"You must temper yourself tomorrow." Ser Samwell Stone told him, the man looked as old as Brynden and Lord Royce, but his face bore more scars and his hair was thin and greying. "This late into the tourney, exhaustion is what's going to do all of you in, you've the advantage of youthful vigor, but a week of exertion and bruises will catch up with you. Be patient, every strike and swing will matter."
"I'll try to keep your words in mind." Jon said, resting a blade on his shoulder and lowering the other. "But when I'm in the arena and every drop of my being is pulling me forward, it's difficult to reel back."
"I understand that, but every ounce of restraint you can manage will go a long way." The knight said, then raised his shield and blade once more. "Now, again."
Jon moved to do as the man ordered, they been at it for hours, where once the training grounds were overwhelmed by knights, now it was barely a few bodies around them, most everyone eliminated preferred to partake in the festivities instead.
Brynden was too busy arranging the feast to help him, but he did not mind getting as much as he could from Ser Samwell before tourney's end, and the knight was kind enough to take time out of his day and help him refine whatever flaws he could before the finals, as well as lend him wisdom and advice from his decades of fighting.
"Jon!" He heard a voice call out to him, and both men lowered their arms to look at Harrold Hardyng approaching them. "Redfort tells me you're the Ashen Reaver!?"
"You must be the last person in the Vale to find out." Jon said, chuckling at the boy's indignity, he wasn't sure who had told Redfort so he could tell Hardyng, but over the last day it had become an open secret. Both the Blackwood and the Templeton he faced had approached him after to commemorate their clash and wish him luck in the finals, as had Lord Selmy and Ser Risley, thanking him for eliminating the band of seven which had eliminated them, even Lord Arryn's wife had been giving him odd looks.
Not that he cared, the gamemaster could hardly disqualify a finalist, knighthood or not.
"I do think that's enough for the day." Samwell said, nodding to him. "Get some rest, and good luck tomorrow."
"Thank you, ser." Jon said, lowering his head as the knight turned to walk away.
"Was that the man at arms from Runestone?" Hardyng asked him, crossing his arms and raising his chin. "Is he how you got so far?"
"It's my own merit that's gotten me to the finals, Hardyng." Jon said, stretching his back and moving off the tourney ground. "Not that I ever expected to get this far, I only wished for some good competition."
"'Good competition'?" Hardyng said, rolling his eyes. "Yes, that's why you entered, not for the untold renown, but for the 'good competition'."
"That's difference between you and I." Jon said as he walked, waving the other boy off. "We've both the same flesh and you've talent aplenty but you don't care for it, all you do is chase is empty vanity and pleasure."
"Vanity? Pleasure?" Hardyng said, his face turning red with anger.
"The whores, the approval of random lords." Jon said, shrugging. "None of it matters."
As they headed from the training grounds to the markets, Hardyng was still indignantly nipping at his heels when Jon spotted a figure moving away in the corner of his eye, he wore a hood, but Jon could recognize the man's gait anywhere.
"Ser Corbray!" Jon called out after him, the man turned to look at them, he might have rolled his eyes and groaned, but Jon didn't see it. "Good luck tomorrow, ser!"
"Yes, yes, thank you, but I'm in a hur—" the knight said, but was soon interrupted by a loud wincing coming from his under his coat.
"What the hells is that?" Hardyng asked, he reached to lift the man's coat, under it Corbray's hand was roughly wrapped around the neck of a young boy that he was dragging with him. "Who the fuck is that!?"
"This child is a thief." Corbray said quickly, and Jon's looked down at the boy in pity, his face was red and his eyes terrified. "He tried to steal Lady Forlorn, my family's ancestral sword, I'm taking him to face Lord Arryn's judgment."
"Isn't that extreme? He's only a child." Jon argued, but the knight shook his head.
"Valyrian Steel is Valyrian Steel."
"Just… find some mercy in your heart." Jon said. "Scare him straight but don't scar him for life."
"That's for Lord Arryn to decide!" Corbray declared, walking off without further word.
Lord Arryn is an honorable man; he raised my father. Jon thought, hoping the boy survived unscathed. He'll see fair justice done.
"That was odd." Hardyng said.
"Oh, and I found your horse." Jon said, and the other boy turned to him wide eyes.
"Truly!?" Hardyng asked. "Lady Anya was going to kill me if I lost it."
"He's in the knight's tents near the lists." Jon said.
With that, Hardyng bolted to look for the steed, Jon however, went to the tournament's armory to put away his dull training weapons.
The markets he walked through were dwindling, a shadow of their former bustle, but ahead of him the noble pavilions were as plentiful as ever. No tourney was complete without an extravagant noble feast after the finals, while traveling peddlers had already made most of the gold they would from this tournament.
