New students start from 'Game of Thrones'

Chapter 14 The Three-Eyed Raven

"Your Grace, Ser Jaime, it is time for the children's training. If you'll excuse me," Owen said quickly, sensing Cersei's mind was turning to other schemes. He bowed, then took Bran by the hand and prepared to leave.

"You're interested in him?" Jaime Lannister asked Cersei, his tone sharp.

"Of course," Cersei replied, no attempt to hide her interest. She turned to Jaime, whose face had darkened, and added, "Men with such extraordinary swordsmanship are rare."

"You're right—I'll admit that guard is remarkably skilled. Even if the Sword of the Morning were alive again, he and a handful of us together might not stand a chance against him," Jaime conceded, nodding.

"But you don't need to outmatch someone in combat to kill them. Poison, assassination, sending an entire army—there are ways," Jaime continued, his voice cold.

It was clear Jaime still seethed over the previous night's humiliation. Yet he was realistic enough to know he couldn't defeat Owen in a fair fight. But as a Lannister, he had endless resources at his disposal—with enough gold dragons, there would be no shortage of men willing to kill for him.

"You speak sense, Jaime," Cersei said. "But one thing is undeniable: with that man by his side, Eddard Stark holds a wild card. In some situations, this guard is as dangerous as a fully armed army." She tilted her chin up, watching Owen and Bran walk away, her expression haughty.

"So you plan to win him over?" Jaime asked, catching her drift.

"Yes—but not now. I'll wait until we reach King's Landing to work on him. This is the North, after all," Cersei said lightly.

"Come, Ser Jaime. Walk with your queen to that tower. I suspect the view from the top is quite different," Cersei purred, shifting to tease Jaime.

"At your command, Your Grace," Jaime replied, bowing formally—but there was a lewd lilt in his voice.

Passion flared between them. They entered the tower one after another, climbing to the top floor. Once they confirmed the space was empty, Cersei could no longer contain her desire; she grabbed Jaime and pulled him into a frantic embrace.

Owen took Bran to the training yard, where Arya was already practicing her swordsmanship. It was no wonder Arya would one day become the greatest female swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms—her talent was undeniable.

A rapier danced in her hands, weaving a trail of glittering arcs. Her moves were as deadly as they were graceful, sharp yet elegant.

"Master Owen, do you think I'll ever be better than Arya?" Bran asked, watching Arya's fluid strikes with a mix of awe and envy.

"Work as hard as you can, and you might," Owen said, clapping Bran on the shoulder.

"So that means I can't?" Bran sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"Don't be discouraged. If you keep practicing, you'll narrow the gap between you and her," Owen reassured him.

"Now go on—start your drills. I'll watch and correct you," Owen said, giving Bran a gentle push toward the yard.

Bran nodded, picked up a blunted practice sword from the edge of the yard, and began to repeat the moves Owen had taught him, step by step.

"Master Owen, how am I doing?" Arya called, finishing her set and running over.

"You're doing excellent, Arya. One day, you'll be the greatest female swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms," Owen said, smiling at his most promising student.

"Really?" Arya's eyes lit up.

"Of course—but you must keep practicing. Hone your footwork, and learn to adapt your moves. Most importantly, you need to spar with others. Only real combat experience will help you achieve that goal," Owen added.

"Okay! I know what to do now, Master Owen!" Arya nodded firmly.

"Well, well—if it isn't the Stark pup, swinging a sword like it's a toy! Want me to teach you how to use a real blade?" A repulsive voice cut through the air. It was Joffrey Baratheon, flanked by his bodyguard, Sandor Clegane—the Hound.

"Come, pup. Let me see what passes for 'swordsmanship' in the North," Joffrey sneered, drawing his sword and advancing on Bran.

Joffrey was a cowardly bully—spineless against those stronger than him, but vicious as a feral dog when faced with the weak. It was a trait that would only grow worse once he sat on the Iron Throne.

"Bran, if His Highness wants to see your skills, then spar with him. Let the prince 'guide' you," Owen said, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the tension.

At the sound of Owen's voice, Joffrey froze mid-step. The Hound darted to Joffrey's side, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword as he stared warily at Owen.

"Your Highness. Ser Sandor," Owen said, nodding slightly.

Joffrey, all his arrogance vanished, shrank behind the Hound and quickly sheathed his sword.

"Come, Dog. Let's go," Joffrey muttered, casting a terrified glance at Owen before turning to flee.

The Hound held Owen's gaze for a moment—Owen's lips were curved in a faint smile—then slowly backed away from the training yard. He turned and followed Joffrey, his steps deliberate.

"I don't like him. He makes my skin crawl," Arya said, frowning as she watched Joffrey's retreating back.

"Neither do I," Owen murmured.

"But Sansa does. Last night, she said you shouldn't have defeated Ser Jaime in front of everyone—it embarrassed the queen. She said it would make things hard for her with the queen and the prince," Arya added, recalling Sansa's complaints.

"Don't worry about her. She's just a girl who doesn't understand the world yet," Owen said with a laugh. Mentally, he shook his head: Typical Sansa—even in this timeline, she's as naive as ever.

"I hate Sansa too!" Arya said, her voice sharp with anger.

"Enough of that. Go practice with Bran. Use blunted swords, and be careful not to hurt him," Owen said, redirecting her attention.

Arya's face lit up. She swapped her rapier for a blunted practice sword and ran toward Bran.

"Bran, spar with Arya. Focus—try to beat her," Owen called out.

The two children quickly faced off in the yard, their blunted swords clashing. Owen stood nearby, calling out tips to Bran whenever he missed an opening or misstepped.

Suddenly, Owen felt a pair of eyes watching him from the distant right. He spun around, his hand tensing on his sword hilt.

But there was no one there—only tall stone buildings. Owen trusted his instincts, though; he scanned the area carefully, his gaze sharp.

Perched on the roof of one building was a raven, its beady eyes fixed directly on him. The moment he saw it, Owen thought of the creature trapped in the weirwood cave beyond the Wall—the Three-Eyed Raven.

Without hesitation, Owen grabbed an arrow from his quiver, nocked it to his longbow, and loosed it at the raven. He had complete confidence in his archery skills; a normal raven would have been torn to shreds by the arrow.

But this raven was not normal. It dodged the arrow with inhuman speed, then swooped down toward Owen, its wings beating furiously. Just as it was about to reach his face, a flash of steel glinted—Owen drew his sword and swung, severing the raven's head from its body.

For a split second, Owen saw it clearly: the raven had three eyes. But in the next breath, the third eye vanished, as if it had never existed.

"So my presence has disrupted the Three-Eyed Raven's plans. This was a warning," Owen muttered to himself, his eyes darkening.