The Three Headed Titan Chapter 22 (Two Eldians)

Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion Lannister waddles into the royal dining hall to find his sweet sister already presiding over breakfast like a golden harpy guarding her nest. The morning sun streams through the high windows, catching on Cersei's carefully arranged hair and making it glow like spun gold. How does she manage to look so radiant while being such a complete cunt?

"Good morning, dear sister," Tyrion says, hauling himself onto a chair. "You're looking particularly murderous this fine morning. Did someone suggest Joffrey might benefit from learning empathy?"

Cersei's green eyes narrow to slits. "Must you start every day with your vile tongue wagging?"

"It's either that or drinking, and even I draw the line at wine before breaking my fast." Tyrion reaches for the honey cakes, noting how Tommen's eyes follow the plate with the intensity of a cat stalking prey. "Though watching our beloved king stumble through court yesterday nearly drove me to it."

Jaime snorts from across the table, still managing to look annoyingly handsome despite having just rolled out of bed. "Robert could barely fit through the throne room doors. I swear he's gained another stone since the last tourney."

"Perhaps we should widen them," Tyrion suggests, tearing into a warm roll. "Or grease the sides. Though knowing Robert, he'd probably get stuck halfway and demand more wine while dangling there."

"You're both disgusting," Cersei snaps, pulling Myrcella closer as if their words might contaminate her precious daughter. "Speaking of my children in the same breath as your crude observations about the king."

Ah yes, 'the king.' Not 'my husband' or even 'Robert.' How telling, sweet sister.

"My apologies," Tyrion says with exaggerated contrition. "I forgot that discussing the obvious deterioration of our monarch counts as treason in your presence. Should I perhaps compose a song about his masculine vigor instead? 'The Ballad of the Belly That Ate King's Landing'?"

Joffrey looks up from mutilating his breakfast. "Father says he could still crush any man in the realm."

"Crushing and sitting on are two different things, nephew," Tyrion observes, earning himself a venomous look from Cersei.

"Speaking of crushing," Cersei says, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "Father will be attending the tourney."

The honey cake turns to ash in Tyrion's mouth. Even Jaime's perpetual smirk falters. "Father? Tywin Lannister? The man who thinks tourneys are expensive mummer's farces?"

"The very same." Cersei's smile could cut glass. "He sent a raven yesterday. He's bringing a considerable retinue."

"How considerable?" Jaime asks, though his casual tone doesn't quite mask his unease.

"Three hundred men. Including Ser Gregor."

Tyrion watches his brother's face twist with disgust. Ah, the Mountain That Rides. Because this tourney wasn't going to have enough bloodshed already.

"I'm sure the Hound will be thrilled to reunite with his dear brother," Tyrion says innocently. "Nothing says family bonding like fratricide in front of the entire realm."

"You have such a gift for finding the worst in every situation," Cersei observes.

"It's a talent. Like your gift for motherhood. Tell me, have you taught Joffrey the difference between 'subject' and 'victim' yet?"

Cersei's face flushes crimson. "Come, children. We'll finish our meal elsewhere, away from your uncle's poison tongue."

She sweeps out with her brood in tow, leaving Tyrion and Jaime in blessed peace. Tyrion reaches for the wine pitcher, then remembers his earlier proclamation and settles for watered ale instead.

"Why is Father really coming?" Jaime asks once they're alone.

"Who knows why Tywin Lannister does anything? Perhaps he misses us. Perhaps he wants to remind the realm that lions have claws. Perhaps he's just bored of making Grandfather spin in his grave with his financial innovations."

Jaime pushes eggs around his plate. "I hate tourneys."

"You hate losing at tourneys," Tyrion corrects. "There's a difference. Though I notice you're not entering the lists this time. Finally accepting your limitations?"

"Hardly." Jaime's arrogance returns like the tide. "I see no point in the joust. Two men on horses trying to hit each other with very long sticks. Where's the artistry in that?"

"Some might say the same about swordplay. Two men trying to poke each other with shorter, sharper sticks."

"Your obsession with stick-poking aside," Jaime says with a chuckle, "the joust is pure chance. Your horse stumbles, you lose. A bee stings your destrier's ass, you lose. Where's the skill in that?"

