Robert stood at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed, watching the clash of swords before him. The air was crisp, the sky heavy with northern gray, but he barely noticed. His eyes were locked on his daughter.

She moved like a storm, fierce and unrelenting. Her blade met Robb’s with force, the ring of steel filling the yard. Robert smirked as he saw the surprise flicker in Ned’s boy’s eyes—he hadn’t expected this kind of fight.

Then, with a sharp twist, she knocked his sword wide and sent him tumbling to the dirt. Laughter rumbled from Robert’s chest before he could stop it. “Hah! That’s my girl!” he bellowed, stepping forward.

Robb groaned, shaking his head as he got up. “She’s quick,” he admitted, breathless.

Robert clapped his daughter on the shoulder, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Not just quick—strong. You fight like a Baratheon.” His grin faltered just slightly, something unreadable flickering across his face. A memory, perhaps, of another time, another place.

She wiped sweat from her brow, eyes alight with victory. “I fight like myself.”

Robert threw his head back and laughed. “That you do.” His voice softened just a fraction as he squeezed her shoulder. “And gods help the man who underestimates you.”