The practice yard rang with the thud of wood on wood. Not boys swinging wildly anymore, but steady drills under Ser Rodrik's watch.
Jon's arms ached as he raised his sword again. Robb came at him with quick, sharp strikes, smiling as if he enjoyed every blow. Jon tried to match him, but his grip slipped once, and the strike jarred through his hands.
It had been only a week since Ser Rodrik had begun their formal lessons, after Lord Stark gave his word. The master-at-arms said Jon had started a year ahead of the others, and it showed in small ways. Jon's stance was stronger, his blocks cleaner. But Robb was no slouch either.
Ser Rodrik barked a reminder from the side. "Turn the blade, don't meet it flat. Guide it. Always keep your feet steady."
Jon focused hard, trying to do as he was told. He managed once, letting Robb's swing slide off to the side, and even slipped in a counter. But Robb caught it with ease. For every step forward Jon made, Robb was there already.
Jon told himself he could do better. Yet each clash showed the truth — at this stage, it hardly mattered. Ser Rodrik had said once that in the first lessons, you couldn't judge who was truly better. Everyone was still learning how to stand, how to breathe, how not to swing like a farmer with a stick.
By the end, Jon's arms shook with effort, sweat soaking his tunic. Robb's hair clung damp to his brow, though his grin never faded. Ser Rodrik called an end at last, his deep voice carrying across the yard. "Enough for today. You'll both do better tomorrow."
[Skill Progress] Basic Swordsmanship Level 3 1% — 67%
+60 XP
The boys dragged themselves toward the hall together. The air grew warmer as they stepped inside, carrying the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread. Jon's stomach growled loud, and Robb laughed at him. They found their places at the long table, shoulders still sore, hands still raw, but already looking forward to the next lesson.
The hall was alive with noise when they sat down. Trenchers scraped, mugs clattered, and the smell of meat filled the air. Jon tore into a chunk of bread as if he hadn't eaten in days. Robb laughed at the way he wolfed it down, but Jon only shrugged and dipped the bread into his stew. His stomach had no time for talk.
By the time the plates were cleared, Jon still felt the ache in his arms, but food made it easier to bear. The fire roared at the far end of the hall, shadows dancing high along the stone walls.
Later, Jon slipped away to the library. The quiet there suited him more than the chatter of the tables. He lit a small lamp and ran his hand along the rows of leather-bound spines, choosing a thin history of the First Men. The hours passed quietly, only the scratch of his finger turning a page breaking the silence.
When he finally closed the book, he let out a slow breath. Another one finished. By his count, he had read near twenty-five now, half of his own goal. Fifty books for Quest. It seemed far off, but he was halfway already.
Quest: The Path of Knowledge
Objective: Read 50 Books (Jon has already completed 25)
Reward: +1,000 XP, +Trait Unlocked: Scholar's Insight
Thought: "A sword can win a battle, but a book can win a kingdom. The mind that hungers for knowledge is never truly poor."
He was still sitting with the book in hand when Maester Luwin's voice came from the doorway.
A soft knock sounded at the library door.
"Jon Snow," Maester Luwin called, stepping in, robes rustling. "Lord Stark has allowed you a new companion. Come with me."
Curiosity prickled in Jon's chest as he followed the maester through the quiet halls toward the rookery.
They walked together to the rookery, the air growing cooler as they climbed the tower steps. The sound of wings and soft croaks met them before they entered. Inside, cages lined the walls, the smell sharp but not unbearable. Dozens of black eyes turned toward them.
Luwin stopped before one cage low to the ground. A young raven, feathers still rough, shuffled inside. Its beak clicked as it watched them.
"This one will be yours," the Maester said. "A raven chick, not yet grown.
You'll feed it, clean it, and when it dies—if it dies—you'll be the one to bury it." His eyes rested on Jon, steady and firm. "Do you understand?"
Jon nodded.
"Good. You'll need to build its cage sturdier than this. Ask the carpenter for wood. Line the bottom with straw. Ravens are clever, but they foul their space quickly. Keep it clean." He handed Jon a slim book, the binding cracked with age. "This will tell you more. Read it. Learn. And give it a name. A raven is no different than a hound—it answers best when it knows it's called."
Jon reached for the small bird. The chick flapped once but quieted as he cupped it. Warm, fragile, alive. He felt the quick beat of its heart against his fingers.
"I'll take care of it," Jon said.
Back in his room, he set the raven on his table. It hopped once, then twice, before fixing him with a dark eye. Jon thought for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"I'll call you Shadow," he said. "You're small now, but you'll grow."
The bird croaked as if in answer.
A week passed. Shadow's caws were sharp enough now to drag Jon from bed at dawn. He fed the raven scraps of grain and meat, cleaned its small cage, and even spoke to it when no one else was near.
The bird tilted its head as if it understood, black eyes gleaming in the pale morning light.
It was on one such morning, when Jon carried straw to the rookery, that Elsie came in. She had been hanging about more often since that evening in the hall, when she'd lingered to listen as Jon spun one of his little stories to Sansa and Robb. A kitchen girl, daughter of the butcher who worked in Winterfell's cellars, she'd taken a liking to Shadow as much as to Jon himself.
Her nose wrinkled at once.
"It stinks in here," she said, pulling her sleeve across her face. "Worse than the kitchens on a bad day."
Jon frowned. She was right. The cages reeked. He'd grown used to it, but now her words clung to him.
She stepped closer, curiosity outweighing the smell. "So this is Shadow?"
The raven gave a sharp caw, flapping once. Elissa smiled, then wrinkled her nose again. "Seven hells, Jon. It smells worse than the midden heap. How do you stand it?"
Her words made Jon pause. He looked at the cages, then down at his own hands. Three months in this new life, and not once had he washed with more than cold water. No herbs, no powders, no cleansing oils. His skin felt heavy, his hair dull. Gods… I've been living like this all along?
Jon's eyes narrowed. Soap. The word surfaced from memory, carried by half-remembered images from another life. With a thought, the window rippled and fragments appeared—boiling pots, pale bars cut into neat blocks, hands lathered in clean white foam.
"We need soap," Jon muttered.
Elsie blinked. "Soap?"