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———
Seeing the clear disappointment cloud Arya's face as he prepared to leave, Tytan couldn't help but smile slightly.
On impulse, as he pushed himself up from the bench, he reached out and gave her messy brown hair a quick, affectionate ruffle.
She blinked up at him, surprised by the casual gesture.
Beside her, Robb let out another amused snort at Tytan's parting words, while Theon just watched with that unreadable expression back on his face.
Tytan gave both young men a brief nod of acknowledgement, his gaze lingering on Robb for a second.
"Don't worry, little wolf," Tytan said, pulling his hand back from Arya's hair. "I'll still be around tomorrow. Plenty of time for more… potential tricks. Besides," he added, flashing a grin towards Robb, "I have an appointment to beat down your overly confident older brother in the training yard later. You should come watch. Who knows, if you get up early enough, you might even see him land a hit."
Just like that, Arya's disappointed frown vanished, replaced instantly by that look of bright, eager excitement again. The thought of watching her brother spar with the Crown Prince especially after seeing the magic was clearly appealing. Robb just rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Tytan's teasing prediction of victory.
"Either way, I'm off now," Tytan continued, stepping away from the table.
He glanced around the now slightly less crowded hall.
He noticed quite a few other people had already called it a night; empty spaces dotted the benches, and the noise level had dropped just a fraction. "Have a good rest of the evening, everyone."
Giving the Stark children one last nod Arya beaming, Bran looking thoughtful, Robb grinning, and Rickon probably asleep somewhere Tytan turned and began walking towards the main doors at the far end of the hall.
As he moved, Ser Jaime Lannister smoothly detached himself from the spot where he'd been standing guard against the wall, his golden armor catching the torchlight.
Without a word, he fell into step a pace or two behind his nephew, ready to escort him.
They pushed through the heavy doors, leaving the relative warmth and loud clamor of the Great Hall behind them.
"Been having fun putting on magic shows for the locals?" Jaime asked dryly as soon as the doors closed, his voice laced with its usual faint sarcasm. He'd obviously seen Tytan's little water-bending performance from his vantage point.
Tytan just shrugged, pulling his plain cloak tighter around himself as they stepped out into the open courtyard. "What can I say? It was a bit of harmless fun. Keeps the kids entertained."
Jaime rolled his eyes again at his nephew's easygoing nonchalance but didn't push it further. There was no point.
The two of them fell silent as they left the immediate vicinity of the Great Hall.
They were instantly hit by a blast of frigid air, a biting wind that felt like icy needles against any exposed skin.
Welcome to the North's charming climate, Tytan thought wryly. A stark contrast to the stuffy heat of the feast.
Their boots crunched on the hard-packed earth and scattered gravel of the courtyard as they moved through the darkness, heading towards the guest tower where Tytan had his assigned quarters.
Torches flickered here and there on the walls, casting long, dancing shadows, but mostly the yard was dark and cold under the starless northern sky.
As they walked, Tytan noticed movement over by one of the less-lit archways leading towards the armory or stables. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two figures standing there, talking quietly.
One was short, unmistakably his uncle Tyrion Lannister, bundled up against the cold.
The other was taller, leaner, with dark hair ruffled by the wind the same serious-looking young man Tytan had noticed briefly in the courtyard earlier. Jon Snow, he presumed. The bastard of Winterfell.
For a brief moment, seeing them huddled there in the shadows, Tytan felt a flicker of curiosity. He was tempted to walk over, maybe interrupt their conversation, hear what they were talking about.
Perhaps get a better sense of this mysterious bastard brother Robb seemed to think so highly of. See if there was more to him than just quiet brooding.
But just then, another particularly vicious gust of icy wind sliced across the courtyard, making Tytan shiver despite himself. He pulled his cloak even tighter.
Nah.
Forget it.
It was bloody freezing out here. He'd likely meet the boy properly tomorrow anyway, maybe even cross swords with him in the training yard if Robb arranged it.
And Tytan had always found that sparring, seeing how someone moved, how they fought, how they reacted under pressure, was one of the best ways to truly understand what a person was really like, far better than awkward small talk.
Besides, the cold was biting, and he knew exactly what or rather, who was waiting for him upstairs. A warm bed, a roaring fire probably lit by now, and a beautiful, willing redhead.
Given the choice between standing out here in the freezing wind listening to Tyrion likely offer half-mocking, half-genuine advice to another outcast he saw as a kindred spirit… or heading up to enjoy a warm, pleasurable night with Ros?
It wasn't even a contest. Tyrion's conversations with fellow 'undesirables' tended towards depressing, self-pitying banter anyway, and Tytan wasn't in the mood for that tonight.
So, yeah. Warm bed, good shag. Much better option. Tytan picked up his pace, Jaime following silently behind him, leaving Tyrion and the bastard of Winterfell to their cold, shadowy conversation.
….
It felt like only a few hours later, though the first hints of grey dawn were just starting to creep through the narrow window slit, when Tytan Baratheon found himself walking through the frigid stone corridors of Winterfell once more.
Despite having drunk a considerable amount of strong northern wine at the feast the night before, and despite having engaged in some rather energetic and definitely lascivious activities with Ros that lasted well into the small hours, he felt remarkably good.
Clear-headed, refreshed, no trace of a hangover, muscles loose and ready.
He stretched casually as he walked, feeling the satisfying lack of aches or fogginess. Of course, this wasn't normal human resilience.
This was thanks to his… unique heritage. His naturally enhanced physical abilities, a leftover perk from being or having been a Demigod.
It was just part of the package. Demigods, by their very nature, were built differently. Born to be warriors, heroes, survivors.
Even the weakest child of a minor god possessed strength, speed, stamina, and healing abilities far beyond those of an average mortal.
Their bodies were simply more efficient, more resilient, designed for hardship and battle. So, shrugging off a night of heavy drinking and vigorous sex was, for Tytan, as natural as breathing.
No special effort required, just his body doing what it was built to do.
——
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