"I imagine it's in not falling off when the bee stings your destrier's ass. But what about the melee? Surely the great Jaime Lannister won't pass up a chance to humble every knight in the realm?"

Jaime waves dismissively. "What would be the point? I'd win. Again. It gets tedious, being the best."

Gods, the arrogance. You'd think fucking our sister would teach him some humility, but no.

"You might be surprised," Tyrion says, carefully casual. "I hear there's fresh blood in the training yards. Young lions learning new tricks."

That gets Jaime's attention. "You mean the Stark bastard."

"Oh? You've heard?"

"Robert was bellowing about it yesterday. Had Ned Stark in for a private meeting. I was guarding the door." Jaime leans back, amused. "Apparently the boy's been making quite an impression on the training grounds. Robert thinks he's the second coming of the Dragonknight."

"And what do you think?"

Jaime snorts. "I fought him two days ago in the training yard. I think he's a green boy who's slightly better than other green boys. A big fish in a Northern pond. He'll learn the difference when he faces real steel."

Such certainty. I almost hope the boy embarrasses you, brother dear.

"Perhaps," Tyrion allows. "Though I've found it unwise to underestimate Stark blood. They have a nasty habit of surviving things that should kill them."

"Like bastards?"

"Like Winter. Speaking of things that should kill people, what's your day looking like?"

"Thrilling. I get to stand around looking decorative while Robert pretends to rule. Though apparently the Red Viper has requested an audience."

Tyrion nearly chokes on his ale. "Oberyn Martell? Here?"

"Arriving yesterday, supposedly. Something about trade agreements, though we both know that's shit."

"Whatever he offers you to drink, don't." The words come out sharper than Tyrion intends. "In fact, don't accept anything from him. Not wine, not water, not even a friendly handshake if you can avoid it."

Jaime raises an eyebrow. "You think he'd poison me in the throne room?"

"I think Oberyn Martell could poison you with a smile and you'd thank him for it. The man didn't earn his reputation by being careless."

"I'm not stupid, Tyrion."

Debatable, considering where you stick your cock.

"Of course not. You're just arrogant enough to think your sword hand makes you invulnerable. The Red Viper has killed better men than you with a scratch."

"Better men than me?" Jaime's grin returns. "Name one."

"Modesty really isn't your strong suit, is it?"

"Why should it be? False modesty is just another form of lying. I am the best sword in the realm. Denying it would be like you pretending to be tall."

And there's the brother I know and tolerate.

"Just be careful," Tyrion says, sliding off his chair. "Father coming to court, the Martells sniffing around, this tourney... something's shifting. Can't you feel it?"

Jaime shrugs. "All I feel is bored. Court, politics, whispers and schemes. Give me a clean fight any day."

"Yes, because those always end well for Lannisters. Ask Uncle Tygett about clean fights. Oh wait, you can't."

He leaves Jaime to his eggs and arrogance, waddling out into the corridor where servants scatter like roaches from light. Let him swagger. Let him preen. When Father arrives with his Mountain and his plans, we'll see how confident the great Jaime Lannister remains.

The Seven Kingdoms are gathering in King's Landing like storm clouds. Starks from the North, Martells from the South, and now Father from the West. Tyrion has read enough history to know what happens when great houses congregate. Blood and fire, usually. Sometimes both at once.

At least the wine will be good while we all pretend not to be sharpening our knives.

He makes his way toward his chambers, thinking about bastards and princes, mountains and vipers. In his experience, when this many dangerous people gather in one place, someone always ends up dead.

The question is who, and whether anyone will care.

Probably not, if it's me. Though I'd make a very small corpse. Economical, really.

The morning sun climbs higher, casting long shadows through the Red Keep's corridors. Tyrion navigates them with ease, a halfman in a world built for giants, wondering if Ned Stark's bastard really is as good as rumor suggests.

Robert thinks he's special. Jaime thinks he's nothing. The truth, as always, probably lies somewhere in between.

But as he reaches his chambers, another thought occurs. If the boy is good enough to catch Robert's attention, good enough to make Jaime defensive, then perhaps he's good enough to surprise them all.

Wouldn't that be something? A bastard wolf among all these preening lions and coiled vipers.

Tyrion allows himself a small smile. The tourney hasn't even started, and already the game grows interesting.

