The chill of the North followed them south like a shadow that refused to be shaken.
Even when the air softened and the forests thinned, there lingered a restraint in the wind that had not been present before their journey. It was as if Winterfell had pressed something quiet into each of them and sent it riding home.
Storm's End rose black and unyielding against the sea when at last they returned, its towers cutting against a bruised horizon. The banners snapped in greeting, and the surf below resumed its endless assault against stone.
The yard had not changed.
But the boys who stepped back into it had.
Training resumed the morning after their arrival.
Ser Harbert had ordered new weapons brought from the armory, blunted swords, spears, shields repaired and reinforced. Among them lay something heavier. A training hammer, its wooden haft thick, its iron head rounded but still formidable in weight.
Robert noticed it at once.
"What's that for?" he asked, already striding toward it.
"For when you learn not to rely solely on speed," Ser Harbert answered dryly.
Robert lifted the hammer with one hand.
It dipped immediately, the weight dragging his arm lower than expected. He adjusted his grip and tried again, this time with both hands. The head swung forward in a slow, brutal arc, stirring air even before it struck anything.
The sound when it met the practice post was unlike the ring of wood on wood.
It was dull.
Final.
Robert's grin shifted, not broader, but deeper.
Orys watched from across the yard.
He had chosen a sword again, its weight familiar in his grip. His hair lay close to his head, damp with early exertion. He moved through drills with deliberate precision, stepping lightly across the sand.
Robert tested the hammer again, adjusting his stance.
"Too slow," Ser Harbert said.
"Too strong," Robert replied, and swung once more.
This time he widened his footing and rotated his shoulders through the motion, letting his whole body drive the strike rather than only his arms. The post shuddered violently at impact.
A few of the boys winced.
Robert laughed.
He set the hammer down only briefly before lifting it again, ignoring the sword placed beside him. Sweat formed quickly along his brow as he repeated the motion, adjusting grip, adjusting stance.
Orys finished his bout against Tomas Fell cleanly, two controlled strikes and a disarm. The sand shifted softly beneath his boots as he stepped back.
Robert was still at the post.
"You'll tire before noon," Orys said, approaching.
Robert wiped sweat from his face with his forearm. "You said I tire."
"I said you burn."
Robert hefted the hammer again, this time testing its balance across his shoulders. "A sword's too thin," he said. "Slips through bone too easily."
"That is its purpose."
Robert shook his head. "I don't want to slip through bone."
He stepped into the open space of the yard and swung the hammer in a broad, heavy arc. It moved slower than a blade, but the force behind it was undeniable.
"I want to break it."
Orys regarded him quietly.
A sword rewarded patience. Footwork. Timing.
The hammer demanded commitment.
Once in motion, it did not correct easily.
Robert seemed to understand that instinctively—and relish it.
Ser Harbert approached, folding his arms. "You'll be open on the return swing," he warned.
"Then I won't miss," Robert replied.
He called for a shield.
One of the older squires stepped forward reluctantly, raising a reinforced practice shield. Robert swung.
The hammer struck the shield's face and drove the squire backward three steps despite his brace. The sound reverberated through the yard, a heavy thud that felt different from the usual clatter of wooden blades.
The watching boys fell silent.
Robert lowered the hammer slowly.
"That's better," he said.
Orys stepped closer, examining the slight dent left in the shield's surface. Even blunted, the impact had force enough to leave its mark.
"You won't always have room to swing it," Orys said.
Robert shrugged. "Then I'll make room."
Orys said nothing further.
Across the yard, Stannis watched the exchange with narrowed eyes.
"You'll be slower," Stannis said when Robert paused for breath.
Robert flashed him a grin. "Only at first."
He swung again.
The hammer's arc cut through the morning air with a low, heavy whistle. Sand sprayed beneath his boots as he shifted weight forward. The strike landed squarely against the practice post once more, splintering a thin strip of wood from its side.
Orys returned to his drills.
He did not change weapons.
His sword moved through measured patterns, thrust, guard, pivot, reset. He practiced footwork on wet stone rather than sand, letting the slight instability sharpen his balance.
Robert's laughter rose behind him with each heavy blow.
By midday, Robert's arms trembled faintly from exertion.
He refused to set the hammer down.
"Again," he muttered to himself.
When at last Ser Harbert called a halt, Robert leaned on the haft and exhaled heavily, chest rising and falling in sharp pulls.
Orys approached once more.
"You'll need stronger wrists," he observed.
"I'll build them."
"And steadier footing."
Robert smirked. "You'll see."
Orys studied him for a moment.
The hammer suited Robert in ways the sword had not.
It matched his instinct to meet force with greater force, to answer challenge not with redirection but with obliteration. It did not require subtlety. It required commitment.
Orys looked down at his own blade.
Steel could win with a single precise cut.
A hammer left no ambiguity.
That evening, as the sun bled slowly into the sea, Robert returned to the yard alone.
Orys saw him from the battlements above.
Robert lifted the hammer again, swinging into the fading light, repeating the motion long after the others had gone inside.
The sea roared against the cliffs below.
Robert swung harder.
Orys watched for a time.
Then he turned away.
The storm did not always break what it struck.
But sometimes it chose not to cut at all.
Sometimes it crushed.