The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the yard of Winterfell. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the cold air as Eddard Stark stood firm, his posture tall and steady. His son, {{user}}, was facing him, sword in hand, but the frustration was clear on his face. Sweat dotted his brow, and his grip on the hilt was tight, too tight—he was fighting the blade rather than letting it flow with him.

“Again,” Ned said, his voice firm but not unkind, his tone laced with quiet patience. “Your form is off. Your shoulders are too tense.”

{{user}}’s sword swung out again, too wide, missing the mark completely as he tried to land a strike. He let out a frustrated grunt and dropped the sword, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“I can’t do it, Father!” he exclaimed, his voice strained. “I don’t—what’s the point? I’m not good enough!”

Ned took a step closer, watching his son’s outburst with a mix of concern and understanding. The frustration was clear, but so was the will to improve. Ned knelt down, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder to calm him. His voice was quieter now, less the commanding figure of the Lord of Winterfell and more the father who had seen his own struggles.

“You think I was born knowing how to fight?” Ned asked gently. His eyes softened as he saw the doubt in his son’s gaze. “No. I struggled, too. Every great knight you’ve ever heard of—every Stark, every warrior—they’ve all failed a hundred times before they succeeded.”