Father's going to hate this. How delightful.

Jon Snow

The clash of steel rang across the training yard like discordant music, punctuated by grunts of exertion and the occasional bark of laughter. Jon Snow pivoted, his practice sword a blur as he parried Dacey Mormont's aggressive thrust. Sweat trickled down his brow, mingling with the earthy scent of churned dirt beneath his boots. The morning sun had already burned away the dawn mist, promising another sweltering day in the capital.

"Too slow, Snow," Dacey taunted, her long dark braid whipping around as she spun for another attack. Unlike most southern ladies who watched the training from shaded galleries, the heir to Bear Island stood before him in boiled leather, her height matching his own. "A child of three could have seen that coming."

"A child of three on Bear Island, perhaps," Jon countered, sidestepping her attack. "I've heard they give babes axes instead of toy soldiers."

Dacey let out a laughter, a sound that Jon enjoyed hearing. "And what do they give bastards in Winterfell? Besides lessons in impudence?"

Jon grinned, feeling the warmth that Dacey's presence always kindled within him. Though he still dreamed of Wylla, the crushing weight of her loss had gradually lifted. Dacey had helped him remember how to smile again.

"Impudence is my natural gift," he replied, dropping low and sweeping his leg in a move that should have toppled her.

Should have—but didn't. Dacey jumped, clearing his leg and landing like a cat. "Not bad," she admitted, circling him warily. "But I've seen you move faster."

"Perhaps I enjoy the view when our matches last longer," he suggested with a half-smile.

"Flatterer." Dacey narrowed her eyes, though her lips quirked upward. "Your silver tongue won't save you from my steel."

She launched a flurry of strikes that would have overwhelmed most opponents. Jon parried each blow, the impact reverberating up his arms. He retreated deliberately, drawing her forward, waiting for the opening he knew would come. When Dacey overextended slightly on a thrust, he twisted inside her guard, bringing them chest to chest, his blade resting lightly against her throat.

"Yield?" he asked, their faces inches apart, close enough that he could count the light freckles dusting her nose.

Dacey's eyes, the color of pine needles in sunlight, glinted with mischief. "You're in quite the compromising position for a man concerned with his honor, Lord Snow."

"I'm no lord," he corrected automatically, though without the bitter edge that once accompanied those words.

"No?" Dacey's breath was warm against his cheek. "You fight like one. You certainly command attention like one." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to the watching crowd before returning to his face. "And you've managed to pin the heir to Bear Island. Some would call that lordly behavior."

Jon was suddenly very aware of their proximity, of the rise and fall of her chest against his, the feeling of her full breasts against his chest.

"I haven't pinned you yet," he murmured. "Though the thought has crossed my mind."

A delicate cough from nearby broke the moment. Jon stepped back, lowering his practice sword, to find one of Winterfell's servants hovering nearby.

"Begging your pardon, my lord—" the servant began.

"I'm not—" 

"—but Lord Stark requests your presence before the midday meal," the servant continued. "He wishes to discuss the tournament arrangements."

Jon nodded. "Tell him I'll come directly after my morning training."

As the servant scurried away, Dacey twirled her wooden mace that she used for training. "The great Jon Snow, summoned by the Warden of the North himself. Don't let it swell your head."

"My head is perfectly sized, thank you," Jon retorted, raising his sword again. "Unlike your opinion of your swordplay."

"Bold words from a man who nearly lost to me yesterday."

"Nearly losing isn't losing at all."

"And nearly kissing?" she challenged, her voice dropping so only he could hear. "What's that?"

"A tragedy," he answered honestly. "Or perhaps wise restraint."

Dacey's laugh was husky. "I've never had much use for restraint, Snow."

"So I've noticed," Jon replied dryly, though his pulse quickened. "Another round before I must attend Lord Stark?"

"Afraid I'll leave you in the dust if we stop now?" She circled him again, wooden mace at the ready.

"Afraid you'll flee back to Bear Island without a proper defeat," he countered, settling into his stance.

They resumed their dance of steel, trading blows and barbs in equal measure. Jon was consciously holding back, using perhaps half his true speed and strength. Even so, he was still better than her.

"Show-off," Dacey accused after he executed a particularly flashy disarm that sent her practice mace spinning from her grip.

