Jon stared up at the dark steel blade hovering near his throat, his teeth grinding so hard his jaw ached. He saw the insufferable smirk on the apprentice's face, felt the icy mud soaking through his trousers, and for a dangerous second, he wanted to rip Ron's throat out with his bare hands.
Instead, he forced a slow, ragged breath into his lungs. He remembered his father's words: An angry mind is a careless mind. Jon swallowed the bitter pride, slapped the flat of the short sword away from his neck, and scrambled back to his feet. He picked up his training sword, wiping a streak of black muck from his brow. He didn't yell. He didn't curse out loud. But inside, a cold, quiet vow took root: I am going wipe the smile off from that peasant!.
Jon shifted his boots, widening his base on the slick ground. He brought his practice blade up, holding it diagonally across his chest in a classic, textbook Northern iron guard. It was an iron-clad defensive stance meant to absorb heavy blows, invite an attack, and exploit some openings.
Ron looked at the rigid, perfect form and let out a dry whistle. "Very pretty, Snow. Looks just like the drawings in the high-born maester books."
Ron didn't test the guard with a strike. Instead, he dropped his weight low, his left hand subtly dipping into the large leather pocket of his work apron—the pocket where he had mixed the coarse forge ash and dry dirt(for self defense).
Jon watched Ron's feet, waiting for the telltale shift in weight that signaled a step.
It never came.
With a sudden, violent flick of his wrist, Ron whipped his left hand forward. A blinding, thick cloud of gray forge ash and coarse debris sprayed directly into Jon's face.
"What—" Jon gasped, but it was too late. The gritty soot hit his eyes, burning instantly. The coarse ash filled his nose and throat, forcing him into a violent cough as his vision went entirely black, tears streaming down his face to wash away the gray powder. Blind and disoriented, Jon instinctively swung his sword in a wild, protective circle to keep Ron back.
But Ron was already moving. He easily ducked under the blind, desperate swing, stepped inside Jon's guard, and slammed the heavy pommel of the short sword violently into Jon's ribs.
The breath left Jon in a sharp howl as he stumbled backward, his hands flying to his chest. Before he could recover his footing, Ron hooked his leg around Jon's ankle once more, driving a heavy elbow into the bastard's shoulder.
For the second time in five minutes, Jon crashed into the mud, coughing, half-blinded, and clutching his bruised ribs.
"Rule number two," Ron's voice echoed from above, completely devoid of pity. Jon heard the sharp clink of the short sword sliding back into its leather sheath. "Honor doesn't mean a damn thing if you're too blind to see the guy cutting your throat. Next time, look at my hands, not just my blade."
Jon hawked and spat a glob of gray, ash-stained mud onto the frozen ground, his eyes burning like hot coals. He wiped his face with a wet sleeve, smearing the soot across his cheeks until he looked like a feral corpse.
"You miserable, lowborn piece of shite," Jon hissed, his voice trembling with a cocktail of humiliation and pure rage. "That isn't fighting. That's cowardice. A common thug's trick."
"It's effective," Ron retorted cleanly, not an ounce of shame in his voice as he casually tossed a pebble from one hand to the other. "You're the one on the ground, Snow. The mud doesn't care about your definition of cowardice, and neither will a wildling's axe."
Jon pushed himself up, his chest heaving, his fingers tightening so hard around his practice sword. He fumed, his mind racing for a way to puncture the apprentice's unbearable arrogance. Then, a sharp realization hit him.
"You're a fraud," Jon spat, a bitter, triumphant smile flashing through the dirt on his face. "You talk a grand game about your fancy engineering, but you still haven't shown me how the blade actually works. You've used dirt, you've used your boots, but you haven't swung the steel once. Can you even use the weapon you forged, or did you just fleece me for my silver?"
Ron froze. The smug smirk vanished from his face for a fraction of a second, his posture turning completely rigid. Shit, Ron thought, a sudden cold sweat breaking out under his leather apron. He's right. I got so carried away playing Splinter Cell with the forge ash that I forgot to actually market the product. Catching himself before Jon could seize on the hesitation, Ron instantly forced his features back into a mask of calm, condescending superiority.
