Jon (298 AC)
Jon cut at the leather-wrapped wooden facsimile of an enemy combatant with his blade, looking for a way to transfer the anxieties and demons of his mind into the innocent target of the post before him, bereft of all other company but his direwolf Ghost.
He has been told by people how good he has it for a lord's bastard, from living quarters in the main keep and meals alongside the family at the Great Hall, to having genuinely good relationships with most of his siblings and the Lady-Wife of his father not hating him. But the only thing those words of intended comfort ever did was rub in the fact that he is a bastard even further.
He kept his guard up as he continued to slice away at it, no fancy spins or witty banter, just practical thrusts and muted grunts.
Furthermore, those words neglect to account for how said Lady-Wife, while perhaps treating him with civility, certainly didn't treat him with affection, and though the rest of the castle was told not to debase him for it, he could always notice a subtle difference in how they treated him compared to his half-siblings, whether it was a lower or higher tone of voice, a shift of the eyes, a nervous smirk, something, but he always noticed.
He hacked at where its metaphorical shoulders lay and stabbed it in the face, burying up to half a foot of castle-forged steel into and through the head of the dummy.
He bore no hatred for anyone, and loved the Starks like the family his blood said he was part of (by half). In all honesty, given what he knew of himself, they had given him just about everything he could have ever wanted.
After a quick twist confirmed he had it stuck, he planted his foot against the post, and pulled back, yanking his sword out and making him stumble back a couple steps.
He only wished that he weren't treated so delicately or pitifully, as if he were made of Myrish glass. Indeed, he felt that if he were treated the same as any other bastard, he would have borne it better. Because then, everyone would have been honest with him.
Ghost suddenly turned and barked.
"How is your practicing going?" a voice behind him asked.
Jon pivoted backwards to see Black Rock Shooter coming to a stop less than ten paces from him, Ghost rushing forward to receive scratching behind his ears.
He gestured at the post behind him. "I think he's dead."
She nodded at that. "Would you like me to take his place as your sparring partner?"
After a quick moment of thought, he agreed. "Just so long as you don't go too easy on me. You don't want me to make your hair even on both sides." He gestured for Ghost to move away, who immediately obeyed, despite the loss of scritches.
Black Rock Shooter smirked as she drew her strange, single-edged blade. "Only so long as you do the same. You don't want me cutting your hair."
The two took their stances him, Jon holding his blade in both hands as he faced her directly, ready to deliver a brutal slash or come between himself and Black Rock Shooter's sword, which she held easily in one hand as she stood with her side facing him.
The simple fact that she wasn't facing him with her Shooter in the other hand was sign enough that she wasn't taking him as seriously as she did his father, whom she has been sparring with apparently for the last fifteen years since the man returned to Winterfell with her. Though she never did spar with Lord Stark with her full strength, he was still a good enough swordsman that he was able to teach her a thing or two about sword-fighting, and that in turn has been a great boon in helping Jon improve his own skills, though not without the cost of painful and often embarrassing bumps and bruises.
Stark gray eyes gazed at otherworldly blue, searching for some sign of her intent just as the other measured him in turn. A slow step to his right was answered with hers to his left, keeping the distance unchanged. He stepped again that way and she repeated her earlier movement. He motioned his right foot slowly to go that way again, and Black Rock Shooter was slower to follow suit. He shot his left foot forward and stepped up to narrow the distance a full pace. Black Rock Shooter did not change her position, and only remained facing him.
No matter what I do, I can't force her to strike first, Jon observed. So I'll just have to make the best first move I can.
With that in mind, he strode to his left, and then his right, slowly getting closer, making sure to keep his eyes fixed on Black Rock Shooter's eyes, and thus keeping hers on his, as he subtly twisted his stance either way to keep her guessing on how he was going to move. Pace by pace, he closed the distance, his stance ever-so-slightly tweaked while Black Rock Shooter remained in the same stance as she had at the start.
Then, when Jon was within two paces, he lunged forward with an overhead thrust, that Black Rock Shooter stepped into with a parry to smack his sword aside. He hadn't anticipated the forward step, but he saw the parry, and moved with it to step out of her range to her side and continued circling her as he carried the blade's momentum over and around to strike at her back.
She brought her sword back to intercept the blade on the side, and Jon stepped in himself to take advantage of the awkward position to slide the blade up her sword toward her arm. She twisted her sword up and ducked to allow Jon's blade to pass overhead. Jon brought his sword up in time to block her blade as he was forced back.
He stepped back and sprung back forward to cut at her other side, her sword returning to clash against it, and retracted his blade to stop hers as it snapped toward his chest. Her sword was flicked back, up, and down to his head, and he parried to strike at her head, forcing her to duck and step back to avoid it.
A lock of long raven hair fluttered in the air between them to the ground.
Jon's heart soared.
Black Rock Shooter stepped back and put her other hand to her sword.
Jon's heart plunged.
She had already been striking him with the same strength as his father, whose blows at full strength could rattle his bones.
Her first strike came too quick for him to react in time, as her blade came toward his side before he could get into proper position for a block, nearly knocking him off his feet and making him stumble back.
Her second came from below and slapped his sword up, putting his position wide open.
Her third came down in an executioner's swing.
Ghost barked.
A few locks of curly midnight hair fluttered toward the ground.
Jon heaved air into lungs as he fell onto his backside, his blade weakly held in his trembling fingers.
Black Rock Shooter simply stood above him, looking at him with an indecipherable look of forced impassiveness on her face.
"You're not as good as Lord Stark," she sheathed her sword. "But you will be. Probably better even." She reached a hand out.
Jon took it and stood up, Ghost coming forward to his master's side to reassure himself as to Jon's wellness. "Is that all you came out here for? To test whether I will be as good as Father?"
"Not the only one," she said. "I came to you for the same reason you came out here."
Jon sheathed his sword. "The Night Watch."
Jon had overheard from his father that his Uncle Benjen was on his way to Winterfell, to discuss strange happenings beyond the Wall, as well as to collect new members for the Night Watch. And Jon wanted to join them.
"Are you going to try to convince me not to go, like he has?" Jon asked.
Black Rock Shooter shook her head, and bit her lip, before she responded. "It's not just about Lord Stark. It's also about your mother."
Jon was caught more off guard than any sword swing.
"As most people have guessed, I was there with Lord Stark when your mother died after giving birth to you," Black Rock Shooter enunciated. "Before she passed, she made us promise her to watch over you so that you could become the man she wanted you to be. Strong, free, and always driven to make something more of himself than he was before.
"Lord Stark and I may not like you leaving for the Wall, but it is the path you have decided for yourself, and because we love you and your mother dearly, and have always sought to honor our promise to her, we will honor your wish to join the Night Watch."
Jon felt… something. Relief? Trepidation? Sorrow? A strange mix of contradicting emotions from his whole life just washing up in one moment, choking him up. He took deep breaths, and calmed himself down, as he brought his eyes back to hers.
She smiled at him, and reached her arms out for a hug. He stepped in and closed his around her.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're welcome," she replied.
A few seconds later, the two separated.
"Alright. Time for you to get some sleep Jon," Black Rock Shooter told him. "The King's Party will be here tomorrow, and you need to get some sleep before they arrive.
Jon smiled at her. "Yes, Black Rock Shooter."
The two headed back to the Keep, Ghost right behind them, with Jon unaware that Ned Stark had been watching from afar, pride swelling in his chest, as well as the pain of knowing that the young man he had raised was soon going to be leaving him.