Jon retrieved it and offered it back, hilt-first. "Not showing off. Demonstrating."

"And what exactly are you demonstrating?" She accepted the mace, her fingers touching his.

"That Mormont women aren't invincible, contrary to northern legend."

"Bold claim from a man who's seen but one Mormont woman."

"One is enough to disprove the legend."

"Or perhaps—" Dacey began, but stopped abruptly, her attention caught by something over Jon's shoulder.

Jon turned to follow her gaze. A slender figure stood at the edge of the yard, watching them with unconcealed interest. A woman, no, a girl around three to four years older than him, with tanned olive skin and dark hair pulled back in a braid. She wore riding leathers of a distinctly southern cut, though not the gaudy silks favored by most Southron nobles. A sword hung at her hip, its pommel worn with use rather than decorative.

But it was her eyes that captured Jon's attention. A shade of purple so deep it bordered on indigo, startling against her warm complexion.

The girl approached with the confident stride of someone comfortable in a training yard. Her gaze moved appraisingly between Jon and Dacey, settling on the latter with raised eyebrows.

"I confess surprise," she said, her accent bearing the lilting cadence of Dorne, "to see a woman in the training yard north of Dorne."

"The North can be as wild as the hottest place in Westeros," Dacey replied evenly, though Jon noted how she subtly straightened to her full impressive height. "Dacey Mormont of Bear Island."

"Jon Snow," 

"Rhae Sand," the girl replied, her purple eyes lingering on Jon's face, she looked at him as if she knew him somehow, as if this wasn't their first time meeting. "I saw you training from afar. When I realized Lady Mormont wasn't one of my countrywomen, I had to see for myself."

"All girls of Bear Island learn to fight," Dacey explained, pride evident in her voice. "We're taught alongside our brothers from the time we can hold a blade."

"As are we in Dorne," Rhae said with approval. "Though elsewhere in Westeros, they seem to think women should only wield embroidery needles."

"Is Dorne truly so different?" he asked. "I've heard tales, but..."

"But you've never traveled south of King's Landing," Rhae finished for him, a small smile playing at her lips. "Dorne is... freer in many ways. Women may inherit equally with men. Bastards aren't treated with scorn." Her gaze met his directly. "We believe joy isn't something to be ashamed of, regardless of the circumstances of one's birth."

Jon felt a strange resonance with her words, as if she'd plucked them from his own thoughts. "You're here for the tournament?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I am." Rhae nodded. "Will you compete in the melee? The joust?"

"The melee, yes," Jon confirmed. "I have little experience with jousting."

"And you, Lady Mormont?" Rhae turned to Dacey.

"The melee as well," Dacey said. "Though I'll wager half the southron knights will withdraw when they learn a woman intends to knock them into the dirt."

Rhae laughed. "Then they'll be twice surprised, as I'll be entering as well."

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Two women in the melee? The court will be scandalized."

"Good," both women said in unison, then glanced at each other with newfound respect.

Dacey twirled her practice sword thoughtfully. "Perhaps you'd care to test Northern steel against Dornish steel, Lady Sand? See which fares better in the yard before we meet in the melee?"

A slow smile spread across Rhae's face, transforming it from merely pretty to striking. "I thought you'd never ask, Lady Mormont."

Jon stepped back, gesturing to the center of the training yard. "I'll yield the field to you ladies, then."

"How gallant," Rhae teased, drawing her own practice sword from a scabbard at her side. 

As the two women squared off, Jon found his gaze drawn repeatedly to the Dornish girl. There was something about her—something beyond her exotic looks and confident manner—that tugged at the edges of his awareness. A familiarity he couldn't place, as if he'd met her in a dream he could no longer fully recall.

Strange, he thought, watching as Rhae and Dacey began to circle each other like wary wolves. Very strange indeed.

The crowd around the training yard swelled as Dacey exchanged her practice sword for a wooden mace, its head carved with the bear sigil of her house. Across from her, Rhae Sand tested the balance of her short practice sword.

"A mace?" Rhae asked, one eyebrow arched. "I expected a longsword from a northerner."

"Bear Islanders aren't like other northerners," Dacey replied, moving into a wide stance. "We learn to use what works against wildling raiders and ironborn reavers. A mace crushes armor and breaks bones. No fancy swordplay needed."

