Sweat stung Ron's eyes, dripping off his chin and sizzling on the glowing orange bar of iron held against the anvil. His forearms throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. He did not have the decades of muscle memory that allowed Mikken to shape a blade blindfolded. Instead, his mind ran through a chaotic grid of remembered internet articles, grain structures, and thermal limits.
From a stool near the tool rack, Mikken watched intently, his thick arms crossed over his chest. The veteran smith took a long drag from a horn of ale, then pointed a calloused finger at the anvil.
"Who are you making that sword for, anyway?" Mikken grunted, looking down at the diagram. "Looks like something a Dornish courtier would use to clean his fingernails."
"Jon Snow," Ron grunted between strikes, keeping his rhythm. Hammer, bounce, slide. Hammer, bounce, slide. "And I'm creating something that doesn't require the lung capacity of a plow horse to swing for five minutes."
Mikken let out a heavy scoff and shook his graying head. "The boy is a Northern lad. He needs a proper Stark blade. Good, thick cross-section. Four pounds of solid iron to crush through mail. If you don't give it proper length, a wildling will reach him before he can even think about poking them."
"Right, right. Absolutely, boss. Extra weight, extra length. Brilliant," Ron muttered through gritted teeth. He nodded aggressively while completely ignoring the advice. He flipped the glowing bar over and deliberately hammered the bevels even thinner. "A real skull-crusher. I'm on it."
Mikken stared at him for a moment, seeing right through the apprentice's disobedience. He let out a long, defeated sigh and tossed his empty horn onto the workbench. "You're a stubborn prick, Ron. Don't come crying to me when the Snow boy breaks that little sword on a shield wall."
The heavy oak door thudded shut as the master smith walked out into the cold, leaving Ron alone with the roaring hearth.
Ron dropped the hammer immediately, leaning his forehead against the cool wooden handle as he panted for breath. "Stark blade. Right."
But to make his ridiculous "premium charcoal" markup look legitimate, the sword actually needed to be exceptional. Ron set the glowing iron back into the forge and walked over to the dark corner where Mikken kept the scraps from the Great Hall's orders.
Hidden inside a hollowed-out timber block was a tiny leather pouch. Ron pulled it out and untied the string to reveal a small pile of dark, glittering metallic dust and fine shavings. This was the leftover high-carbon Northern alloy from Lord Eddard's personal gear repairs. It was supposed to be melted down into common nails, but Ron had a far better use for it.
He brought the pouch back to the anvil, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic light. Remembering a late-night Wikipedia rabbit hole on ancient Damascus pattern-welding, he began sprinkling the high-carbon shavings precisely between two heated bars of softer iron. By folding the steel repeatedly over the high-carbon core, he could create a composite blade—hard and sharp on the edges, yet flexible enough not to shatter in the brutal Northern winter.
He packed the forge with fresh coal, pumped the bellows until the flames turned a blinding, roaring white, and slid the sandwich of metal into the heat.
The Next Day
The rhythmic, distant clink of Ron's hammer in the smithy was swallowed by the sharp, echoing clank of blunted steel against steel in the courtyard.
Jon spun, his boot stomping into the icy mud. He brought his practice sword up in a tight arc, parrying Robb's aggressive downward stroke. Robb laughed, his blue Tully eyes bright with excitement, his chest heaving under his heavy leather jerkin.
"Too slow, Jon!" Robb taunted, resetting his stance, his face flushed red from the biting northern wind.
"Watch your left, then," Jon countered, his focus shifting into a cold, sharp rhythm.
Robb lunged, but his boot caught a treacherous patch of black ice beneath the thin dusting of snow. His balance faltered for a fraction of a second. Jon had already committed to a sweeping horizontal strike, aiming for the padded ribcage. With Robb slipping forward, the wooden blade struck higher than intended, catching the edge of Robb's iron crossguard and sliding violently up.
The blunt edge struck Robb squarely across the cheekbone, splitting the skin. Blood immediately welled from the gash, splattering across the white snow. Robb cried out and dropped his sword to clutch his face, his fingers instantly staining crimson.
"Robb!" Jon dropped his blade, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He stepped forward, hands outstretched. "I'm sorry—the ice, your foot slipped—let me see."
High above the courtyard, on the enclosed stone bridge connecting the Armory to the Great Keep, a pale hand gripped the frozen stonework. Catelyn Stark stood frozen. From her high vantage point, the slipping of a boot was invisible. All she saw was the bastard's blade flashing in the grey light, striking her firstborn son's face. All she saw was blood. The phantom terrors that kept her awake at night—the stories of bastards rising to slaughter trueborn heirs to claim their seats—crystallized into a single, horrifying reality.
The heavy door to the covered bridge slammed open.
Jon was still trying to pull Robb's hands away to inspect the wound when the heavy rustle of fur and wool cut through the courtyard. The smallfolk and guards fell silent, dropping their heads.
Catelyn descended the wooden stairs into the yard, her face a mask of pale, frozen stone. Jon froze, his blood turning colder than the northern wind.
"My Lady, I am heartily sorry," Jon began, his voice cracking, his hands trembling. "The ice caught his heel, I didn't mean—"
Catelyn walked right past him. She did not look at him. She did not acknowledge his existence by so much as a glance. To her, he was air; he was dirt. She dropped to her knees in the mud, completely ignoring the stains on her fine velvet gown, and took Robb's face in her hands.
"Let me see, my darling," she murmured, her voice tight, a thin veneer of maternal panic masking the raw fury beneath. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it firmly to Robb's bleeding cheek. "Ser Rodrik! Get the Maester. Now."
"It's just a scratch, Mother," Robb muttered, looking thoroughly embarrassed as the guards gathered around. "Jon didn't—"
"Be silent, Robb," she commanded softly.
She rose to her feet, helping Robb up. Only then did she turn her eyes to Jon. Her gaze was devoid of any human warmth, holding the absolute zero tolerance of a mother defending her nest. The guards stepped closer; Ser Rodrik stood rigid, his thick whiskers twitching in uneasy silence.
When she spoke, her voice wasn't a scream. It was a low, venomous whisper that carried clearly across the silent courtyard.
"You will drop that sword, Snow," she said. "And you will not touch another piece of steel in this yard for a month. If I see you holding so much as a dagger near my sons again, I will have the guards throw you into the iron cages outside the gates to freeze. Do you understand me?"
Jon felt the eyes of every guard and stable boy piercing his back. His face burned with a deep, suffocating shame. He could not speak. He could not defend himself. He simply looked down at his boots, nodding once, utterly stripped of whatever little dignity he possessed in Winterfell.
Catelyn turned her back on him, guiding a protesting, bloody Robb toward the Maester's turret, leaving Jon alone in the center of the melting snow.