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Year 298 AC/7 ABY
Winterfell, The North
The clash of steel rang across Winterfell's practice yard as Jon parried Robb's overhead strike, the impact jarring up his arms. Sweat stung his eyes despite the morning chill, his breath misting in the crisp northern air. Tomorrow the royal party would finally depart, and things could return to normal—or whatever passed for normal now that Master Skywalker had entered their lives.
Robb pressed forward, his blade singing through another powerful arc. Jon shifted his weight, remembering Luke's quiet instruction from three nights past: "Form V channels aggression into strength. Meet force with greater force." But when Jon had tried to embrace that philosophy, something felt wrong. The aggressive counters, the dominating strikes—they grated against his nature like a poorly fitted glove.
Steel met steel again. Robb's movements flowed with natural confidence, each strike building on the last. His brother had taken to Form V like a trout to a stream, while Jon had struggled until Luke noticed his difficulty.
"Not every form suits every warrior," Luke had said, studying Jon with those strange blue eyes. "Let me show you something different."
Form III: Soresu. The moment Luke demonstrated the first defensive sequence, Jon felt it—a rightness that resonated in his bones. Where Form V demanded dominance, Soresu whispered of patience. Where Djem So struck like an avalanche, Soresu flowed like water around stone.
"Getting tired, Snow?" Robb's grin flashed white through the morning mist, his breath coming harder now despite his bravado. Sweat darkened the collar of his jerkin where it met his neck.
Jon didn't waste breath responding. His lungs burned steady and controlled, each inhale measured to match the rhythm Luke had drilled into him. Economy in all things. His blade traced another tight arc, the steel humming as it cut through cold air that tasted of coming snow and the lingering smoke from the kitchens. His feet barely shifted—a palm's width here, a half-step there—while Robb's boots scraped and stamped against the packed earth like a destrier pawing before a charge.
Ghost watched from the shadow of the armory wall, red eyes tracking their movements with predatory stillness. Through that strange connection Luke had taught them to recognize—the Force, though the word still felt foreign on Jon's tongue—he sensed his direwolf's calm approval. Patient. Watchful. Ready.
The yard had filled without Jon noticing. Stable boys abandoned their mucking, leaning on pitchforks with straw still clinging to their boots. Kitchen girls clustered in the doorway, flour dusting their aprons like fresh snow. Men-at-arms had ceased their own drills, forming a rough circle that grew with each exchange of steel. Even members of the royal party had wandered over—Jon caught a glimpse of golden armor that could only be Ser Jaime Lannister, his white cloak draped carelessly over one shoulder.
"The bastard fights like a crab," someone muttered from the crowd. One of the Lannister men, by the southern drawl. "All sideways and backing up."
Heat flashed through Jon's chest, sharp as a blade between his ribs. His grip tightened fractionally on the leather-wrapped hilt, knuckles whitening—
No. Luke's voice echoed in memory, gentle but firm. Emotion is energy. Channel it, don't let it channel you.
Jon exhaled slowly through his nose, letting the anger flow through him and away like water through cupped hands. His stance remained unchanged, weight perfectly centered between both feet. Waiting.
Robb's blade came down in what Luke called the Falling Avalanche—a crushing overhead strike meant to shatter defenses through sheer power. The muscles in his brother's shoulders bunched beneath his tunic, his whole body committed to the blow. Jon could feel the attack coming through the Force before Robb's sword even reached its apex, a pressure against his awareness like the change in air before a thunderstorm.
But Jon was already moving, his body flowing into the response before conscious thought could interfere. His sword angled up and to the side—not to meet the strike but to guide it. Steel kissed steel with a ringing note that echoed off the castle walls. The deflection was perfect, using Robb's own momentum against him, sending all that carefully gathered power sliding harmlessly past Jon's shoulder.
Robb stumbled forward, boots skidding on a patch of frost. His balance gone, his side exposed. Jon's pommel found his brother's ribs with a solid thunk that drove the air from Robb's lungs in a sharp wheeze.
"Point," someone called out. Theon, by the sound of it.
They reset, circling each other. Jon kept his stance narrow, weight centered, while Robb adopted the wider base of Form V. Neither moved with Luke's fluid grace—their forms still rough, unpolished. But compared to a moon ago, the difference was remarkable.