"Jon!" another voice yelled out, though this one more welcome than the last, it was Myranda, with her was Mya, Myranda wore a flowing, fine dress while Mya was leaning against a post in a leather jerkin and beeches. They're Sansa and Arya if those two ever got along. "You were a tempest on the field."
"You're too kind."
"And here are your winnings." Myranda said, tossing him two bags, one was filled with gold dragons, more than he had ever seen in his life, well, more than he had ever seen in his life until yesterday. The purse he earned for qualifying for the finals had fifty gold dragons in it, an absurd amount of gold by every measure, and still a pittance compared to the winner's bounty.
The other bag had some kind of paste in it.
"I had our Maester make it." Myranda said. "A poultice for your bruises."
"Your many, many bruises." Mya said. "You got hit aplenty."
"Maybe if the favor I was wearing didn't chicken scratch embroidered on it." He said in a light tone, Mya snorted in response.
"I'm no seamstress." Mya said, waving him off. "But, uh, thank you for wearing it."
"It was the least I could do." He said, then weighed the bag of gold in his hands for a second. "Could you give us a moment, Myranda?"
The noble woman looked between them but nodded and slowly walked away. When she was far enough, Jon threw the bag of gold to Mya, she raised an eyebrow then threw it back to him, and he threw it back again.
"Keep it." Jon said.
"What?" Mya said, her tone offended. "Is this what you meant by your promise? I'm no beggar or charity case, I—"
"It's not what I meant by my promise." Jon said. "And it's not pity or charity, it's… safety, agency, should the worse happen, you'll have the gold to act as you wish."
"What's going to happen?" She asked, opening her arms. "I've a comfortable life Snow, a place in the Royce household, safety and food aplenty."
"But should you ever wish to leave, for whatever reason, sensible or not, you'd be able to." He said. "Should Nestor and Myranda be replaced by their cruel cousins Mestor and Nyranda, you won't be forced to stay."
She paused, then opened the purse, shaking her head when she saw the insides.
"This is far too much…"
"I earned many times that yesterday, and I do not know what to with any of it." He said, shrugging. "But please, keep it, for ease of mind."
"Fine." She said after another pause, "But if you ever want it back…"
"It's yours Mya." He said. "The blackfish told me coin gambled is coin already lost."
"Wise man this Blackfish." Mya said, crossing her arms and putting a hand on her chin. "Ossy once told me our chickens are half eagle, should those two ever crossed paths it would be a meeting of the minds, but I digress, I'll go put this away somewhere safe, good luck tomorrow, Snow."
"Thank you, Stone." He said, watching her as she walked away, then he headed into the armory, he put away the dull steel blades, perhaps the same ones he would use in the finals, and he put his sharp steel on his back.
Now he had nothing to do but rest until tomorrow, maybe he should go find the blackfish, he remembered the conversation they had on their way back to the Bloody Gates yesterday.
'My last squire before you, Lewys Piper his name was, a younger brother of one of Edmure's friends, he begged me for months to take him.' Brynden said, his eyes distant. 'That boy was as quiet as mouse and twice as meek, couldn't look me in the eye for a month. But now I've gone from passivity boarding on cowardness to audacity boarding on idiocy.'
'I'm sure when it's Lysa's turn to straddle you with a squire, she'll pick a normal lad.' Jon said, patting the man on the arm. 'Do you regret taking me?'
'I would be a fool to.' The older man said, a proud smile on his lips.
But Brynden could not be found, he considered going back to the Bloody Gates and getting an early night's rest, but he knew he would be tossing and turning for hours yet, so he found himself a tree some ways off the tourney grounds, took a seat at its trunk and soared the skies in his hawk.
What a tempting thing it was to fly, he found he had to temper how much time he spent in his bird, lest he waste away hours soaring through the skies.
He normally not only flew over the Gates, but also the jagged tips of the Mountains of the Moon, infested by mountain lions, rabbits, goats and clansmen alike. He flew above the verdant valleys that stretched forever into the Vale proper, lakes and rivers of crystal water, hamlets, towns and castles of clay, wood and cut stone, fields of colorful flowers and yellow wheat, and the countless people that breathed life into the land.
For now, however, he circled only the Gates of the Moon, somewhat curious what his opponents were doing on the eve of the final contest, heading over the tourney grounds, he found Lord Tytos Blackwood sparring with three men at once, then he saw Ser Devan Lannister sparring with Ser William the hedgeknight.
Will those two join forces tomorrow? Will the Lord Tytos seek me out to pay me back for eliminating his son?
The Twiceslain was sat at the edge of grounds, he had his neck nuzzled in the neck of some woman who tenderly held him, Ser Yoren however had something else nuzzled somewhere else in some other woman and Jon quickly flew away.
