Jon sheathed his practice blade, walking over to Ron and looking down at the tapering, dark composite steel short sword in the apprentice's hands. He could see the faint, beautiful swirling patterns in the metal—the stolen high-carbon alloy seamlessly integrated into the core.
"I guess I'll be taking the sword," Jon said, his voice returning to its normal, somber tone, though a faint, genuine smile lingered at the corner of his lips. "It's fast. And clearly, the man who made it knows how to keep someone away from hitting him."
Ron let out a massive, invisible sigh of relief, silently thanking whatever gods—old, new, or digital—were watching over him. By the gods, he's a total fool, Ron thought, completely misunderstanding Jon's emotional release as simple-minded gullibility. He actually thinks the distraction was part of the sword's features. Perfect.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Snow," Ron said, his slick, mercenary smile returning in an instant. He slid the custom blade smoothly into its oil-skinned leather sheath and handed it over with a practiced, theatrical flourish.
As Jon's fingers wrapped around the leather grip, Ron didn't let go immediately. He held the sheath for an extra second, leaning in with a sharp, opportunistic gleam in his eyes.
"Of course, a premium weapon requires premium instruction," Ron added smoothly, his voice dropping into a low hustle. "That'll be an extra two coppers for the practical application lesson, Snow.
Jon fished two extra copper pieces from the very bottom of his pocket, tossing them to Ron with a wry shake of his head before turning out into the yard. He walked away with a lighter step, the sheathed, custom short sword tucked securely beneath his arm.
Ron caught the coppers, flashing a smug, self-satisfied grin as he flipped one of the coins in the air. Easiest money I've ever made, he thought. A little forge ash, a classic dad-fake-out, and the kid practically thanked me for robbing him.
Smack.
A heavy, calloused hand descended like a falling anvil onto the back of Ron's head. The force of the blow rattled his teeth, sending his breath out in a sharp groan as he stumbled forward, nearly dropping his hard-earned coppers into the mud.
"Ow! What the—" Ron spun around, his hand flying to the throbbing spot on his skull, ready to let loose a string of highly creative, modern expletives.
His jaw shut instantly. Standing directly behind him, breathing heavily with a scowl that could curdle milk, was Mikken. The master smith's thick arms were crossed over his barrel chest, his eyes boring holes into his apprentice.
"You arrogant little shite," Mikken grunted, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "I leave you alone for two hours, and I come back to find you throwing dirt in a Stark's eyes and swindling him out of his coin like a flea-bottom cutpurse."
"Hey, it was a practical demonstration!" Ron protested, rubbing his head and stepping back out of striking distance. "He asked for it. Literally. And he liked the sword! Did you see the pattern-welding on that spine? It's a masterpiece. I should be getting a bonus, not a concussion."
"I don't care about your fancy tricks with the steel," Mikken snapped, taking a threatening step forward that made Ron glance instinctively for an exit route. "Jon Snow might be a bastard, but he carries the blood of Winterfell. He is Lord Eddard's son, and you will treat him with the respect a Stark demands."
"He was laughing, Mikken! We were bonding!" Ron whined, holding up his hands defensively. "The guy spends twenty-four hours a day looking like his dog died. I did him a therapeutic favor."
"You threw muck at him and used his own father's name to make a fool of him," Mikken growled, grabbing Ron by the scruff of his leather apron and dragging him back toward the heat of the forge. "In the North, we have laws, boy. We have loyalty. If Lord Stark or the Lady Catelyn had seen that little circus performance, you'd be spending the winter in an iron cage, or short of a head."
He shoved a heavy iron poker into Ron's hands, pointing at the dying embers of the primary hearth.
"Get back to work. Pump the bellows and clear the slag. And if I ever see you trying to charge a Stark for 'premium coal' again, I'm going to use your backside to temper the next broadsword. Understand?"
Ron muttered something entirely incomprehensible under his breath about the lack of human resources departments in the Seven Kingdoms, begrudgingly turning back to the roaring furnace as Mikken watched him like a hawk.
_________________________________________________________________
The Great Hall usually hummed with the comfort of a heavy Northern supper—the clatter of pewter, the scraping of benches, and the low rumble of guardsmen sharing ale. however tonight, the air was thick and stagnant as a crypt.
