Only a few sennights after the official announcement had been made, a gift materialised from some unknown benefactor from Essos, which was mystery enough in and of itself, though Jon supposed this was more of Uncle Arthur's furtive friends. The sword, as it were, created a far greater mystery when Jon uncovered it. Its hilt and pommel seemed simple enough, leather wrapped and plain. It was the blade itself that made Jon's breath catch. The dark ripples in the steel told the tale of how the steel that made it had been folded, over and over, of all the painstaking work that had gone into it. He turned back to his Uncle Arthur the moment he presented him with it. "This is Valyrian steel," he said.
Arthur Dayne nodded his confirmation. "That it is," he said. He took the sword back from Jon, spun it, tested its balance. "It is a fine sword," he said. "You may still have to grow into it. This is a hand and a half longsword, after all. It may be light, but it is longer than what you are used to, and you are not that tall yet."
Jon reached out his hand and held his stance until Uncle Arthur put the sword back in his hand. Jon tested it himself, weighed and swirled it. It was longer than he was used to, true, but he was not as short as he had been, and it did not feel like too much of a hindrance, especially given the light weight Uncle Arthur had pointed out. It weighed less than the regular long sword he was used to. The leather-covered hilt fit almost perfectly in his hand. And once he had broken it in, he let himself believe, it would feel like just another part of his arm. "Who would give me something like this?" he asked. "And why? There are so few Valyrian steel swords left in the world."
"More than most people realise," Uncle Arthur said. "And do not forget, you are the Lord of the Narrow Sea now. There are more people willing to vie for your favour than you realise."
Jon felt himself flush. "I am just a bastard," he said.
Uncle Arthur actually laughed at that. "You are not," he said. "You are Lord Stark of Dragonstone, the Gullet and the Narrow Sea. You are like to become one of the best swordsmen Westeros has seen in generations. And you are a good, just man. People take note of these things, boy."
Jon felt his back straighten almost of its own accord. True praise, praise that went beyond technique and footwork, came so rarely from Uncle Arthur that Jon, even now that he was supposed to be grown, could not help but respond to it like a Northern flower would lap up every last ray of sunlight it might find. He had always got the impression from Uncle Arthur that he hoped for the best and expected the worst, like he was always hoping and despairing of whether or not Jon could rise above the treacherous, lecherous stain brought on by his birth, all this completely removed from the love Jon had never doubted his uncle felt for him. Words like these... No matter how grown, Jon thought he would always treasure them. "Thank you," he managed.
Uncle Arthur reached out and ruffled his hair with a laugh. And when Jon tried to evade him, he only laughed more loudly. "Allow an old man his indulgence," he said. "Soon enough you will be a father, and I cannot do these things from fear that your children will disrespect you."
Despite himself, Jon could not help but grin at those words. As devastating and frightening as the news of his impending fatherhood had been at first, now he found he could not wait.
Could not wait for the family Margaery promised, and the promise of getting to be a father to his child the way his own Lord father, for all the good intentions Jon did not doubt he had, had never truly got to be to him, with Lady Catelyn's disapproval always weighing heavy between them, and the unspoken sorrow Jon had always seemed to evoke in Lord Eddard.
Carefully, he put the sword back in the scabbard, ignoring the way his hands itched with the urge to spar with it. Instead, he looked up at his uncle, trying to tell him without words how much he needed his honesty. "Do you think I can be a good father?"