JON SNOW — POV
The Morning of the Duel
Jon woke before dawn, as always. Frost clung to the shutters, and the air bit at his skin. But something else pulled his eyes open—
A sword lay across his chest.
Not the battered practice blade he normally used.
Not castle-forged steel.
Something finer. Older. Heavier. Sharper.
It almost hummed.
Jon pushed himself upright, heart pounding. The blade caught the faint morning light and split it in a dozen silver shards. He had never seen craftsmanship like this — not in Winterfell, not in King's Landing, nowhere.
"Who—?" he whispered.
No answer.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
Just the sword.
He felt drawn to it. When he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, it fit perfectly, like it was meant for him. As if the sword had chosen him.
THE TRAINING YARD
By the time he reached the yard, the morning horn hadn't even sounded. Robb and the other boys were stretching, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Robb noticed first.
"Jon… what is that?"
Jon hesitated. "A sword."
Theon barked a laugh. "Looks like it's worth more than all your possessions combined."
Before Jon could answer, a voice deeper and harsher cut through the air.
Garrick Stone, one of Winterfell's oldest, hardest soldiers — a man who had fought in Robert's Rebellion.
"That's no sword for a boy," Garrick said, stepping forward. "Show me."
Jon handed it over reluctantly.
The old soldier weighed it. His brows climbed in surprise.
"Gods… This is not castle-forged steel."
Another soldier whispered, "Is that Valyrian?"
"No," someone else murmured, "but it's… something."
Garrick's expression shifted, suspicion replacing wonder.
Where'd you get this, Snow?"
Before Jon could speak, Garrick unsheathed his own blade.
"Let's see if you can even wield it."
The challenge hung in the cold air.
All motion in the yard stopped.
Every stableboy, every servant, every guard.
Even Maester Luwin paused on the steps.
Because Garrick didn't duel children.
He duel fighters.
Jon nodded once.
He would not back down.
THE DUEL
They circled in the yard.
Garrick struck first — a heavy, brutal cut.
Jon raised the strange sword, expecting his arm to buckle—
—but the blade met the attack with impossible strength.
No vibration.
No shock.
Just perfect balance.
Gasps rose from the watching crowd.
Robb muttered, "Seven hells…"
Arya leaned over the railing. "Get him, Jon!"
Garrick's face hardened. He attacked harder, faster, trying to knock Jon off balance. But Jon moved with the sword, letting it guide him, letting its strange lightness carry him.
He parried.
Sidestepped.
Countered.
Every strike flowed like instinct.
Ned Stark arrived midway through the duel, stepping onto the balcony with quiet intensity. His eyes fixed on the sword, then on Jon.
At last, Jon slipped inside Garrick's guard and tapped his chest with the flat of the blade.
A perfect hit.
Silence.
Then the yard erupted with noise — surprise, disbelief, admiration.
Garrick lowered his sword, breathing heavily.
"You beat me… with that blade." He stared at it. "That's no ordinary sword, boy. Not ordinary at all."
NED STARK INTERVENES
Ned descended the steps slowly. Everyone moved aside.
He took the sword gently from Jon's hand and examined it with a soldier's eye — weighing balance, testing the edge, watching how themetal reflected the cold morning light.
It unsettled him.
"Jon," Ned said quietly, "where did this come from?"
Jon swallowed. "It was on my bed when I woke."
Whispers spread like wildfire.
Someone gave Jon Snow a sword.
A sword better than most lords carry.
A sword no one could identify.
A protector.
A patron.
A powerful ally.
People exchanged worried glances.
Even Robb looked a little jealous.
Lady Catelyn turned pale at the implications.
Winterfell was many things—
—but never careless with its mysteries.
Ned finally handed the sword back.
"Keep it," he said softly. "But understand this, Jon: whoever gave you this blade… watches you. And they have power."
Jon nodded, unsure what to feel.
Pride?
Fear?
Confusion?
All of them at once.
As Ned walked away, he spoke quietly to Maester Luwin, tension clear in his voice
That is no ordinary sword."
THE WHISPERS OF WINTERFELL
By evening, all of Winterfell knew.
Servants whispered.
Guards speculated.
Nobles frowned.
The children watched Jon with new eyes.
Everyone asked the same question:
"Who protects the bastard?"
Whoever it was…
They were someone who could afford — or forge — a weapon beyond anything the Starksowned.
And if they could give Jon Snow a sword like that…
What else could they do?