"Interesting technique." The voice belonged to Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander himself watching with professional interest. "Not quite Water Dancing, but similar principles."
Robb attacked again, a series of heavy blows designed to batter through defenses. Jon gave ground slowly, each step calculated. His blade wove a defensive web, never meeting Robb's strikes directly but always deflecting, always redirecting.
Through the Force, Jon felt his brother's growing frustration. Form V rewarded aggression, but only controlled aggression. Robb was letting emotion creep in, his strikes becoming wilder.
Wait, Jon told himself. Let him come.
The crowd had swelled. Arya perched on a barrel, grey eyes bright with interest. Bran stood near Ser Rodrik, and even Sansa had emerged from the keep, though Jon felt her to be lost in thought.
"The bastard fights like a crab," someone muttered. "All sideways and backing up."
Heat flashed through Jon's chest, but he pushed it down. Emotion clouds judgment, Luke always said. Instead, he focused on the rhythm of the fight, the ebb and flow of attack and defense.
Robb launched into a combination Luke had drilled into them—the Sarlacc Sweep followed by a rising cut. But in his eagerness, he overcommitted to the first strike. Jon saw the opening like a door swinging wide.
He flowed forward, inside Robb's guard. His blade trapped Robb's against his crossguard while his free hand grabbed Robb's wrist. A twist, a pull, and Robb's sword clattered across the stones. Jon's blade stopped an inch from his brother's throat.
The yard erupted in cheers and applause.
The cheers washed over Jon like a wave breaking against Winterfell's walls, but the sound felt distant, muffled. His chest rose and fell in controlled breaths, the way Luke had taught him—never show exhaustion, never reveal weakness. The practice sword trembled slightly in his grip, not from fatigue but from something else. Pride, perhaps. Or disbelief.
Robb pushed himself up from the frost-slicked stones, brushing dirt from his jerkin with a rueful grin. "Seven hells, Jon. I can't get past your defense."
The words should have warmed him, but instead Jon felt heat creep up his neck. Eyes watched him from every corner of the yard—stable boys with gap-toothed grins, kitchen maids whispering behind flour-dusted hands, men-at-arms nodding with grudging respect. Even the royal party had taken notice. Ser Jaime Lannister leaned against the armory wall, golden hair catching the weak morning sun, his green eyes bright with interest.
"Just lucky," Jon muttered, offering Robb his hand. His brother clasped it, hauling himself upright with a grunt.
"Lucky my arse." Theon's voice carried across the yard, sharp with something that might have been envy. "That was skill, Snow. Bastard skill, but skill nonetheless."
The familiar sting of the word 'bastard' barely registered. Jon had heard it too often, worn it like an ill-fitting cloak for too many years. But now... now it felt different somehow. Smaller.
"Well fought, lad."
Jon turned to find Ser Barristan Selmy approaching, his white cloak pristine despite the morning's chill. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard moved with a grace that spoke of decades wielding a sword, each step measured and purposeful. His pale blue eyes studied Jon with professional interest, the way a master smith might examine a promising piece of steel.
"Thank you, ser." Jon inclined his head, uncertain how to respond to praise from a living legend. Stories of Ser Barristan's prowess had reached even bastard ears—the knight who'd cut down the last of the Blackfyre pretenders, who'd saved King Aerys from assassins, who'd never lost a single combat.
"That defensive style—where did you learn it?" Ser Barristan's voice carried genuine curiosity. "It's not quite Water Dancing, though there are similarities. The footwork, the way you redirected rather than blocked..."
Jon's mouth went dry. Luke's training was supposed to remain secret, known only to the Stark family. "I... my Lord father's master-at-arms has been working with us. Ser Rodrik knows many techniques."
Ser Rodrik himself stood nearby, his grey whiskers twitching with what might have been amusement. The old knight said nothing, but his eyes held a knowing gleam.
"Interesting." Ser Barristan's gaze never left Jon's face. "Would you care for another bout? I find myself curious about this... technique of yours."
The words hit Jon like a physical blow. Ser Barristan Selmy wanted to spar with him. Him. A bastard from the North who'd never been south of the Neck, never seen a proper tourney, never done anything worthy of notice save exist where he wasn't wanted.
