The fire in the morning room crackled, but it brought no warmth to the space. Catelyn paced the length of the hearth, her heavy woolen skirts sweeping furiously against the stone floor and her pale face flushed with an uncharacteristic, trembling rage.
Robb sat at the heavy oak table, a damp linen cloth pressed against his cheek where the Maester had just finished cleaning the split skin. He looked more exhausted by his mother's pacing than by the blow itself.
"He did it on purpose, Robb," Catelyn said, her voice sharp as a razor, cutting through the quiet of the room. "The way he lunged, the angle of the blade... it is his bastard nature showing itself. Wild, undisciplined, and poisoned by a subconscious resentment of everything you are. Everything you inherit."
"It was ice, Mother!" Robb groaned, dropping the cloth onto the table with a frustrated thud, revealing the angry red gash along his cheekbone. "My boot slipped. I fell into his arc. If Jon hadn't pulled his weight at the last second, the wooden blade would have broken my jaw instead of just grazing my cheek. He saved me from a worse injury, he didn't cause it."
Catelyn stopped pacing, turning on her heel to face him. Her blue Tully eyes were wide, burning with a fierce, protective terror.
"You are willfully blind!" she snapped, stepping closer and slamming her palms down onto the oak table. "You look at him and see a brother. I look at him and see a threat. History is written in the blood of trueborn sons who trusted their bastard brothers too much! Have you forgotten the Blackfyres? Daemon was given a sword, he was given smiles and a place at court, and he repaid that kindness by choking the realm in blood for generations to claim a birthright that wasn't his! Bastards grow up in the shadows, Robb. They breathe resentment. The moment you give them an opening, they will strike."
Robb stood up, his tall frame towering over his mother. The frustration that had been building within him for years over her treatment of Jon finally boiled over.
"Jon is not Daemon Blackfyre!" Robb fired back, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "He is Jon. He has eaten at our table, slept under our roof, and he has never shown me—or any of my siblings—anything but absolute loyalty. He loves Bran, he protects Arya, and he would take an arrow for me if it came to it!"
He stepped around the table, looking down at his mother with a mixture of anger and deep disappointment.
"By forcing him out of the yard, by treating him like a common criminal in front of the guards, you aren't protecting me, Mother. You're just isolating him. You're pushing him into a corner and stripping away the only home he's ever known. If you keep treating him like an enemy, how long do you think it will be before he finally decides to become one?"
Catelyn recoiled slightly, as if struck, her lips thinning into a hard, bloodless line as Robb turned and stormed out of the room, leaving her alone with the flickering shadows of the fire.
The heavy oak door of the smithy groaned open, releasing a thick, rolling cloud of gray woodsmoke and the sharp stink of quenched oil into the courtyard.
Meanwhile at the Smithy
Ron stepped out into the freezing drizzle, drawing a deep, freezing breath to clear the sulfur from his lungs. He wiped a mixture of sweat and soot from his brow with his leather-gloved forearm, his chest still heaving from the final hours of work over the heat. In his left hand, he carried the finished weapon, tucked safely into a simple, oil-skinned leather sheath.
He didn't have to look hard to find his customer. Jon Snow was sitting alone on a low stone bench near the armory wall, the fine mist of northern rain matting his dark curls and soaking through his wool cloak. He was staring blankly at the churned, icy mud beneath his boots, his shoulders hunched, looking entirely defeated by the world.
Ron paused, letting out a dry, mocking snort as he walked over. "Look at you," Ron scoffed, his voice dripping with pragmatic bluntness. "You look like a dog that just watched someone throw its favorite bone into the high-keep well. Did the Lady of the house tell you that you aren't allowed to play with the trueborn princes anymore? or is the gloomy weather just doing its job?"
Jon's head snapped up, his gray eyes flashing with a sudden, hot spark of irritation. The raw insult hit him like a splash of well water. "Shut your mouth, apprentice," Jon spat, his voice tight and hoarse. He wiped the cold rain from his face, looking back down at the dirt. "You don't know anything. You're lucky you weren't born a bastard in a house that hates you. You don't have to look at a lady every day who wishes you were dead."
Ron didn't offer a comforting pat on the back. He didn't ask about Jon's feelings, and he certainly didn't care about the tragic intricacies of highborn lineage. To Ron, chivalry, birthright, and existential dread were just fancy words for people who had too much free time and not enough actual problems.
"Yeah, terribly tragic," Ron said with a roll of his eyes.
Without a word of warning, he dropped the sheathed short sword right onto Jon's lap. The weight of the steel clattered against Jon's thighs, forcing the boy to instinctively grab it to keep it from slipping into the mud.
"I just finished the short sword," Ron said, stepping back and crossing his arms over his dirty leather apron, his eyes narrowing with a sharp focus. "The silver you paid me covers the forge time, the premium charcoal, and the metal. It doesn't cover watching you sit in the rain acting like a martyr. So, let's skip the self-pity. Do you still want to spar?"
Jon stared at the wrapped hilt in his hands, his fingers tightening around the leather grip as Ron's harsh, unvarnished words forced his mind away from the shame and back into the cold reality of the steel.
Annoyed by Ron's sheer audacity, Jon grabbed the leather grip and violently threw the short sword back at him. Ron's hand snapped out, easily catching the weapon before shifting his grip smoothly to the hilt.
"Now is not a good time for a spar, apprentice," Jon warned, his voice low, shaking with rage. He rose from the stone bench, his hand dropping to the hilt of his own practice blade. "Walk away. If you keep pushing, I won't hold back."
Ron didn't flinch. Instead, a smile spread across his soot-stained face. With a sharp shhhk, he unsheathed the newly forged short sword, the dark, subtly swirling composite steel gleaming dangerously in the gray drizzle. He flipped the blade into a reverse grip, entirely indifferent to Jon's dark mood.
"I'm terrified, Snow," Ron drawled, his voice dripping with unbothered sarcasm. He raised the blade, pointing the needle-thin tip directly at Jon's chest. "Give me your best shot. Let's see what all that highborn skillset actually buys you in a real fight."
The insult snapped the last thread of Jon's control. Blinded by fury, he ripped his practice sword from its sheath and lunged forward across the slick courtyard. It was a fast, aggressive strike meant to drive the arrogant apprentice back against the smithy wall.
But Ron didn't move like a Westerosi guardsman. He didn't lock blades or brace for a heavy parry. The moment Jon committed his weight to the forward thrust, Ron simply stepped laterally into Jon's blind spot, exploiting the terrible footing of the muddy yard.
Before Jon could recover his balance, Ron extended his heavy, leather-booted foot directly behind Jon's trailing heel.
Jon's momentum betrayed him. His boot caught Ron's ankle, his footing vanished entirely, and he went flying forward, crashing heavily into the freezing, churned mud. The air left his lungs in a sharp, wet gasp as his practice sword clattered into the dirt out of reach.
Spitting mud and shivering from the impact, Jon scrambled to push himself up, only to freeze.
The dark, needle-sharp tip of the short sword was resting a mere inch from his throat. Ron stood over him, completely clean, a smug, unbearable smirk plastered across his face.
"That's one for me," Ron said smoothly, tapping the flat of the blade against Jon's collarbone before stepping back. "Rule number one of staying alive, Snow: never let a mean word make you stupid. You swung like a wild animal, and now you're eating dirt."