"Direct and brutal," Rhae observed with a smile. "Very northern."

"And I suppose your little blade represents some profound Dornish philosophy?" Dacey twirled her mace in a figure-eight pattern.

"Speed over strength. Precision over power." Rhae's smile grew. "Finding the gap rather than smashing through the wall."

Jon watched from the sidelines. Dacey stood tall and firm, a mountain ready to weather any storm. Rhae moved like water, never still, always seeking the path of least resistance.

"Shall we set terms?" Dacey asked. "First to yield? First blood?"

"First to three solid hits?" Rhae suggested. "I'd hate to bruise that fair northern skin beyond repair."

Dacey snorted. "My skin has weathered worse than anything a southron could deliver."

"We shall see." Rhae dropped into a fighter's crouch. "Begin when ready, Lady Bear."

The crowd fell silent as the two women sized each other up. Then, with a sharp cry, Dacey lunged forward, her mace describing a deadly arc toward Rhae's shoulder. The Dornishwoman didn't attempt to block, such a move would have been folly against a heavier weapon, but instead twisted away, her short sword darting in to tap Dacey's ribs.

"One for Dorne," Rhae announced, dancing back.

Dacey's expression hardened. She advanced more cautiously this time, feinting left before swinging low for Rhae's knees. Again, Rhae evaded, but this time Dacey anticipated the dodge and reversed her swing, catching Rhae's sword arm with a glancing blow.

"One for the North," Dacey countered, a savage grin spreading across her face.

The pattern continued, Dacey's powerful strikes against Rhae's snake like attacks. The mace whistled through the air, each swing carrying enough force to break bones had it connected solidly. Rhae used her sword in quick attacks, trying to find gaps.

"Your technique is unusual," Dacey observed during a brief respite, circling warily. "Not pure water dancing."

"A blend of styles," Rhae confirmed. "Dorne sits at the crossroads of many cultures. We learn from all."

"While we northerners are too stubborn to change our ways?" Dacey feinted again, then unleashed a brutal overhead strike.

Rhae sidestepped, her blade scoring another touch against Dacey's side. "Two for Dorne," she said sweetly. "And I didn't say that, though you seem to believe it."

"Bear Islanders adapt," Dacey retorted, her breathing still controlled despite the exertion. "We take what works, discard what doesn't. But we don't abandon our principles."

"Principles?" Rhae laughed. "Like honor? Tell me, Lady Mormont, how many battles has honor won when facing a dishonorable foe?"

"Honor isn't about winning," Dacey replied, her mace a blur as she pressed forward in a flurry of strikes that forced Rhae to retreat. "It's about deserving to win."

One of her swings connected solidly with Rhae's hip, drawing a hiss of pain from the Dornishwoman. "Two all," Dacey announced, satisfaction evident in her voice.

Both women were breathing harder now, sweat dampening their hair. They circled each other like predators, each seeking the opening that would secure victory.

"Final point," Rhae called out. "Shall we make it interesting?"

"What did you have in mind?" Dacey asked, wary of Dornish trickery.

"Winner names a forfeit. Nothing too onerous, perhaps a truth the loser must answer."

Dacey considered this. "Agreed. Though you'll not enjoy my questions, Sand."

"Bold words from someone about to lose," Rhae replied, her purple eyes glinting.

They crashed together again, the tempo of their combat accelerating. Dacey's mace became a whirlwind of destruction, forcing Rhae to spend more time evading than attacking. Yet the Dornishwoman remained elusive, bending like a reed in a storm rather than standing firm against it.

Dacey committed to a powerful swing that would have ended the match had it connected. As she recovered her balance, Rhae seemed to stumble, dropping to one knee. Dacey instinctively hesitated, unwilling to strike an opponent at such disadvantage.

In that split second of chivalrous restraint, Rhae flung a handful of dirt directly into Dacey's eyes.

The crowd gasped. Dacey staggered backward, momentarily blinded, her mace sweeping wildly to keep Rhae at bay. But the Dornishwoman was already inside her guard, practice sword pressed firmly against Dacey's throat.

"Three for Dorne," Rhae declared, breathing hard. "I believe that's the match."

Dacey knocked the blade away, wiping furiously at her eyes. "You cheated," she growled, indignation coloring her tone.