He then flew to the Lord's solar, intent on seeing what fate had befallen the boy fool enough to try to steal a Valyrian blade, but he did see not him, nor Corbray, only the Lord Arryn scribbling away.
That's strange. Jon thought. They had time aplenty to make it by now, mayhaps Corbray let him go with a warning?
Unfortunately, he did find Corbray with the boy still with him, but he was not headed to the Lord's solar, rather he was dragging to boy along away in a direction opposite the solar, towards the stables.
Jon opened the eyes of his body again, feeling a pit of unease in his stomach. The knight was either horribly lost, or he had lied to him. To what end, he did not know, but it worried him all the same, he had been trying to hide the boy from him and Hardyng as well, then to lie? Had the boy even tried to steal from him?
Part of him wanted to leave it alone, Ser Corbray was a knight, and a renowned one at that, he had better things to do than to act malevolently towards random commoner children. But the blackfish's warning about Corbray echoed in his mind and the boy's terrified eyes haunted him, were he to ignore them, to shrug his shoulders and go sleep in the Bloody Gates, they would haunt him forever.
So instead, he rose to his feet and headed towards the Gates of the Moon, with no company but his hawk and the steady beating of his heart. He crossed tourney grounds, following in the knight's footsteps, first into the castle, then across its courtyards towards the stables.
The stables still held hundreds of horses, the steeds of all the visiting lords and their retinues, he ran through stall after stall, passing destriers and palfreys, stallions and mares worth thousands of dragons put together and yet, nowhere could he find Corbray among them, not until he did finally see the man, hidden away in a stall of the stables, binding the same boy onto the back of his horse.
"Ser Corbray?" Jon called out. "What are you doing?"
The man threw a glance at him, then he huffed and rolled his eyes.
"I'm taking him to my lord brother to meet judgment."
"What?" Jon said, "Lord Arryn is here, what need do you have to take him to your family's castle?"
"It is my family's sword."
"And the boy is Lord Arryn's subject, the crime took place on Lord Arryn's lands." He said, his voice growing stern, the knight had run out of good will in his eyes. "Bring him, we can go speak to the lord together."
The knight looked conflicted for a moment, looking between Jon and the boy, until their eyes met once more, and recognition spread across the knight's face.
"I know those eyes!" Corbray said, his expression turning almost jovial. "You're that mystery knight!"
"I am." Jon said, narrowing his eyes. "What does that matter?"
"You have quite the swordhand." The knight said, nodding. "With me back in Heart's Home and out of your way, I imagine the melee would be yours, at such a young as well, not even Barristan the Bold could claim such a feat."
"What are you saying?" Jon asked, looking back at the boy, his face had grown redder and his eyes were tearshot. "Let him go."
"Listen, boy." Corbray said, he walked towards Jon and put a hand on his shoulder, he tightened his grip then looked him in the eyes, his jovial pretense had fallen, and a familiar bored and irritated attitude returned to him. "Turn around, pretend you saw nothing, and you win the melee tomorrow, with it a knighthood, gold beyond spending and renown that will stretch the continent, I imagine the Lord Arryn will tell even the king of your deeds, and just imagine where that takes you, hmm? Now be off."
With that, Corbray turned around and returned to the boy's binds, the same boy who still looked at Jon pleadingly, by all accounts, he was the boy's last hope.
The world at the cost of one nameless child.
Some choices were no choices at all.
"I can't do that, ser." Jon said, his hand reached for the hilt of his greatsword and a low metallic ring echoed through the stables. "Let the child go."
The man turned to him once more, this time his eyebrow was raised, and his expression curious.
"I knew you northerners were fools, but truly?" He asked, then shrugged and reached for his own sword. "My Lady will dance and quench her thirst at the very least."
Valyrian steel. Jon thought, he had seen it before, when his father had to attend gruesome business, but Ice was a ceremonial blade, and he had never seen it in combat. Lady Forlorn by contrast, looked as slender as it was deadly. And for the first time in a long time, fear gripped Jon's heart.
The two men stood still, each daring the other act first, for Jon he felt an unfamiliar pit of unease in his stomach, the same one he felt when facing the wildlings for his siblings' safety, it near paralyzed him, but he did not let it show. He heard the steady hum of his breath, and a low whine as the gagged boy cried. That's what I'm fighting for. His nerves were mounting, but when Corbray charged, he still acted.
He perfectly parried the knight's slash, and yet, it still chipped his great blade, Corbray continued with another strike, almost too fast for Jon to see, but he moved his blade in time, then barely avoided the man's lunge.
He tried retaking the offensive, but the knight moved too quickly, his blade was flowing water, and his limbs were lighting made flesh, Jon could hardly believe the movements, the speed such a light blade could afford, yet here they were, trying to kill him.
