A Valiant Bastard
Chapter 1: Squireship
Jon looked up to heaven, the air was tight, and even through his furs, bumps raised up from beneath his skin.
Winter Is Coming!
His father's words, his house's words rang through his ears. His heart trumped steadily as he clutched his chest. The imprint of Theon's boot still pressed heavily into his furs and leathers.
''As if a bastard could ever hope to defeat me!" Theon raised his chin, "Go muck the stables, at least you will be among your social equals!"
Jon wiped the cold sweat from his brow as he got up, "Better to be a bastard, than a prisoner!" Jon snarled. Taking a swing at Theon.
He was rewarded with another kick to his gut for his troubles. "I told you Snow! YOU ARE NOT ON MY LEVEL!" He punctuated every word with a solid stomp to his midsection.
"Enough! Both of you! My lessons are not a common fighting ring! We come here with honor and dignity or not at all." Exclaimed, Rodrik Cassel. His whiskers flailed in the wind. "Now out of my sight! The both of you!"
Jon grumbled as he rose, clutching his gut and ambling away from the lesson, leaving Robb and a few of the other recruits behind. Robb tried to call for him but he ignored his auburn haired brother.
Jon found himself back in the practice yard, hours after the rest have left, the golden sun, a mere flame in the approaching darkness, dipping below the horizon.
He swung, and swung and swung, the wet beat of drums pervading his ears, blood trickled down his fists, the color of sweet summer wine. He chipped away at the wooden stump. Jon started to wonder how much of the post was his blood and how much of his fist was wood.
"Jon!" roared the wizened Rodrik, "The wood is no good opponent if you wish to improve upon yourself!"
Jon didn't stop, only speaking between thumps, "It's a good," he impacted the stump, "thing that I just need to hit," he thumped again, "something!"
Jon stepped away, blood dripped down his trousers, and jerkin, "How, may I assist you, Ser Rodrik?"
"You can begin by not punching that training post like some wildling buffoon." Ser Rodrik stroked his beard. "You are a bastard, Jon Snow." Jon winced and his hairs raised. "There is nothing you can do to change that. However, it does not mean that you cannot achieve acclaim."
Jon's eyes widened, "How would I do that?"
Rodrik's grin widened, and Jon would come to fear such a thing in the future. "You will become a knight. You may be a bastard, and you are born with honor in a deficit. But as a Knight you can wipe that all away. You will be a bastard to some," Rodrik glanced towards the castle, Lady Catelyn! Jon thought to himself as he paused. "But the rest won't even care, and will come to call you Ser Jon, no last name needed."
Jon looked to the sky, over the horizon, and beyond, he gripped his now aching fists, "What do I have to do?"
"I will prepare some texts for you to read on the Knightly code." Rodrik replied. "I will also give you extra lessons every evening, in exchange you will polish my armor, and tend to any errands that I require from you." Ser Rodrik stroked his ash-colored whiskers. "The books will be much more detailed, but I expect you to conduct yourself with honor and discipline."
"Thank you, Ser Rodrik," Jon bowed his head, "was it raining? He looked up, the sky was speckled with bright white flames.
"Don't thank me yet, boy." Ser Rodrik turned away. "You have yet to prove yourself, and remember, a knight fights not only with his sword, but with his words too."
Jon wiped back at his eyes, "Aye, I won't let you down."
"I do not fear you letting me down, young Squire, I fear you letting yourself down." replied Rodrik, his voice fading in the distance, "Now get something in your belly, and get to sleep, I want you in this training yard before sunrise!"
Jon closed his eyes, and yet sleep evaded him. Was Ser Rodrik right? Would Jon defeat his stigma? Could he earn the respect of his father and Lady Stark as a knight? Could he leave Winterfell as his own man?
That night Jon dreamed of snow, of sun and of swords. In the distance he saw a man clad in armor, plunging a flag of red and black into the snow, melting it away, and evaporating the snow into steam.
The warrior turned to Jon, he could make out the man's armor but only just, it was black as midnight, with what looked like wings of bat? No, dragon! Three streamers flew in the wind from his helm, yellow, orange and red, dancing in the wind, almost hypnotically.
