A Blade's Tale

It was early in the morning, and already the mustering grounds were alive with the sounds of swords smacking against swords. Their wielders, young boys wearing layers of wool and boiled leather, were red-faced and panting, bringing blunted steel down on blunted steel. Jon watched them practice in the barracks courtyard, parading back and forth, scrutinizing the form of his pupils as they parried and struck without end.

Of twenty recruits in the class for which he was responsible, the oldest was but seventeen years-old, a young lad by the name of Geoffrey. Much to Jon's bemusement, it was the younger, less-experienced trainees that typically wore a face of determination and confidence, while the older ones tended to look tired and sullen when fighting.

Then, Jon saw one young, fourteen year-old lad get knocked onto his back. The boy's face was bright red and grimacing, the pain of being hit with the blunted steel streaming sparse tears down his cheeks. The older boy, fifteen years-old, stood over his victim for the fourth time that morning, with a gloating, unsympathetic look on his face.

Jon smiled briefly and walked over to the two boys, motioning to one of the nearby guards, who tossed him a blunted sword.

"Come, fight me."

The boy smiled proudly, then stepped forward, thinking that his instructor was going to fight him as an example to the other trainees. He raised his sword and prepared to strike, when, suddenly, Jon lunged forward, parrying the boy's sword to the ground and bringing the blade's pommel onto the recruit's wrists.

The boy cried out in pain and dropped the tourney sword. Then, Jon brought his blade to the boy's leg, dropping him to a knee before resting his sword on the boy's shoulder, next to his neck.

"Do not think yourself so high and mighty, my boy, until you can hold your own as a swordsman."

"But, I beat Tyrion, sir."

"That doesn't make you a good swordsman. Now, go sit and rest."

The boy hung his head and walked away, while Jon reached a hand to young Tyrion.

"Stand, boy."

The young trainee got to his feet, expecting quite the tongue-lashing.

"Why does he keep beating you?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just not as fast."

Jon grunted acknowledgment, then raised his sword.

"That isn't good enough, but we'll just have to fix it."

With that, Jon spent the next four hours of the day sparring with the boy, tutoring him and improving his overall performance, stopping only when he and the rest of the recruits were panting and exhausted.

"Alright, that's enough! Bring it in, lads. We'll do more this afternoon."

Suddenly, a lightly armored guard approached him.

"Sir Augustus?"

"Yes?"

"I have a message from the captain. There is an issue that needs attending, and he would like you to lead the effort."

Jon nodded knowingly and went off to his quarters. His house at the edge of the barracks looked out onto the Northern Hills topping the horizon. As he entered, he was greeted by a young boy of about five years old.

"Bran! How are you, my boy?"

"I'm well, father. Are you home for the day?"

"I'm sorry, son, but I have been called upon. I will be leaving the barracks this afternoon. Until then, I will be wanting lunch and a short nap. Where is your mother?"

Bran pointed into the kitchen, looking disappointed. Jon leaned down and kissed his son on the forehead, then walked into the other room, where his wife, Catherine, stood over a fire with stew simmering in a black pot.

"You have been called?" She looked concerned.

"Indeed... Don't worry, it's nothing out of the ordinary. Besides, I have some plans for myself after this one last little adventure. You have heard of the events in Impa?"

"Yes, of course, heroes of our fair land are battling with a vanguard of Ganon's armies."

"Indeed, they are, and I want to look for some of those brave defenders. We need more volunteers."

"Jon please no more of your knighthood nonsense."

"Catherine, it must be done. However, this is not the time."

Jon took a bowl of the stew and ate it quickly, then hugged his wife and son, gave Catherine a kiss goodbye, and donned his armor. He fixed Fire-Brand to his hip, took his war-hammer, and took Baratheon to meet his coming companions on the mustering grounds of the Northern Blades' stronghold.