"Yes." The word escaped before Jon could think better of it, breathless with excitement. "Yes, ser, I would be honored—"
But Ser Barristan had gone still, his pale eyes fixed on Jon's face with an intensity that made the hair on the back of Jon's neck prickle. The knight's expression shifted, color draining from his weathered features as if he'd seen something impossible. Something that shouldn't exist.
The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sound of horses in the stable and the creak of leather as men shifted their weight. Jon felt the Force stirring around him, a subtle current of unease that made Ghost lift his great white head from where he'd been resting.
"Ser?" Jon's voice came out smaller than he'd intended. "Is everything all right?"
The question seemed to break whatever spell had held the knight. Ser Barristan blinked, his face smoothing back into its usual composed mask, though something haunted lingered in his eyes.
"Yes." He cleared his throat, the sound rough as old parchment. "Yes, everything is fine. Forgive me, lad. You reminded me of... someone I once knew." A pause, then a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Perhaps you should take a moment to catch your breath before we begin."
"I don't need—" Jon started, then caught himself. Luke had taught him patience, the value of observing before acting. But the excitement thrummed through his veins like wildfire, making his fingers itch for his sword hilt. "I mean, I'm ready now, ser. If you're willing."
Ser Barristan's smile became more genuine, touched with what might have been fondness. "Eager, aren't you? Very well."
Ser Rodrik stepped forward, producing a blunted long-sword from the weapon rack to Ser Barristan. The steel gleamed dull silver in the morning light, edges rounded but still capable of leaving bruises—or worse, if wielded carelessly.
The crowd pressed closer, forming a rough circle around them. Jon caught sight of Arya perched on a barrel, her grey eyes bright with anticipation. Bran stood beside their master Luke, who'd emerged from the keep with Tyrion at his side. Even Sansa watched from the steps, though she tried to appear disinterested.
"Ready?" Ser Barristan asked, settling into a stance that spoke of decades of training. His blade held low, point angled toward the ground—a deceptively casual position that could shift into attack or defense in a heartbeat.
Jon nodded, sinking into the opening stance of Soresu. Weight centered, blade held at a slight angle across his body, ready to deflect from any direction. The Force hummed around him, not the wild torrent he sometimes felt during training with Luke, but a steady current that sharpened his awareness.
They began to circle each other, boots crunching softly on frost-brittle grass. Ser Barristan moved like water, each step flowing into the next without wasted motion. Jon tried to match that grace, remembering Luke's lessons about economy of movement.
The first attack came without warning—a testing thrust toward Jon's center. Fast, but not the knight's full speed. Jon's blade swept up and across, deflecting the point past his shoulder. Steel rang against steel, the sound sharp in the morning air.
"Good," Ser Barristan murmured, already flowing into his next attack. A cut toward Jon's left side, then a quick reversal toward his right. Jon gave ground, his blade weaving a defensive pattern that turned each strike aside.
The knight's attacks came faster now, a steady rhythm that tested Jon's reactions. High cut, low thrust, diagonal slice—each one precise, controlled, designed to probe for weaknesses. Jon's world narrowed to the dance of steel, his body moving on instinct honed through hours of practice with Luke.
Don't think, he told himself. Feel.
The Force flowed through him, not controlling his movements but enhancing them. He could sense Ser Barristan's intentions a heartbeat before they became action—the subtle shift of weight that preceded a thrust, the tightening of muscles before a cut. It wasn't prophecy, just awareness heightened beyond normal human limits.
A murmur ran through the crowd as Jon turned aside a particularly vicious combination, his blade work smooth as silk. Someone—Ser Jaime, by the sound—let out a low whistle of appreciation.
"Seven hells," Theon breathed. "The bastard's actually holding his own."
Ser Barristan pressed harder, his attacks flowing like quicksilver. But Jon was ready, his defensive web adapting to each new assault. He gave ground when necessary, held it when he could, always seeking that perfect moment when defense could become offense.
It came when Ser Barristan overextended slightly on a high cut, his balance shifting forward just a fraction too far. Jon's blade swept up, catching the knight's sword and binding it for just an instant. His free hand shot out, not to strike but to control, fingers closing on Ser Barristan's wrist.
For a heartbeat, they were locked together, Jon's blade at the knight's throat. Then Ser Barristan smiled—a genuine expression of pleasure—and stepped back.
"Point to you, lad. Well done."