Even from this distance he could see the features, sharp, amethyst gems twinkling from behind his helm, drinking all the light around while simultaneously exuding its own kind of light.
Silver flashed, and disappeared, dancing in the wind trying to escape the confines of his helm. It was his hair, Jon realized, and then his eyes fell upon a red dragon that glittered in the dark, and the snow.
Rhaegar Targaryen.
Jon awoke with a start, the last image he saw was the red rubies of the Targaryens. Why did he see him? What did it mean? He melted snow? What did it all mean?
Jon sat up, his feet padded onto the furs below, somehow the cold stone of Winterfell seeped through the furs.
He looked outside, noticing that while the sky was still dark, it was beginning to brighten. "Just about time for training."
Jon grabbed a cloth at his bedside, and dipped it into a bowl beside him, he wrung it out and scrubbed the dirt from his face, neck and arms, before quickly throwing on his jerkin, furs and trousers on. He laced up his boots and he was out the door.
It was very fortunate that he was allowed a room in the Winterfell castle, given his status as the baseborn son of Lord Stark. Even more so he was lucky that unlike the rest of his siblings he was on the ground floor.
Jon was out the castle doors in a matter of moments, "Morning!" Jon greeted one of the guards, Raymund, he was the son of Desmond.
To Jon's chagrin, Ser Rodrik was already, which meant—"You're late!" exclaimed the master of arms.
"Aye–" Jon looked down, "I apologize, ser, I'll ensure I am ready before even you!"
"Ensure that you are, Jon" Rokrik stroked his whiskers, "I have spoken to your lord father about sending you out to squire for a knight, possibly in the vale." Jon tightened his fist.
"But I thought I was to squire for you?" Jon gulped, when the knight raised his hand.
"If you would let me finish," Ser Rodrik replied, slightly annoyed. "Thinking it over, I could help with your training until a suitable Knight was found, but I am after all the master of arms at Winterfell, so I do have other duties, and did not want that to hinder your development." Rodrik leaned on his right leg, "However, your father declined, he does not want you or any Stark leaving Winterfell to foster with any knight or Lord."
"So, I cannot become a knight then?" Jon asked, tightening his fists into tight balls, "Am I to remain a bastard and nothing more than my entire life? Under the thumbs of Lord and Lady Stark?"
"No, you are once again jumping the bow, my young friend," Rodrik smirked, and if Jon wasn't looking closer he may never have seen it. "You will be my squire, and you will assist with all my duties."
"What duties are those?" Jon asked, his face twisted, scrunching up his eyebrows.
"Well, wouldn't you like to know?" Grinned the castellan of Winterfell, "For now your goal will be training with the sword, and hand-to-hand combat. You will learn the rest eventually, and who knows maybe one day you will replace me as Ser Jon the castellan of Winterfell."
"Aye! I will." Jon said simply, in a tone that left no room for debate
"Good, that's what I want to hear. Go through the basic sword forms for me, as if you are fight a shadow opponent." replied Ser Rodrik.
Jon nodded, taking a wooden sword from a nearby rack.
He attacked the straw dummy, for what felt like ages, indeed the sun had already blanketed the north in its bright rays or orange, and the sweat came down from his brow and swung across the field and dampened his dark locks.
"Okay, that's good, I have seen more than enough Jon." Ser Rodrik stroked his beard, "It is about time for breakfast, I think." He waited for Jon to replace the wooden blade on the rack, "But first, we must review. In order for you to improve, you must learn."
Jon nodded, "Aye, I understand, ser Rodrick, but shouldn't you know what my weaknesses are already? You are my teacher, even before now. Should they be such a surprise to you?"
Ser Rodrik smiled, "That is very astute of you, Jon. however you must remember, I teach yourself, Theon, Robb and a couple others in the guard , and my priority above all is Lord Robb's education"
Jon leaned on his right leg, "So, you're saying you only taught me what you had to?"
