Feet pound on the ground behind you, making a soft, padding sound in the underbrush. You run. Dirt flies up from your boots. You hop over a pool of deep, warm water, feeling the steam caress you as you cross. But you keep going. You're careful to avoid the exposed roots and tearing branches that want to hold you back. It's so easy to get caught and so very difficult to get away.
A sword is slung across your shoulder and it bounces off your back with every bound. You wonder if you'll have a bruise from it, but forget the thought when you round the weirwood. The blood red face stares down at you menacingly. Like a deer, you freeze. You look up into its severe face, but before you remember you're running, your pursuer bursts from the bushes behind you. He's unable to stop in time and he bowls into you full force, the pair of you roll into the dirt at the foot of the tree. The practice sword smashes into your back when you land. You curse breathlessly.
"Ser, you are mine," says the boy sprawled on the ground beside you. He heaves and twists his sword out from under himself, then points it at your chest. Ignoring the throbbing ache that follows to the right of your spine where you'd landed on your own sword, you frown up at the other boy as he climbs to his feet. There are hand-sized leaves the color of blood in his auburn hair. Your chest rises and falls quickly. You bat the point of his sword away with your hand and roll to your feet. Your captor grins triumphantly, knowing he's won. He's shorter than you. He raises his arms to the sky, obscured overhead. "For Winterfell!"
You feel disappointed that he caught you and angry at the heart tree for scaring you. Then you smile. Robb's arms fall to his sides as he gives you a confused look. You're supposed to kneel and beg, you know. That's how the game goes. Instead, you move quickly, crouching low, and come at the younger boy at a run. The two of you fall into the pool before the weirwood with a splash.