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And Tytan knew, even among demigods, he wasn't exactly average. As a son of Poseidon one of the Big Three, the most powerful gods in the whole Greek and Roman lineup he was naturally a cut above most other half-bloods. Stronger, faster, with more raw power simmering beneath his skin.
When it came down to sheer physical ability, just pure strength and speed, Tytan seriously doubted there was any normal mortal man walking around Westeros, or even across the sea in Essos, who could truly match him one-on-one in a fair fight. Not if Tytan really let loose.
He thought about the stories he'd heard of Ser Gregor Clegane, the infamous Mountain That Rides. A man famed, or rather infamous, for his monstrous size and brutal, almost unbelievable strength.
Even him?
Tytan suspected that despite the Mountain likely having nearly two feet of height over him, Tytan was probably still stronger, pound for pound. Faster too, for sure.
Not that Tytan had ever gotten the chance to actually test that theory, thankfully. Ser Gregor wasn't riding anywhere these days.
He was currently freezing his considerable bulk off somewhere up at the Wall, serving in the Night's Watch. Minus his balls, of course.
Tytan allowed himself a small, grim smile at that memory. He himself had given the direct order a few years back.
Have the Mountain and his band of murdering thugs dragged back to King's Landing in chains, put them on trial for the long list of atrocities they'd committed during Robert's Rebellion and since particularly the horrific sack of King's Landing and the murder of the Targaryen children.
It hadn't been a popular decision with everyone, especially not with his own grandfather, Tywin Lannister. The powerful Warden of the West, the man who had held the Mountain's leash for years, had been furious.
Utterly pissed off that Tytan had interfered, had dared to bring Tywin's attack dog to justice.
But in the end, what could Tywin really do? Tytan was his grandson, the Crown Prince, the future King. And even a man as proud and ruthless as Tywin Lannister knew when to cut his losses.
He understood that pissing off the heir to the throne, especially an heir who was whispered to have actual divine favor, wasn't worth protecting a useful but ultimately replaceable mad dog like Gregor Clegane.
So Tywin had swallowed his anger, made some noises about justice being served, and let the Mountain face Tytan's judgment.
Losing Clegane was annoying, but earning the future King's lasting enmity would have been far, far worse for House Lannister in the long run.
Of course, fueling all these enhanced physical abilities the strength, the speed, the ridiculously fast healing took energy. A lot of energy.
Which meant Tytan's metabolism burned just as hot as the rest of him. It was like having a furnace inside. This was actually a pretty great perk when it came to drinking contests.
He could put away vast amounts of ale or wine, enough to floor most normal men twice over, before he even started feeling properly drunk. His body just burned through the alcohol incredibly fast.
The downside was he needed to eat a lot more than most people. The upside, however, was that by the time he woke up the morning after a night of heavy drinking, like last night's feast, his system had usually already processed most, if not all, of the alcohol.
And hangovers?
Practically non-existent.
His innate connection to water, the legacy of his sea god father, meant he never really got dehydrated either. If his body ever started to feel thirsty, his skin would just naturally, subtly absorb moisture from the air around him, keeping him perfectly balanced.
Annoying when he was trying to sneak through a damp cellar maybe, but very handy for avoiding morning-after headaches.
All of which was certainly useful this morning. Because after a very enjoyable, very rowdy night of feasting, drinking, and later, more private celebrations with Ros, Tytan had found himself being rather rudely awakened.
A timid servant, clearly terrified of disturbing the Crown Prince but under strict orders, had knocked persistently on his door sometime in the late morning.
The reason? To remind His Grace about the spar he had apparently agreed to with Robb Stark last night.
Ugh. Sparring. At the time, fueled by wine and friendly competition, it had seemed like a fine idea. But now, lying warm and cozy in the big fur-covered bed, spooning a sleeping, beautiful, and still pleasantly naked fiery redhead… the thought of dragging himself out into the cold northern air to whack swords with the Stark boy seemed considerably less appealing. He just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep.
Unfortunately, though, a promise was a promise. Especially one made publicly. Backing out now would look weak, or arrogant. So, with a groan that was only partly faked, Tytan had disentangled himself from Ros's warm limbs, ignored her sleepy protests, and forced himself out of bed.
Which is why he was now walking through the drafty, stone corridors of Winterfell, heading resolutely towards the castle's main training yard. He was already dressed for the occasion.
His mail hauberk, freshly scoured clean by some diligent servant overnight, felt cool but familiar over a padded gambeson.
Over that, he wore his sturdy leather armor, also cleaned and oiled. Simple, functional steel bracers protected his forearms, and tough leather gloves covered his hands.
On his feet were his usual pair of sturdy leather boots, the ones reinforced with thin strips of iron running down the sides a useful little addition he'd commissioned himself, designed to protect his ankles from sneaky blade cuts or attempts to sweep his legs out from under him in the chaos of a melee.
He felt ready, even if he still wished he was back in bed.
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