"Exactly, you see I have many responsibilities, and besides your weaknesses are far from glaring if I might add. However, as my squire, I expect much more from you. Previously, you would have likely grown into your style and turned into a fearsome swordsman." Ser Rokrik folded his arms. "However, there are some things we will have to work on; namely your footwork and your workflow. You need to transition much smoother between movements than you are. It allows openings in your guard that you should and can not allow."
"How do I get beyond that? I am doing my best. What steps do I take?" Jon asked as he rolled one of his shoulders.
"It isn't easy, mind you. It will take a lot of time, practice and dedication. I only advise you to not think of all the different movements as separate. You must think how you can flow from one movement to the next and flow from offense to defense as if they are one and the same." Ser Rodrik replied, "Now enough of that, let's go break our fasts, you're going to need it."
Mess hall
Jon broke his fast on blood sausage, black as night and thicker than Hodor's fingers, eggs of white snow and golden honey that were crisped black at the edges and crunched under his molars. He washed it down with water, and he filled up on oats and honey.
Jon looked up to the high table, and despite his generous treatment from his Lord father, Jon was not well liked here, much less at the high-table.
Mostly, it was due to the Lady Stark of Winterfell. She hated him, no that wasn't true, she wanted him to die.
"If you think I will allow my Lord Husbands generosity to be taken for weakness you are gravely mistaken, bastard! You will not worm your way into the heart of my children either, that will all come to an abrupt stop! Winterfell will never be yours and this will never be your home!" she had completed her whole diatribe with spit flying across Jon's face, and yet the grace she had expressed her venom in, almost made the young bastard doubt his own eyes.
Jon finished up his breakfast, and left the hall, on his way he heard the faint mutterings of bastard, and the hateful eyes glanced his way as he passed by. Several of them wore the colors of house Stark - black and white - with a snarling wolf at the breast, and yet on the opposite side was a white fish swimming amongst blue and red waters.
Tully men – Lady Stark's men.
Jon held his head high, he was a bastard, nothing he did would change that, not crying, not swearing or coming to anger over it or the unfairness of this world. He was hated and disliked by all, bar his Lord father, which was even more telling of the man's character. The single solitary black mark upon is fathers good name, and he loved Jon for it, or was that despite it? It did not matter. He would earn his Knighthood under Ser Rodrik and even those that hated him would be forced to respect him, despite the foul name that followed him like a bad smell.
Jon was soon in the sword yard once more, swinging his sword into the face of Ser Straw, he still found himself having to readjust after each combination, just how was he supposed to learn to move from one combination to next as if it was all the same?
"Snow, figured you'd get some practice in before our match?" Robb said from behind, "I don't think it will help you much? You could not even defeat Theon, and he doesn't even specialize in swordplay."
Jon turned around, his half-brother's blue eyes were like chips of ice, and his hair brown like the earth with streaks of the sun shining through his curls. "It was not so long ago that I used to best you in this very yard."
"Mayhaps, but that time is gone. Do yourself a favor and concede quickly, it brings me no joy to bring pain to my blood–even if you are a bastard." Robb shrugged.
"As you say, my Lord," Jon snarked, fortunately Theon arrived to regale Robb with tales of his exploits to Wintertown. "-and her feet were all the way against her ears–"
"That is quite enough, Theon. This is far from the appropriate language befitting of Lord Robb, or even of a future Knight, in my squire here."
"A Knight? Hah!" Theon Greyjoy chuckled. "This piss poor excuse for a squire cannot even shine my boots, let alone brandish a sword!"
"Watch your mouth, Greyjoy." Jon ground his teeth, "Before I shut it for you."
"Like you did yesterday?" Greyjoy quirked an eyebrow. "Come off it, you're just full of smoke. You should have been Jon Sand, not Jon Snow."
"And you should have been the heir to the iron islands, and yet here you are, nothing but a glorified prisoner." Jon shrugged, then smiled widely. "At least I know what I am. I am a bastard that doesn't even know who his mother is. I am the one black stain upon Eddard Stark's honor. But what are you? You're no Wolf and you don't even know what a Kraken is; So, who are you?."
