The heat in the forge hit like a physical blow, a stifling contrast to the frozen courtyard just beyond the timber-framed doors. The air tasted of sulfur, ash, and the bitter tang of scorched iron.
Jon Snow stood in the threshold, his dark cloak dusting the floorboards with melting frost. He adjusted his leather jerkin, his grey eyes scanning the gloom for Mikken's burly frame. Instead, standing over the anvil with a heavy rounding hammer in hand, was the apprentice. The boy looked like a quiet, stoic craftsman at first glance—until he opened his mouth.
"If you're looking for Mikken, he's down at the stables re-shoeing the Lord Commander's mare because apparently, nobody else in this freezing wasteland knows how to swing a hammer without breaking a thumb," Ron grumbled, wiping a streak of soot from his brow with the back of a leather-gloved hand. He didn't bow. He didn't offer the guarded, pitying nod Jon usually received from the household staff. He just looked Jon up and down like a horse trader appraising a thin colt. "What do you want? I'm busy trying not to freeze to death while melting iron."
"I need a sword," Jon said, his voice flat, accustomed to the curtness of the smallfolk. He stepped closer to the anvil, pulling a small pouch of silver stags from his belt—the small stipend Robb and his father had allowed him over the years. "A standard broadsword. Good steel. No ornaments, no family crests. Just something reliable for the road north."
Ron looked at the coins, then at Jon's lean shoulders and narrow frame. A sudden, sharp bark of laughter escaped him—a completely unhinged sound that made Jon's hand instinctively drop toward his empty hip.
"A broadsword?" Ron chuckled, shaking his head as he set the hammer down on the anvil block with a heavy clink. "Right. Brilliant strategy. You want to carry a giant, four-foot slab of clumsy iron into the woods? Tell me, are you actively trying to get killed, or is committing suicide by wildling just a trend among the local nobility?"
Jon flushed, a hot prickle of anger rising in his chest. "I've been trained by Ser Rodrik. I know how to swing a blade."
"Against other boys wrapped in padded velvet, sure," Ron said, leaning against the stone forge hearth, his arms crossed over his grease-stained leather apron. "But out there? In the snow? You swing a heavy broadsword, miss once because your foot slipped, and some savage in boiled leather is going to slide a bone shiv between your ribs before you can recover your guard. Chivalry and big swords are just fancy ways to get yourself buried early."
Jon scowled, but the cold logic of the argument stuck in his throat. "Then what do you suggest?"
Ron's eyes gleamed with a sudden, mercenary sharpness. He reached beneath a workbench, tossing aside a few rusted iron hinges before pulling out a rough sketch he'd scratched onto a piece of scraped hide. It was a weapon design Jon had never seen in any of the Master-at-Arms' books—a short, double-edged blade, tapering sharply to a needle-thin point, fitted with a simple but elegant crossguard. It was designed to pierce, to slip between gaps in armor, and above all, to move like lightning.
"Something fast. Light. A stabbing weapon," Ron said, tapping the sketch. "You don't chop wood with it; you put it through a throat or a seam in the armor before the other guy even realizes you've drawn it. It's efficient. It saves your breath. And in the dark, it's a lot harder to see coming."
Jon stared at the drawing. It looked small, almost delicate compared to the greatswords of the North but still decided to ask. "Could you forge it?"
"I can," Ron said, leaning forward, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial that sounded entirely out of place in a drafty Northern smithy. "But steel like this requires a specialized touch. If you want it to survive the deep freeze beyond the Wall without snapping like a dry twig, we can't just use standard peat coal. No, you need a premium charcoal-tempering process. Twice the heat, thrice the folding, and a specialized oil-quench to keep the edge from dulling against wildling bone."
Jon frowned, looking from the sketch to his small pile of silver. "And how much does this premium tempering cost?"
"Normally? It'd run you twice what you have on that table," Ron lied smoothly, his face a mask of absolute sincerity. "But since I like your lack of a title, I'll tell you what—give me the silver now, and you can owe me a favor when you're a grand ranger wearing all that black wool. Do we have a deal, or do you want to go buy a heavy steel sword from Mikken and hope for the best?"
Jon stared at the sketch for a long moment, his thumb tracing the coin pouch at his belt. The logic was sound, but the slick delivery made his Northern blood wary. Nobody in Winterfell gave away favors out of the goodness of their heart, least of all to a bastard.
"Two days," Jon said, sliding the silver stags across the scarred wood of the workbench. "Forge the blade. But when it's done, you're going to show me how it works."
Ron raised an eyebrow. "You want a lesson? I thought Ser Rodrik handled the running-around-with-sticks department."
"Ser Rodrik teaches the broadsword and the lance," Jon replied, his eyes narrowing as he held Ron's gaze. "He doesn't teach whatever it is you're selling. If I'm risking my silver—and my skin—on a weapon no one in the North carries, I want to see you wield it first. If you can't hit me with it, I'm taking my coin back and picking a standard blade from Mikken's rack."
Ron let out a dry, short breath, looking at the silver, then at Jon's stubborn jawline. He knew a standard duel would end with him flat on his back. But he also knew he had two days to prepare a few distinct, unpleasant surprises.
"Fine," Ron said, scooping the silver into his apron pocket. "Two days. Bring your training sword. Just don't whine to your lord father when a common apprentice puts you in the dirt."
Jon gave a solitary, tight nod, pulled his cloak tighter against the draft, and turned on his heel, stepping back out into the grey, falling snow of the courtyard.
The moment the heavy timber door slammed shut, Ron's cynical smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, practical focus. He looked down at the sketch of the tapering thrusting blade, then scanned the messy layout of the smithy.
"Two days," Ron muttered to himself, kicking a stray iron hinge out of his way. "Great. Time to make some pocket sand."
He grabbed a heavy leather bucket, striding over to the main hearth. Instead of working the bellows for the steel right away, he began scooping fine, gray forge ash into a small pouch, mixing it with dry, coarse dirt from the floorboards. If Jon Snow wanted to see how a modern survivalist handled a lightweight blade, he was going to get a very thorough lesson in exactly how dirty a real fight could get.