for him. The Prince had crossed the clearing with terrifying speed, planting his heavy boots directly beneath Rickard's descending path.
Tommen swung the iron hammer upward in a brutal, rising arc, aiming squarely for Rickard's ribs.
Rickard's grey eyes widened. He had no ground to push off, no way to dodge the rising iron in mid-air.
Relying purely on instinct and a lifetime of harsh training, Rickard twisted his body violently in the air. He brought his longsword down in a desperate, two-handed block, pointing the blade toward the earth to catch the rising haft of the hammer.
The weapons collided with a heavy, bone-jarring crash.
The upward force of Tommen's swing, met by the falling weight of Rickard's body, sent a sharp jolt through both of their arms. Rickard's blunted steel bit deeply into the leather wrap of the hammer's haft, but it held.
The heavy impact threw Rickard off balance. He was launched backward through the air, tumbling wildly toward the edge of the hot black pools.
Rickard twisted, fighting to find the ground. He crashed heavily into the damp, moss-covered dirt just inches from the bubbling, steaming water, rolling backward over his shoulder to bleed off the heavy momentum.
He sprang to his feet instantly, mud smearing his leather armor, just as Tommen charged out of the mist.
The fight turned into a savage, breathless clash of iron and steel.
They moved through the thick, grey fog of the hot springs, guided by their heightened senses. The clash of their weapons rang endlessly through the trees. Rickard used his superior speed, darting around the heavy, boiling pools, using the thick, pale roots of the weirwoods as stepping stones to launch plunging strikes.
Tommen used the environment like a true son of the Stormlands. When Rickard tried to circle him, Tommen smashed his hammer into the edge of a hot pool, sending a blinding spray of scalding water and thick mud flying into Rickard's face.
Rickard hissed, turning his head and throwing up an arm to shield his eyes.
Tommen seized the opening. He stepped in close, dropping his heavy hammer to his side. Instead of swinging the iron, he drove his thick, heavy shoulder directly into Rickard's chest.
The tackle threw Rickard backward into the trunk of a massive pine. The air rushed from his lungs with a sharp grunt. Before Rickard could raise his sword, Tommen drove his heavy, leather-clad fist squarely into Rickard's stomach.
Rickard folded slightly, the breath robbed from him. Tommen raised the hammer for a finishing, downward strike.
But Rickard Stark was not finished.
Choking on the damp air, Rickard let his sword drop. He grabbed Tommen's thick, descending wrist with both hands. With a sharp, sudden burst of the Force, Rickard twisted his body, using Tommen's own massive, downward-driving weight against him.
Rickard dropped his hips, planted his boot against Tommen's knee, and pulled violently.
Tommen's eyes went wide as his balance was stolen. The heavy Prince flipped over Rickard's shoulder, crashing onto his back in the freezing mud with a heavy, breathless thud.
Rickard did not hesitate. He spun around, snatching his fallen longsword from the dirt, and brought the blunted tip down to rest directly against the center of Tommen's chest.
Both young men froze.
The only sound in the dark woods was the ragged, desperate heaving of their lungs. Sweat poured down their faces, mixing with the mud and the frost. Their arms trembled with the burning exhaustion of pushing their bodies to the limits of mortal endurance.
Tommen looked up at the steel resting against his chest. He looked at Rickard's mud-smeared face.
The Prince let out a slow, heavy breath. He relaxed his grip on his iron hammer.
"A fair throw, Stark," Tommen rasped, a tired, genuine grin breaking across his face. "You fight like a wet eel. Impossible to hold."
Rickard did not smile immediately. His grey eyes remained sharp, focused on the Prince's chest. He knew the lessons of the yard. A fight was not over until the opponent yielded entirely.
"Do you yield, Your Grace?" Rickard demanded quietly, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Tommen's grin widened. "Yield?"
With a sudden, violent surge of raw, heavy power, Tommen slammed his open left hand into the dirt.
He unleashed a massive, sudden blast of the Force straight up from the ground. It was not a targeted push; it was a heavy burst of the old magic.
The sheer pressure threw Rickard backward through the air as if he had been kicked by a giant. His sword flew from his grip. He tumbled through the mud, skidding to a halt near the roots of the heart tree.
Before Rickard could even push himself up from the mud, Tommen was already moving. The Prince scrambled to his feet, ignoring the burning ache in his back, and charged across the clearing, his iron hammer raised high.
Rickard saw the massive shadow descending upon him. He had no sword. He had no room to dodge.
Driven by pure desperation, Rickard raised both of his bare hands toward the charging Prince.
He thrust his hands forward, meeting the descending blow of the hammer with a solid, unseen wall of pure, unyielding Force.
Tommen brought the heavy iron down with all the strength in his broad shoulders.
The iron hammer smashed into the invisible shield just inches above Rickard's hands.
The collision of their wills was deafening.
The air itself seemed to crack. A loud, ringing boom echoed across the entire Godswood, loud enough to startle the ravens from the highest towers of the castle. The sheer, opposing pressure of their combined magic violently rejected the stalemate.
The heavy rush of air threw them both.
Tommen was launched backward, his boots leaving the ground. He flew ten paces through the air, crashing heavily into a deep, soft snowbank near the edge of the clearing, burying himself in the white powder.
Rickard was driven backward with equal violence. He skidded through the mud, his back slamming hard against the pale, weeping bark of the ancient heart tree, knocking the last remnants of breath from his battered lungs.
For a long, terrible minute, the Godswood was silent, save for the faint hiss of the hot springs. The mist swirled slowly back into the clearing, covering the deep trenches their boots had carved into the earth.
Slowly, the snowbank shifted.
Tommen pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hair was white with snow, his chest heaving as he gasped for the freezing air. He looked across the clearing.
Rickard was slumped against the roots of the heart tree. His head was bowed, his hands resting limply in the mud.
"Rickard?" Tommen called out, his voice hoarse, gripped by a sharp pang of true panic. "Rickard!"
The young Stark slowly raised his head. He spat a mouthful of dirty mud onto the roots. He wiped his face with a trembling, leather-clad arm, and looked across the clearing at the Prince.
A slow, wide, exhausted smile broke across Rickard's mud-smeared face.
Tommen let out a loud, relieved bark of laughter, leaning back into the snowbank. He stared up at the grey, overcast sky, his chest shaking with heavy, breathless mirth. Rickard joined him, his own quiet laughter echoing against the pale bark of the weirwood, the two young warriors sharing the deep, unspoken bond forged through mutual, brutal exhaustion.
"A draw, then," Tommen called out, his voice thick with weariness. "I refuse to swing that hammer again today."
"Agreed," Rickard groaned, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the tree. "If I have to block that iron block one more time, my arms will fall completely off."
Tommen let his head fall back into the cold, soft snow, resting his blistered hands on his chest. The biting wind swept through the ancient branches of the Godswood above them, cooling the sweat on his brow. He did not feel the ache in his muscles or the deep exhaustion in his lungs. He felt the heavy, unyielding iron of the Baratheon blood, tempered at last by the quiet, ancient strength of the North.
The childhood drills were over. They were no longer boys playing with sticks in the mud. They were true warriors forged in the frost, and whatever storm lay ahead in the deep snows, they were finally ready to face it.