Jon hadn't even made it past the heavy oak doors before Catelyn Stark intercepted him in the shadowed corridor. Your quarters would be a more appropriate setting for your evening meal, Jon," she spoke in a quiet, dead tone that brooked no argument. "Robb is resting. He does not need the distraction of your presence."
She hadn't waited for his nod. She simply turned her back, leaving Jon to retreat to his drafty room in the outer keep, the weight of his bastardry pressing down on his chest like stone.
inside the hall, the high table was a stage of suffocating silence. Catelyn sat rigid, flaying a piece of crust from her bread. To her left, Robb stared at Jon's empty seat, his thumb blanching as he pressed the rim of his horn cup. Sansa kept her eyes fixed on her plate, meticulously cutting her roasted capon, while little Rickon and Bran chewed in a dull, terrified rhythm. Beside them, Arya's fork impaled a boiled turnip, her dark eyes darting between her mother and eldest brother like a cornered wolf.
The heavy thud of the main doors announced the arrival of the Lord of Winterfell. Eddard Stark strode into the room, his face lined with the exhaustion of a long day spent dealing with holdfast disputes and frozen watchtowers. He threw back his heavy fur cloak, sliding into his seat at the center of the table.
He didn't take a bite. His grey eyes immediately swept the table, stopping instantly on the empty space where his second son should have been sitting.
"Where is Jon?" Ned asked.
Catelyn did not look up from her bread. She lifted her wine cup, taking a slow, elegant sip, her silence bearing down on the room like a physical weight.
Robb couldn't endure it. The frustration that had been simmering since morning boiled over. He slammed his hand flat against the oak table. "Mother forced him to eat in his quarters," Robb said, his voice cracking with indignation. "Over a simple training accident. He shouldn't be hidden away like a prisoner."
Catelyn set her cup down with a precise, chilling click, her dignified composure unbothered. "Your brother needs to learn that actions have consequences, Robb. A blade drawn against the heir of this house cannot be overlooked, regardless of how much you wish to coddle him."
"Mother, it was just a mishap!" Robb fired back, leaning forward. "My boot slipped on the ice—"
Catelyn didn't argue. She simply gave him a cold, unyielding Tully stare—the look that explicitly reminded him of his place, his duty, and the blood that ran through his veins. Under that freezing gaze, Sansa instinctively lowered her head, looking down at her lap, while Bran and Rickon went completely still, their appetites vanishing.
Thud.
The room went dead silent.
Ned hadn't shouted, but the single, heavy drop of his silver-banded goblet onto the table resonated like a thunderclap. The ambient noise of the lower hall seemed to die instantly. The servants froze; the hounds near the hearth stopped their scratching.
Ned looked across the table at his wife. There was a profound, bone-deep weariness in his eyes, but beneath it lay the ancient, unshakeable authority of the Winter Kings.
"Jon is my blood," Ned said quietly, his voice vibrating with a tone that brooked no debate. "And he will eat where he pleases."
Catelyn's jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves beneath the table, but she kept her mouth shut. She knew the exact boundary of her husband's patience.
Ned turned his stern, heavy gaze onto his heir. Robb flinched slightly.
"A lord must know how to command his temper before he can hope to command men, Robb," Ned said, the edge of his voice sharpening. "Swinging your emotions at the dinner table does no honor to your brother, nor to your mother. Go to the kitchens. Have the cooks prepare a proper trencher. You will bring Jon a plate yourself."
A sudden, bright spark broke through the gloom. Robb's head snapped up, a genuine, relieved smile breaking across his face. Beside him, Arya let out a sharp, triumphant gasp, her dark eyes flashing with delight as she kicked her legs out from under the bench.
"I'll call Jon!" Arya piped up eagerly, nearly knocking over her small cup of milk as she scrambled to get her feet under her. "I'll go with Robb and get him down here before his stew gets cold."
Ned looked at his youngest daughter, a faint, fleeting shadow of a smile touching his lips before he picked up his knife to begin his meal, the heavy storm cloud finally passing over the high table of Winterfell.