The crowd erupted in cheers, but Jon barely heard them. His heart hammered against his ribs, sweat cooling on his skin despite the morning chill. He'd scored a point against Ser Barristan Selmy. Against the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
They reset for the second bout. This time, Ser Barristan's attacks came with more purpose, less testing and more genuine intent. Jon found himself driven back step by step, his defensive web stretched thin under the relentless assault. The knight's blade seemed to be everywhere at once—high, low, center—each attack flowing seamlessly into the next.
Jon's breathing grew ragged. His arms began to ache from the constant deflections, the impact of steel on steel jarring up through his bones. But he held on, drawing on reserves of endurance Luke had helped him build through meditation and training.
The end came suddenly. Ser Barristan feinted high, then swept low, his blade hooking behind Jon's ankle. Jon went down hard, his sword spinning away across the stones. The knight's point hovered an inch from his throat.
"My point," Ser Barristan said, offering Jon his hand.
Jon accepted it, allowing himself to be pulled upright. His backside would be bruised tomorrow, but the sting of defeat was tempered by the knowledge that he'd lasted longer than anyone had expected.
The third bout was the longest. Both fighters had taken each other's measure now, and the dance became more complex. Jon found openings in Ser Barristan's defense, only to have them close before he could exploit them. The knight, in turn, pressed attacks that Jon barely managed to turn aside.
In the end, experience told. Ser Barristan's blade slipped past Jon's guard in a move so subtle Jon didn't realize he'd been beaten until cold steel touched his ribs.
"Well fought," the knight said, stepping back with a respectful nod. "You have real skill, lad. Raw, but with proper training..."
The crowd cheered again, louder this time. Jon found himself surrounded by congratulations—Robb clapping him on the shoulder, Arya bouncing with excitement, even some of the men-at-arms nodding with grudging respect.
"That was incredible, Jon," Robb said, his grin wide and genuine. "To hold your own against Ser Barristan bloody Selmy—I can barely believe it."
"Three bouts," Theon added, shaking his head. "I suppose I could last a bout if you can."
Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks again, but this time it was pure pleasure. For once, he wasn't the bastard lurking in shadows while others claimed glory. For once, he was the center of attention for something good.
"You fought well," Ser Barristan said, his voice carrying across the yard. "Better than well. Tell me, lad—would you be interested in serving as my squire?"
The words hit Jon like a thunderbolt. The practice yard went silent, every eye fixed on him. Ser Barristan Selmy wanted him as a squire. The path to knighthood, to honor, to a place in the world beyond bastard's bastard stretched out before him like a golden road.
"I..." Jon's throat felt thick, the words struggling to emerge. "Ser, I'm honored beyond measure, but..."
But what? What could possibly be more important than this opportunity? The chance to serve the greatest knight in the realm, to learn from a living legend, to perhaps one day wear the white cloak himself?
Luke's face flashed through his mind—patient blue eyes, gentle instruction, the quiet wisdom that had already changed Jon's life in ways he was only beginning to understand. The Force training, the sense of purpose that went beyond personal glory, the feeling that he was part of something larger than himself.
"I already have a teacher," Jon said quietly. "One I respect greatly. I cannot abandon my training with him."
Disappointment flickered across Ser Barristan's features, but he nodded slowly. "I understand. Loyalty is a rare virtue, especially in one so young. Your teacher is fortunate to have such a dedicated student."
"Pity," Ser Jaime's voice cut through the moment like a blade through silk. The Kingslayer pushed away from the armory wall, his green eyes bright with amusement. "With skills like that, you might have had a future in the Kingsguard, bastard. If you keep improving at this rate."
Ser Barristan turned to look at Jon again, and that strange intensity returned to his pale eyes. "Yes," he said slowly, his voice carrying an odd weight. "We shall see."
As the yard emptied, Jon found himself alone with Ghost. The direwolf padded over, pressing his great head against Jon's leg. Through their bond, Jon felt approval—not for winning, but for maintaining control. For choosing patience over anger.
Tomorrow the king would leave, taking his spite and his secrets with him. Tomorrow, they could focus on their training without worrying about prying eyes or dangerous questions.
Jon cleaned his blade, thinking of Luke's words from their first Soresu lesson: "The greatest victory is the battle not fought. But when battle comes, let your defense be perfect, and your enemy will defeat himself."
