The training yard was still, the air heavy with anticipation, as if the very stones of Winterfell had paused to witness what was unfolding. Dust swirled around the edges of the crowd, stirred by whispered murmurs of disbelief. All eyes were fixed on the duel that had just concluded: a four-year-old boy, slender yet emanating a presence that seemed to warp space around him, standing victorious over a seasoned knight.
Lord Desmond Manderly leaned on the balcony railing, his voice a mixture of astonishment and reverence. "Rickon Stark… I have trained, fought, and observed many swordsmen in my life, yet I have never encountered anything remotely like this. My son Medrick has faced countless foes and emerged triumphant, yet before your boy he was reduced to a shadow of a man. It is as though the blade itself obeys him, flowing with thought and intuition that should not exist in a child so small."
Rickon Stark's expression remained composed, a shield of northern resolve, but the sharp glint in his eyes betrayed his admiration. Beside him, Lady Gilliane's fingers tightened unconsciously around the balcony rail, her chest rising and falling with quiet tension, a mixture of awe and maternal concern.
Desmond's gaze swept across the yard, noting the stillness of the soldiers and the stunned silence of the assembled Northern lords. "Observe his movements," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Every strike, every parry, every adjustment is executed with the certainty of a man who has lived a thousand battles. He does not hesitate. He does not falter. It is not instinct alone—it is experience distilled into action, honed over lifetimes, and yet confined to the body of a mere child. Each swing, each feint, moves with the inevitability of fate itself."
Rickon's eyes followed Theon as the boy slowly sheathed his sword, the fluidity of his motion almost hypnotic. Even four years old, his posture bore the weight of command; every step was deliberate, every glance measured. The soldiers who had witnessed his duel whispered among themselves, some in disbelief, others in stunned admiration. The Manderly men, usually confident in the prowess of their heir, Medrick, stood frozen, unable to reconcile the small figure before them with the lethal force they had just seen.
Desmond's voice carried a sense of warning as much as awe. "Mark my words, Lord Stark. Every knight in the Seven Kingdoms—from the Reach to the Westerlands, from Riverrun to the halls of King's Landing—could not withstand him. Nor could the greatest masters of Essos, the fabled swordsmen of Braavos or the disciplined warriors of Yi Ti. And this is only the beginning. He is four years old. Imagine the monster he will become when his body grows to match the skill already forged in his mind. On the battlefield, mercy will not exist for those who oppose him."
A hush fell across the balcony. Gilliane's face reflected both pride and unease. "It is terrifying… that such a small child could hold so much power in his hands," she murmured, almost to herself.
Rickon did not answer immediately, simply observing Theon, who now moved through the yard with an almost imperceptible confidence, each motion precise, economical, and yet full of authority. "He is Stark," Rickon said finally, his voice calm but resolute. "He will be guided by the code of the North. That alone is enough."
Desmond nodded slowly, his expression grave. "At this rate, none in Westeros, no matter their title or renown, can surpass him. And yet, he is still a child. I fear and I marvel in equal measure. If the gods spare his enemies, it will be because they themselves intervene. Otherwise…" His voice trailed off, heavy with the weight of possibility.
Bennard Stark muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing, "He fights with the patience and ruthlessness of a man who has seen centuries of war. His sword moves as if it has a mind of its own, dancing to a rhythm only he perceives."
Rickon's eyes softened briefly, a subtle acknowledgment of the extraordinary life force contained in his son. Below, Theon's small figure moved with composed grace, the blunt steel of his sword gleaming faintly in the northern light. He was neither boastful nor arrogant; he merely existed in perfect harmony with the weapon he wielded, a deadly conductor orchestrating the symphony of battle.
Even the mountain surveyors, who had journeyed from White Harbor and beyond, were silent, their professional detachment shattered by the raw, unfathomable skill of the boy before them. Notes and calculations felt trivial beside the elegant lethality of his movements.
Desmond's final words were spoken in reverent awe, carrying over the yard like a solemn decree. "Your son… he is the dawn of a new age of warriors. None can rival him now, and fewer still ever will. And he is only four. The world has yet to see the true scale of what this child can accomplish."
Rickon Stark remained silent, allowing the words to settle, while Theon, the little wolf of Winterfell, sheathed his sword fully and moved to the edge of the yard. His eyes scanned the crowd, calm and knowing, as if he had already measured their potential and found them wanting. The legend had begun, and Winterfell would bear witness to a force unlike any the North—or the world—had ever seen.
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