The castle-forged steel in Jon's hands ripped through the air, striking with an innate brutality that bordered on savagery. There was no grace in his swordplay. He never feinted, never dodged, never retreated. He only moved forward. He fought less like a man and more like a bull.
Ser Rodrik Cassel gave ground, his breath coming heavy, puffing through his thick grey mustache. Sweat beaded on his brow and poured down his jowls, gathering beneath his chin. The old knight's armor clanked with each hurried step, a prison of plate that had once served as protection but now slowed him, tired him. He parried what he could, blocked when he must, but the rhythm was slipping from him. Jon could see it in the man's eyes, behind the steel, he was retreating already.
A high overhead cut jarred Rodrik's guard, and when Jon twisted, bringing the blade around low, he felt the jolt through his arms as steel met steel, and then the older man's longsword spun from his hands and skittered across the yard.
Rodrik followed it down.
"Are you alright, Ser Rodrik?"
He had toppled over, winded and off balance. Whether out of pride or shame, he swatted away Jon's hand when the boy tried to help him up.
It was probably humiliating for the old knight, to be disarmed and thrown to the ground by a fourteen-year-old. But Jon felt no gratification in the victory, even when the small party that had followed them into the yard cheered.
There weren't many spectators, it was still early in the morning, but a few recognizable faces had gathered. Eddard Stark stood among them, the most prominent of all. All of Jon's siblings, save for Sansa and baby Rickon, had come to watch him fight. A handful of the family guard were also present, though Jory Cassel was the only one Jon cared to notice.
None of them had expected him to win. Even Arya, his greatest believer, had looked stunned when he disarmed Ser Rodrik. Rodrik Cassel had grown fat in recent years, slow and soft from too much bread and wine, but he was still a knight of Winterfell. Still master-at-arms. Still a man who had seen battle. A boy of fourteen should not have bested him, even with reach, even with speed. Jon knew that. But the fight had not been fair.
Rodrik might have been a capable knight, but Bittersteel had carved his name into history, as both a warrior and a commander. Jon couldn't match the man's strength, but he could imitate his technique. Even now, as he held the blade, memories surged, he saw battle lines drawn across the dry riverbeds of the Disputed Lands, heard the screams of dying men at Coldmoat, smelled blood in the burning of a Dornish fort. His own strength was not enough to defeat Ser Rodrik. But Aegor's was.
That same burning heat he had felt the day before returned as he swung the sword. He was no longer Jon. Not even Jonathan. He was Aegor. Beneath the Stark appearance, he was a Targaryen bastard. shaped by war and conflict. Even at his weakest, no fat old man could ever be his equal.
"You did well, Jon," Rodrik said once he managed to stand, though Jon could hear the sting of wounded pride in his voice. "You're more than qualified to be a squire. If it weren't for your age and lack of experience, I'd knight you myself."
To be a knight, one had to either squire under another knight until deemed ready or perform some great deed that earned the honor. The system was flexible by design, to reward warriors who served the realm through war, loyalty to a king, or victories in tourneys. Knighthood was never out of reach, even for bastards like Jon.
Truthfully, Jon held little respect for the title. But he knew that becoming a knight might trigger another inheritance. Many of the most prominent figures in Westeros had been knights. What if the next life he inherited was Bloodraven, or someone equally legendary? Jon didn't want to be just strong in combat; he wanted strength in all aspects of life. One inheritance would never be enough.
Eddard soon joined them, clasping Jon by the arms with a rare smile. "I didn't think my son a warrior. With skill like that, I'd wager you could give Jaime Lannister a run for his money."
"You think so?" Jon grinned. "He's probably awake right now. Should I challenge him? I've half a mind to join the Kingsguard."
It was a joke, but Eddard's smile faltered. "Maybe in a year or two," he said with hesitation, as if the idea of Jon standing beside Jaime Lannister was the worst fate imaginable. "You're still not grown yet. But once you are, there won't be a sword in the Seven Kingdoms that can match you."
Before Jon could reply, Arya barreled into him, wrapping her arms around his stomach. "You were incredible, Jon! Will you teach me to be a knight? I can squire for you, and we'll travel the Seven Kingdoms together. We can go to the Reach and fight in tourneys. We'll be like Ser Duncan the Tall and Prince Aegon!"
Jon laughed and tousled her tangled hair. "Only if you let me shave your head and promise to do everything I say."
Arya nodded furiously. "Yes, yes! I'll behave. I can clean your armor, care for your horse, I can do anything a squire can do!"
Eddard gently pulled her away, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "You can't become a squire, Arya. You're to be a little lady and marry a lord. I won't have you pestering Jon. Besides, you won't need to follow him, he's coming with us."
Arya looked up, confused. "Coming with us? Where are we going?"
Eddard sighed. "To King's Landing." Then he looked back to Jon, his voice softening. "But first, we'll see about getting you a proper set of armor. You've earned that much."