"Okay, that's enough!" Bellowed Ser Rodrik. "We are here to train our sword arms, not exercise our tongues. If that is what you would prefer, perhaps I can arrange Septa Mordane to include you in your sisters' needle lessons?"
"No!" they all replied in unison, "Sorry!"
"That's what I thought." Ser Rokrik replied. "Now to the racks, I want you to put all your paddings on and grab the dulled blades. Today you learn what it is to move about with the weight and burdens of a true warrior and Knight."
The armor that they donned was little more than leathers and wool, fattened and plumped. Truly it was half the weight of true steel, but enough to make Jon waddle once it was fixed upon him. He spied a glance at Robb and Theon who seemed to be having similar issues, although Theon took to walking much easier. That came with age, he supposed.
Jon moved around, grabbing a wooden sword and making a few practice swings for good measure, and he found it–to say nothing else–frustrating.
"I will not have you beat each other with sticks yet," Ser Rokdrik grinned, "Today is about getting used to the weight. You will each take a post and go through your forms. Remember! I am not looking for speed but form. If your form is good, everything else will follow. Now begin!"
Jon grabbed onto his blade with two hands, as he delivered a particularly resounding blow, sweat dripped from his brow, both magnifying and blurring his vision. The impact had unbalanced him, and the weight of his armor sent him tumbling back.
It didn't hurt. Nay it was padded, but what did hurt was the rancorous laughter that followed.
"Oh no, it is the stick that rides!" exclaimed Theon, bowling over.
"Ser Stick, the tree knight!" exclaimed Robb, his blue eyes twinkled in mirth.
And that was when Jon understood why they were placed in these infernal leathers. He gripped his fist tightly and rose once more. He took aim at Theon Scarecrow from the shoulder to the hip–if he had live-steel–would have been bisected in visceral blood, guts and bone.
"OH no, Ser Snow turns his aggressions to Ser Wood, the Pole!" exclaimed Theon, cackling madly.
"Protector of the realm! Slayer of the scarecrow!" exclaimed Robb, and Jon truly began to wonder how long ago he had his brother and bestfriend, and what went wrong?
He swiped again at the post, his muscles tensing continuously with each movement. Lady Catelyn.
His tormentors returned to their own posts, noticeably slower than before and Jon smirked. Quick to judge, not so quick to invite mockery. It's practically craven!
Jon continued his onslaught, and by the end of his lesson, he had quickened his pace to half speed.
Before Jon could shed his leathers, he was accosted by Ser Rodrik. "I must give you my congratulations. I know for certain, the past Jon would have tried to beat your brother and Theon bloody for their barbs. Yet you stayed your hand and focused on the task."
Jon did not have the heart to tell him that he abstained because he was hindered. "Some advice from the Knight you serve as a reward is in order, I think." Rodrik stroked his beard. "Do not shed the leathers, no matter who may think you a fool is free to. However I bid you take a walk, go for a run and mayhaps tend to the horses with the leathers on."
Jon took a step back and his jaw hung loosely. "My lord, Ser Rodrik, forgive me, but have you taken leave of your senses?"
Rodrik grinned, "It seems you still have much to learn, my young squire. Do me this favor, and all you have to lose are a few japes. But when you see the insight of what I ask, you will then know to trust my judgment."
Jon nodded, "I will do as you bid, Ser Rodrik."
"Good! Now don't forget, after dinner I require that you polish my armor and sharpen and oil my blade." Jon agreed easily and made to leave, "Oh and Jon, make sure you do so with your training leathers on!"
Jon grumbled, and he began to wonder if this Knighthood was truly worth the trouble.
A/N: It has been a while since I wrote anything related ASOIAF/GOT–Actually, no since I've written anything. I have been reading a lot of Jon-centric fics, because he is my favorite character in all honesty.
The first chapter was pretty short, but I want to introduce the concept, and feel out if there is any interest, although the idea is in my head, so I will most likely write about it regardless.
The fic is AU as you can see, the plan is to slowly flesh out Jon's relationship with the different characters within Winterfell, and the universe that I have created.
Any comments, and suggestion are most welcome and as always, please, follow, favorite and review.
