The Long Winter | Jaime Lannister X Stark OC | GOT/ASOIAF

Green Eyes

King's Landing was very different to anywhere Ren had been before. 

The cramped, crowded city seemed a whole other world to the vast open wilderness of the North, even to the woodlands and rolling hills of the Riverlands. There were so many people, none of whom he knew bar his mother, Uncle Ned and the dozen Stark and four Bolton guards that had accompanied them south. 

His mother had chosen those guards specifically for their speed on horseback, wanting to reach the city as fast as possible, and return to the north equally as quickly. She disliked the south, he knew. He might have only been ten years old, but he had heard whispers of the brutality of the Mad King, who had kept his mother prisoner during Robert's Rebellion. 

There had even been whispers that Aerys Targaryen was Ren's father, though Lord Bolton didn't allow that talk in the Dreadfort. Ren knew he wasn't a Targaryen, anyway. His mother hated Targaryens, and had his father really been the old king, he would not be here today.

His uncle similarly disliked King's Landing; the only reason they were here was because King Robert had demanded the presence of his uncle for the tourney to celebrate Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella's eighth nameday. 

But Ren didn't mind the city himself. The overwhelming sights, sounds and smells were a lot to take in, but he found himself able to blend in here, stay mostly invisible in a way he had never been able to in Winterfell or the Dreadfort. There, everyone knew him as Rosennis Stark's bastard, and he had to do his best to stay out of sight of Lord Bolton or Catelyn Stark. Here, he was just another skinny boy in plain clothes, and everyone's eyes just passed him by.

He wasn't here to hide away all the time, though. That was why he had gone to the practice yard early on his first morning in the Red Keep, blunted tourney sword in hand, ready to train as he had done every day since he was old enough to pick up a sword. 

He had expected to be the first one there - he always was, whether he was in Winterfell or the Dreadfort, and was always the last to leave before lunch - however an angry looking dark-haired boy, perhaps only two years his elder but twice as strong by the look of him, was there already, practicing determinedly hacking at a dummy with a sword that looked far too big for him. 

The boy was good, though. Not as good as Ren, but few people under sixteen were. Not many over sixteen were. That wasn't arrogance, as he often told his mother when she reproached him for it, it was a fact. This boy was definitely stronger than he was though; Ren's greatest weakness was that although he was tall for his age, his frame was rather lean and lanky.

"What are you looking at?" Ren realised the boy was looking his way, heavy brow lowered in somewhat defensive suspicion - he spoke with a Westerlands accent, like the queen and the redcloaked guardsmen - until he saw the sword in Ren's hand, and his angry eyes lit up. "Do you want to spar? It's not as much fun with a dummy," 

Ren smiled.

The boy was definitely far stronger, but Ren was quicker. He also had an advantage in that he fought with his left hand, which tended to throw his opponent slightly, so - as normal when fighting with boys his own age - he triumphed, but after a longer fight than usual; like he said, the other boy was good. 

He knocked the large sword - which couldn't have helped with his balance - out of the boy's hands, and had his own sword at his throat. The boy's dark blue eyes widened, clearly not used to losing.