Unparalleled skill wielding Valyrian steel. Jon thought, a more dangerous duel he had never fought. I can't lose, I won't lose.
And yet he was fighting in a way he was unfamiliar with, uncomfortable with, he was not used to being on the backfoot, not used to fighting with no forward momentum, but that was the cost of letting fear weight his limbs at the beginning. Now, he could barely move his sword in time to stop the man's blows, even when he could predict knight's flurries, with no momentum, his greatsword was too cumbersome to do much but block and parry.
His tension would soon fade and his blood would boil, begging him to take the offensive, to put the man down, but he cooled the impulse and bade his time, even as the edge of his sword was being chipped and chipped until it resembled a sawblade, even as he felt a tourney's worth of bruises screaming at him, he solemnly held his defense.
Until the man's sword switched hands, Corbray's signature, giving him an inch more of range than any opponent could expect. But Jon had seen it once and been hit by it another time in the melee, now, he respected the reach of the slash, and rather than try to space it or block it, he ducked it.
Then taking a step forward, he slashed at the knight, Valyrian steel met castle forged steel once more, another note in a long melody, but now Jon could flow from one strike into the next, battle Corbray rather than only defend against him.
Corbray's defense was as impeccable as his attack, managing to weave counterblows and lunges even as he perfectly dodged and parried. But Jon's form was now as fluid as the wind, and he effortlessly interrupted and resumed his assault to defend against any counterattack the knight threw at him.
Then he slowly felt it, or rather, he stopped feeling anything at all, his arms felt no strain, his mind forgot all fear and his soul knew no hesitation, consumed wholly by a familiar battlelust as the blood of conquerors and kings burned like fire in his veins. With a crowd of only horses and a child he moved like he never had before, his blade grew otherworldly and his body became a storm with limbs.
Corbray felt the shift within him, his blocks grew weary, and his eyes knew something other than boundless arrogance, this duel would have both men in steady reach of the Stranger.
Then Jon finally stuck flesh, a swing of his greatsword had overwhelmed the other man's strength, the Lady Forlorn had faltered and he sunk the jagged edge of his blade into the soft flesh of Corbray's cheek.
But he could go no further before the other man pushed the blade away, and when Jon went to attack him once more, a feral grin as well as a deep, ugly gash now decorated the knight's face.
The relentless clash continued, two blades of unstoppable force meeting again and again and again, wielded by two men with the instincts of beasts and technical skill beyond compare. The momentum between them was always shifting, whenever one man slowed to catch his breath the other would explode with another flurry.
But in truth, the match was never even, not when one man was a war veteran and duelist with no equal wielding Valyrian steel and the other a boy of fifteen with nowhere near the older man's strength and experience. Whatever fear Jon felt at the start of the duel, it was not unfounded, however long they fought, the fight had only one conclusion, one that became clear when Jon saw the tip of Lady Forlorn come flying at his heart.
He saw the blade coming, he tried to move his own to stop it, but he immediately realized it would be too slow, the steel of his greatsword could not deflect it in time and his body could not dodge it before it killed him, and so he stood for one unending second watching as his death flew towards him.
But then, he saw, he felt two arms wrap around his shoulders, they were neither feminine nor masculine, but something in between. They reached down towards his blade, gripping its lower edge with their bare fingers and lifted it to cover his heart, before disappearing back into nothing.
Any wonderment he could have felt disappeared when Lady Forlorn struck his steel rather than his heart, then slid off his blade directly into his shoulder.
He screamed in agony, but Corbray only leaned closer, a smile equal parts cruel and untamed on his face, then he brought his foot to Jon's chest and kicked him to the ground, cutting apart yet more flesh as he pulled the Valyrian steel out of his shoulder.
I lost. He thought, then thudded into the hay and shit of the stables ground. The thought did seem real, but as he looked up at Corbay, his blade colored with Jon's blood, it became impossible to deny.
All that his thousands of hours of training had given him was some impressive tournament performances, but when the fight was fought with live rather dull blades, when it was about something that mattered, he faltered and he fell. Have I spent my entire life chasing an early death by steel?
What other end did any warrior know?
"Regret your decision, bastard?" the man asked. If it's a fighter's death for me, then fighter I still am. Jon thought and so, rather than cower or beg he only spit at the man's feet.
The knight raised an eyebrow and shrugged, then he lifted the Lady Forlorn above him to strike the life from him once and for all.
I might even meet my mother. Jon thought, he could only hope she would be proud, he looked back to the boy on the back of the horse one last time in pity. I'm sorry to fail you.
But then someone tackled Corbray from behind, it was Hardyng, and he heard the footsteps of a dozen other armored boots in the distance.
Jon opened his eyes in surprise, but then closed them shut as exhaustion stole him away.