"Please," Ron scoffed, waving a dismissive, leather-gloved hand. "That was just the preliminary phase. Standard conditioning. If you can't even handle basic environmental awareness, you aren't ready to see what this steel can actually do. But fine. You want a demonstration of the design? Let's do the advanced course."
Jon looked at him with profound skepticism, his gray eyes narrowed to slits. He didn't buy the bullshit for a second, but he reset his footing anyway. This time, Jon didn't just take an iron guard; he stood entirely locked down, his knees bent lower, his weight perfectly centered, his blade held high and tight. He was entirely guarded, watching Ron's hands, his feet, and the dirt beneath them. He wouldn't be blinded again. He wouldn't be tripped.
Ron felt the pressure. He knew Jon was a vastly superior swordsman in a straight duel, and within ten seconds, Jon found his opening.
With a burst of speed born of absolute focus, Jon executed a perfect, textbook Northern strike. It was a fluid, sweeping arc meant to disarm, delivered with the flawless form Ser Rodrik had beaten into him since childhood. The line was clean. The timing was perfect. Ron had nowhere to step.
Right as Jon's blade was about to connect, Ron did the one thing no trained fighter would ever do. He completely let go of his short sword.
The dark steel weapon clattered loudly against the stone flags. In the exact same motion, Ron dropped into a deep, sweeping bow, his eyes fixed on the empty space directly behind Jon's shoulder.
"Lord Stark!" Ron called out, his voice instantly dropping its arrogance, replaced by a pure panicked feudal subservience.
Jon's heart stopped. The sheer conditioning of a lifetime of obedience to his father took over. His blade halted mid-air, his focus shattering instantly as a wave of cold dread washed over him. If his father saw him fighting an apprentice it would be dishonorable...
Jon momentarily distracted, his head snapped back, his eyes frantically searching the foggy, drizzling courtyard for the heavy fur cloak and stern face of Eddard Stark but the yard was completely empty. There was only a stray hound chewing on a bone by the stables.
Jon stood entirely frozen, his gaze locked on the empty courtyard where he had expected to see his father. Meanwhile Ron was already scooping his dropped short sword up from the mud, completely unbothered by the sheer cowardice of the move. He shook the muck off the leather hilt, gave it a casual spin, and pointed a finger at Jon.
"Rule number three, Snow," Ron said, his voice entirely deadpan, lacking even a shred of remorse. "A warrior who fears death utilizes every asset of his environment."
Jon stared at him. His chest heaved. His knuckles were white around his training blade. This guy has absolutely no shame, Jon thought to himself. Not an ounce of honor. He'd sell his own dignity for a tactical advantage in a street fight.
Then, a strange, bubbling sensation rose in Jon's throat. He tried to swallow it, tried to maintain the brooding, righteous anger Ser Rodrik had cultivated in him, but it was useless. A short, sharp bark of amusement escaped his lips, followed quickly by a full, roaring laugh that echoed off the damp stone walls of the smithy.
Ron stopped mid-wipe, his brow furrowing as he stepped back, looking at Jon with genuine alarm. Oh, great, Ron thought, his modern mind instantly shifting to a worst-case scenario. I broke him. The bastard's finally gone full Joker. I'm going to get executed because I drove the Lord's son insane with pocket sand.
"Uh... Lord Snow?" Ron said, shifting his weight, his hand subtly drifting back toward his hip. "You good there, buddy? It was just a joke. Don't go feral on me."
"I'm fine," Jon managed to say, wiping a tear from his eye, his shoulders still shaking as the heavy, suffocating knot in his chest finally dissolved.
For two hours, he had been drowning in thoughts of his illegitimacy, his exiled future on the Wall, and the hatred of his father's wife. But for the last ten minutes, none of that had mattered. He hadn't been Jon the Bastard being pitied nor being hated; he had just been a guy getting thoroughly clobbered by the most underhanded apprentice in the North. The sheer absurdity of it had cleared the smoke from his mind.