"I won," Rhae corrected, sheathing her practice sword. "There were no rules against using the environment."

"That wasn't using the environment. That was a dirty trick."

"In a real fight, would your opponent care about fighting fair?" Rhae challenged. "Or would they care about staying alive?"

"There's no honor in victory achieved through deception," Dacey insisted, her northern pride stung.

"There's no honor in death, either," Rhae countered. "Only those who survive can speak of honor, and they usually do so from comfortable chairs, far from the battlefield."

Jon stepped forward before the argument could escalate further. "She has a point, Dacey."

Dacey turned to him, betrayal flashing across her features. "You agree with this... this trickery?"

"I agree that in a real fight, honor means little to the dead," Jon said quietly. 

"Well fought, Lady Mormont," Rhae said, extending her hand to Dacey. "Your skill is as formidable as your reputation."

Dacey took her hand, but still looked annoyed that she had lost to a dirty trick. "Ask your question," Dacey said stiffly.

Rhae's expression turned thoughtful. "Is it true what they say about northern women? That they grow fur in winter?"

The unexpected question broke the tension. Dacey's laugh burst forth, genuine despite her lingering annoyance. "Is that what they believe in Dorne? No wonder you southrons fear the North."

"We don't fear it," Rhae corrected with a sly smile. "We simply prefer places where one can bathe without breaking the ice first."

"You'd be surprised at the pleasures that can be found in breaking ice," Dacey replied, her gaze sliding briefly to Jon before returning to Rhae. "Perhaps you'll learn, if you ever venture beyond the Neck."

"Perhaps I will," Rhae agreed, her purple eyes alight with curiosity. She turned to Jon. "And what of you, Jon Snow? Do you fight with northern honor, or practical survival?"

"I fight to protect what matters," Jon answered simply. "Honor means little if those you love lie dead."

Dacey frowned slightly at his words, but Rhae's purple eyes lit with interest.

"A practical philosophy," she observed, studying Jon with curiosity. "Rare among northerners, in my experience."

She twirled her practice sword thoughtfully, then fixed Jon with a direct gaze. "Care to test your steel against mine, Snow? I'm curious to see if your blade moves as quickly as your mind."

"Are you certain?" Dacey interjected. "You've already fought once."

"And I've caught my breath," Rhae replied, her eyes never leaving Jon's face. "Besides, it's not every day one meets a northerner who understands that survival trumps honor."

"I accept," Jon accepted without a second thought, "though I warn you, I'm not as chivalrous as Lady Mormont."

"Good," Rhae replied with a sly smile. "Chivalry is wasted on me."

Jon retrieved his practice sword and moved to the center of the yard. Dacey stood to one side, her expression caught between curiosity and concern.

"Terms?" Jon asked, rolling his neck.

"Let's keep it simple," Rhae suggested. "First to yield loses."

Jon nodded, settling into a defensive stance. He would start cautiously, he decided, gauging her true skill before committing himself.

Rhae didn't wait for a formal beginning. She lunged without warning, her short sword aimed at his ribs in a strike that would have landed had Jon been a fraction slower. As it was, he barely parried in time, the impact jarring up his arm.

Jon found himself retreating further. Her blade seemed everywhere at once, forcing him to rely on instinct rather than training.

"You're holding back," she accused after a particularly narrow dodge. "I've heard you broke a practice sword with a single strike."

"Court gossip," Jon deflected, though the incident had indeed occurred two days prior. Robb had been furious.

"I don't think so." Rhae circled him, her purple eyes assessing. "Why restrain yourself? Afraid of hurting a woman?"

Jon almost laughed. "I train regularly with Dacey Mormont. I harbor no illusions about a woman's ability to handle herself in combat."

"Then show me what you can do," Rhae challenged.

Jon's jaw tightened. He recognized the manipulation but found himself responding to it nonetheless. His next parry carried more force, driving Rhae back a step.

"Better," she acknowledged, a smile tugging at her lips. "But not your best."

Jon increased his tempo, moving with greater speed than he'd shown earlier. Their blades met in a rapid series of strikes and counters, the rhythm accelerating with each exchange. He was still holding back, but less so now, allowing some of his enhanced reflexes to surface.

