The mud of the courtyard had begun to freeze into jagged, iron-hard ruts as twilight bled the last grey light from the sky. Ron kept his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather work apron, his fingers still subconsciously counting the copper stags he'd managed to pry from Theon Greyjoy's tight fist.
The warmth of the gold vanished the moment his boots neared the timber doors of the smithy.
Two figures stood silhouetted against the roaring orange glow of the hearth. One was the broad, barrel-chested shape of Mikken, his thick arms crossed over his apron like an executioner waiting for the block. The other was leaner, wrapped in dark wool, his curls damp from the persistent northern drizzle.
God dammit, Ron thought, a sudden, cold spike of adrenaline piercing his chest. The kid went home and cried to his dad. Or worse, the Lady. His mind scrambled through the mental ledger of his remaining assets, instantly calculating how long he could survive in the wolfswood if Mikken threw him out into the snow without his tools. There were no respawn points in this freezing hellhole. If he got banished from the forge, he'd be freezing to death before the next full moon.
The gravel crunched beneath Ron's boots. Mikken's head snapped toward the sound, his stern eyes boring holes into his apprentice. Beside him, Jon Snow shifted his weight, his face a pale, unreadable mask of solemn Northern grit.
Without a single word of greeting, Jon's right hand whipped backward.
A heavy length of ash wood came hurtling through the damp air, spinning end over end. Ron's modern VR reflexes—honed by a thousand simulated ambushes—took over before his conscious mind could object. His hand snapped out of his apron, catching the blunt grip of the training short sword with a hollow, bruising thwack.
The weight of the wood felt familiar, balanced, and entirely unwelcome.
Ron lowered the practice blade, his brow furrowing as he looked from the ash wood to Jon's tight, bloodless jawline. He let his features slip back into that characteristic, condescending smirk, though his heart was still hammering against his ribs. "What's this, Lord Snow? Did the premium steel I sold you break already?"
"Rematch," Jon said. His voice was too quiet, too flat, carrying the dangerous weight of a boy who had spent the last hours being told he didn't belong in his own home.
Ron blinked, his eyes darting to Mikken. The master smith didn't move a muscle, but after a long, suffocating silence, the old man gave a single, tight nod of his chin. Go on, the gesture said. Keep it quiet.
A short, sharp bark of amusement escaped Ron's lips. He shook his head, flipping the wooden sword into a loose, comfortable grip. What an absolute, sore-loser, Ron thought, entirely missing the dark, desperate shadows under the bastard's eyes. Fine. If the local nobility wants to pay in bruises to learn how the real world works, far be it from me to deny the education.
Ron stepped out into the slick, muddy square of the yard, his boots finding a stable patch of gravel. He dropped his weight low, his left hand sliding casually toward his apron pocket, where the fine gray forge ash was always waiting.
"Alright, Lord Snow," Ron drawled, the smirk widening across his soot-stained face. "Let's see if you learned anything from the first lesson, or if I have to teach you how to wipe your eyes all over again."
The ash wood whistled through the freezing drizzle, a low, murderous hum that signaled no room for textbook courtesy.
Ron didn't wait for a clean stance or a noble invitation. His left hand was already diving deep into his leather work apron, fingers scooping the gritty cocktail of coarse forge ash and dry dirt. With a sudden, vicious snap of his wrist, he whipped the cloud straight at Jon's face, expecting the familiar wet gasp and the blind, panicked stumble that usually followed.
The soot sprayed wide, but Jon didn't flinch.
The bastard's eyes slammed shut a fraction of a second before the grit hit his skin. Guided by absolute focus and the raw memory of the courtyard's spacing, Jon lunged blindly forward, his boots stomping through the frozen ruts of mud. He brought the training blade around in a heavy, desperate horizontal arc meant to break bone.
Shite, Ron thought, his cynical confidence shattering as the grey cloud cleared to reveal a charging wolf.
Startled, Ron shoved his wooden short sword upward in a clumsy, defensive cross-guard. The impact rattled through his teeth, the force of Jon's heavy Northern stroke driving him back two steps until his heel caught the stone lip of the forge hearth.
Jon's eyes snapped open, burning red and watering from the stray soot, but his focus never wavered. He didn't reset his guard. He didn't offer a breath. He unleashed a relentless, suffocating cascade of strikes from all angles—a fluid, brutal display of Stark anger that gave Ron no room to breathe, no time to step laterally, and no chance to reach for his boots. Wood cracked against wood in a frantic, deafening rhythm that echoed off the timber walls.
Left. High. A heavy down-stroke that nearly split Ron's guard.
Ron's forearms burned under the relentless pounding. He was entirely outmatched by a trained duelist in a straight sequence, his modern VR spacing instincts barely keeping the ash wood from cracking his ribs. As Jon pivoted for a sweeping strike at his thigh, Ron abandoned the blade entirely. He leaned hard into the blow, catching Jon's wooden sword on his cross-guard, and driven by pure street-fighting survival, he thrust his heavy, soot-stained elbow directly forward.
The blunt bone hit Jon squarely across the mouth with a wet, cracking thud. Blood splattered across the grey drizzle as Jon staggered back, his lip instantly splitting against his teeth.
"Seven hells, Ron!" Mikken's voice boomed from the threshold, his heavy hand slamming against the doorframe. The veteran smith stepped into the rain, his brow furrowed in genuine alarm. "I told you to go easy on the boy! He's the Lord's blood, you thick-skulled donkey—"
Ron opened his mouth to offer a slick, sarcastic defense about practical application, but the words died in his throat.
Jon hadn't dropped his weapon. He didn't complain about the foul play, nor did he look to the master smith for comfort. Instead, his hand had already swept down into the churned, frozen mud beneath his boots. Before Ron could interpret the sudden shift in weight, Jon straightened and hurled a heavy, wet fistful of ash-stained muck directly into Ron's face.
The gritty sludge hit Ron square across his open eyes, burning instantly.
"Son of a—" Ron hissed, his vision turning completely black as the sharp forge dust scratched his eyelids. He stumbled backward, coughing and cursing in a string of creative, modern expletives, his hands flying to his face as tears streamed down his soot-smeared cheeks.
Silence fell over the courtyard, save for the low hiss of rain on the primary hearth.
Mikken stood entirely frozen, his mouth slightly slack as he stared at the bastard boy. Jon Snow stood in the freezing drizzle, wiping the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, his grey eyes staring down at the blinded apprentice with a cold, terrifyingly lowborn satisfaction. He hadn't just fought a common thug; he had become one.