Today, he'd begun to understand what that meant.
----------------------------------------------------
Eddard stood in Winterfell's courtyard, watching the royal wheelhouse creak and groan under its own weight. Servants scurried about like ants, loading the last of the provisions while the queen's voice carried from within, shrill with impatience. The smell of horse dung and leather mixed with the crisp Northern wind.
Robert emerged from the Guest House, his face already flushed despite the early hour. Wine from the night before, or perhaps from this morning. Ned knew his friend's habits well enough.
"Ned!" Robert's voice boomed across the courtyard. "Come, walk with me before that harpy of mine drags me back to that wheeled prison."
They fell into step together, boots crunching on frost-hardened mud. Robert's breathing came heavy, labored. The man who'd wielded a warhammer like it weighed nothing now struggled with a morning walk.
"That bastard of yours," Robert began without preamble. "Jon. Ser Barristan told me about their spar yesterday. Says the boy has real talent."
Ned kept his face carefully neutral. He'd heard about the match during last night's feast—how Jon had scored a touch on the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, how he'd lasted three full bouts. Pride warred with caution in his chest.
"Jon trains hard," Ned said simply.
"Trains hard?" Robert snorted. "Barristan wants him, Ned. Wants to take him as a squire, maybe groom him for the white cloak someday. Can you imagine? Your bastard in the Kingsguard?"
The words twisted in Ned's gut. Jon in King's Landing, surrounded by Lannisters. And Joffrey—Ned's jaw tightened remembering Sansa's bruised wrist.
"You honor my son," Ned said carefully. "When I bring Sansa south for her betrothal, I'll bring Jon as well."
The lie tasted like ash. He'd sooner throw Jon to the wolves than deliver him into that nest of vipers. But Robert needed to hear agreement, not argument. Not today.
"Good, good." Robert clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man. "The boy refused Barristan yesterday, some nonsense about already having a teacher. But I'll not take no for an answer. A bastard with that kind of skill? He'll make something of himself in the capital."
Or die trying, Ned thought grimly. He'd seen what King's Landing did to good men. What it had done to Robert himself.
"Speaking of leaving," Robert continued, "when do you ride for Last Hearth? Still planning to freeze your balls off at the Wall?"
"Within the fortnight." This, at least, was truth. "The Umbers report strange happenings."
Robert waved a meaty hand dismissively. "Wildlings. They flee, they raid, they die. It's what they do. You worry too much, Ned."
"The North remembers what southern kings forget." The words came out sharper than intended. "Winter is coming, Robert. Someone must prepare."
"Winter, winter, always winter with you Starks." But Robert's bluster lacked conviction. His eyes, when they met Ned's, held a flicker of the man he'd once been. "You truly believe something's wrong up there?"
"I know it."
Before Robert could respond, the queen's voice cut across the courtyard like a blade. "Robert! We've delayed long enough. The children grow restless."
Cersei Lannister stood beside the wheelhouse, resplendent in crimson and gold, her beauty as sharp as broken glass. Her green eyes found Ned's, and something cold passed between them. She knew he'd refused Robert. Knew and was glad of it.
"Seems I'm summoned." Robert's laugh held no mirth. "Like a dog to heel."
They embraced, Robert's massive arms crushing Ned against his chest. The smell of wine and sweat overwhelmed everything else.
"Take care of yourself," Ned said quietly. "Trust carefully."
Robert pulled back, studying Ned's face. For a moment, clarity flickered in those blue eyes. Then it was gone, buried under years of wine and disappointment.
"And you take care of that family of yours. Especially that bastard. King's Landing could use more men who fight with honor instead of just talking about it."
King's Landing will never have him, Ned vowed silently. Not while I draw breath.
The royal party departed in a thunder of hooves and creaking wheels. Ned stood watching until the last banner disappeared beyond the winter town. Somewhere behind him, he sensed Luke Skywalker's strange presence, that uncanny stillness the man carried like a cloak.
Soon he'd ride north to face whatever darkness gathered beyond the Wall. But first, he had preparations to make. Defenses to shore up. Children to protect.
And lies to maintain. Always lies, even to his oldest friend. The price of keeping those he loved safe.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of coming snow. Winter was coming. And with it, Ned feared, something far worse than any of them imagined.