"You're good," Jon admitted during a brief respite, circling warily. "Very good."

"As are you," Rhae replied, her chest rising and falling more rapidly now. "Though I still sense reservation."

Jon didn't answer, instead launching into an attack sequence Ser Rodrik had taught him, modified by his own natural instincts. Rhae met him blow for blow, her style adapting fluidly to counter his northern technique.

For several minutes, they seemed evenly matched, though Jon knew he could have ended it had he employed his full capabilities. Something held him back, not just caution, but curiosity. Fighting Rhae felt unlike sparring with anyone else. There was a strange familiarity to it, as if they'd crossed swords in another life.

"You are still holding back, Jon Snow. Show me everything, do not hold back."

His next attack came with blinding speed, his practice sword little more than a blur as he drove Rhae backwards across the yard. 

He caught her blade with his own, twisting sharply in a disarming move that would have sent most opponents' swords flying. Rhae, however, adjusted her grip and turned with the momentum, using it to spin inside his reach. She struck low, aiming for his knees.

Jon jumped, higher than he should have been able to, clearing her blade entirely. As he landed, he saw Rhae's eyes widen fractionally—the first genuine surprise she'd shown.

"Impressive," she murmured, backing away to reassess.

Jon pressed his advantage, no longer concerned with concealing his abilities. 

Then Rhae tried another dirty tactic, similar to what she'd used against Dacey. She feinted a stumble, clearly hoping Jon would hesitate as Dacey had done. Instead, Jon saw through the ruse and responded with his own deception, appearing to overcommit to an attack before suddenly changing direction.

The unexpected counter caught Rhae off-guard. She attempted to recover, but Jon had already slipped past her defenses. His practice sword swept her legs from beneath her, sending her sprawling onto her back. Before she could rise, he was above her, the tip of his sword at her throat.

"Yield?" he asked, breathing hard not from exertion but exhilaration.

Rhae looked up at him, her purple eyes shining with something that might have been respect—or recognition. "I yield," she said, her voice soft.

Jon extended his hand to help her up. It was the natural conclusion to their bout, an expected courtesy. As their hands clasped, palm to palm, skin to skin, the world exploded into golden light.

Jon and Rhae felt as if electricity exploded through their bodies.

The training yard vanished. The spectators disappeared. Even Dacey faded from awareness as Jon found himself standing in an endless desert of luminescent sand, stretching to infinity in all directions. Above them was the familiar massive tree made of light.

Two Eldians.

The voice wasn't spoken so much as felt, reverberating through Jon's very being. He turned to find Rhae beside him, her expression mirroring his own shock. 

As suddenly as it had appeared, the vision shattered. Jon found himself back in the training yard, still clasping Rhae's hand. Their eyes met, both of them breathing rapidly, identical expressions of disbelief on their faces.

Jon helped her to her feet mechanically, his mind reeling. Around them, the spectators applauded the well-fought match, oblivious to what had just transpired between them.

"You can heal, can't you?" Jon asked directly, seizing the moment before it slipped away. "Like me."

Something flashed in Rhae's eyes, it appeared like fear, and warning. She stepped back, creating distance between them.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said clearly, though her eyes told a different story. "Thank you for the match, Jon Snow."

Before he could press further, she turned and walked away in a haste as if she was being chased by someone. He stood rooted to the spot, watching her retreat, a thousand questions crowding his mind.

"Jon?" Dacey's voice broke through his stupor. "What happened? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Not a ghost, Jon thought, his gaze still fixed on Rhae's departing figure. Another like me.

The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating. He wasn't alone. Whatever he was, whatever power flowed through his veins, it wasn't unique to him.

Two Eldians, the voice had said. And he remembered what the person in his dream had said. That meant, there were seven others out there like him and Rhae.

"Jon?" Dacey repeated, more insistent now.

"Nothing," he replied automatically. "Just surprised by her skill."

But as he turned to face Dacey, Jon knew that nothing would ever be the same again. He was not sure yet what abilities he had, and he wondered if Rhae could turn into a similar Titan as he had done when Wylla was killed, if that were the case, what about the other seven, could they also turn into giant titans that could crush people like insects, for the first time, Jon felt a shiver of fear in his body, hoping that Rhae and those seven others would not decide to do something...drastic with their powers.