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Hanging heavy at Tytan's side, belted securely around his waist, was his sheathed bastard sword. It wasn't a pretty weapon, not by any stretch of the imagination.
About four feet of solid steel from tip to pommel, the blade itself was wide near the hilt, tapering gradually to a sharp, reinforced point designed for punching through armor.
It had a simple, functional crossguard, smooth and unadorned, made of a hard, pale ivory-coloured material.
The pommel at the end of the grip was heavy, solid metal, acting as a counterweight to the long blade and also useful for smashing someone's face in a close-quarters grapple.
This sword was built for one purpose, and one purpose only: killing. Efficiently and brutally. It wasn't made for flashy duels or elegant fencing maneuvers you might see in the south.
It was a battlefield weapon, meant for hacking through shields, slicing through mail, finding gaps in plate.
You could slash with the wickedly sharp edges, thrust with the deadly point, even use the spiked ends of the crossguard to hook or stab, or just bludgeon someone senseless with the flat of the blade or the heavy pommel if needed. A straightforward tool for a messy job.
The blade itself was just good quality castle-forged steel strong, reliable, easy enough to sharpen. Nothing magical about the metal itself.
The hilt and crossguard, however, that was different. They were crafted from something far rarer, far harder than any wood or metal: dragon bone.
Not just any dragon bone, either. Tytan had specifically requested it harvested from the massive, ancient skulls that had once decorated the walls of the Iron Throne room back in King's Landing.
Skulls of the legendary Targaryen dragons, relics from a bygone age of fire and blood. After Robert's Rebellion, the King, wanting no reminders of the 'dragonspawn' he'd overthrown, had ordered the skulls taken down and dumped unceremoniously in the castle dungeons to gather dust and cobwebs. Tytan had seen an opportunity.
Balerion the Black Dread. That was the name of the colossal beast whose skull Tytan had had carefully broken apart. The largest, oldest, most fearsome dragon in Westerosi history.
Fragments of its incredibly dense, nigh-indestructible bone now formed the hilt and crossguard of his sword. He'd also had pieces incorporated into the shield he sometimes carried, and even used powdered dragon bone during the forging process to strengthen the plate armor he wore for tournaments or battles, enhancing its defensive qualities significantly. It felt… appropriate, somehow. Using the bones of the old conquerors to forge his own weapons.
On Tytan's other hip, his left one, nestled snugly in its sheath, was a dagger. This weapon was somewhat fancier than his sword, though still practical.
The blade itself gleamed with the distinctive, rippling patterns of Valyrian steel the legendary, lost metal that was incredibly sharp, impossibly light, and virtually indestructible.
No one knew the secrets of forging it anymore, making every existing Valyrian steel blade a priceless treasure. This dagger had been a nameday gift from King Robert a few years back.
Tytan suspected his father had probably just stumbled across it collecting dust in the royal treasury, thought "Looks shiny, the boy likes sharp things," and handed it over without much thought. Still, a Valyrian steel dagger was a handy thing to have.
Letting out another slight sigh as a gust of wind whipped around a corner, biting at his exposed cheeks, Tytan didn't say anything.
He just kept walking steadily through the cold stone passages of Winterfell. Beside him, his uncle Jaime kept pace, a silent golden sentinel in his gleaming plate armor, the pristine white cloak billowing slightly behind him in the draft.
As they continued on, Tytan couldn't help but feel another twinge of regret about his drunken boast last night. A small, lazy part of him really, really wanted to just turn around, march back to his bedchamber, bar the door, and crawl back under the warm furs with Ros. Forget sparring, forget duty, just sleep and stay warm.
But… he'd made a promise. In front of witnesses. And Tytan always, always kept his word. It was a point of pride, something ingrained deep within him from both his lives.
They finally emerged from the covered walkway out into the open air of the main courtyard again. Tytan barely made it a few steps before a loud, gruff voice hailed him. "Prince Tytan!"
He looked towards the source of the voice. Standing near the entrance to the training yard was a stout, barrel-chested older man with a weathered, stern face framed by thick grey sideburns.
He had powerful, bear-like arms crossed over his chest and wore a heavy fur cloak against the morning chill. Tytan recognized him as Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's Master-at-Arms, the man responsible for training the castle garrison and the Stark children.
Ser Rodrik gave Tytan a respectful nod as the Prince approached, his experienced eyes quickly taking in Tytan's armor, weapons, and alert, well-rested appearance.
Clearly, the Prince hadn't shown up hungover or unprepared. "If you're here for the spar you arranged, Your Grace," Ser Rodrik continued in his gravelly voice, "then the training yard is clear and ready."
Tytan nodded back, acknowledging the Master-at-Arms with a somewhat absentminded wave. His attention was already drifting past Ser Rodrik, scanning the training yard itself.
As he looked around, he saw it was pretty much what he expected from a practical northern castle: a wide, square patch of bare, hard-packed earth, probably muddy in warmer weather but frozen solid now.
A few wooden practice dummies stood forlornly in one corner. Racks lined one side of the yard, holding a collection of blunted practice swords, shields of various sizes, wooden staffs, and other training gear. Simple, functional, no frills. Just a place to sweat and bleed and learn how to fight.
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