The Armoury

You decide to see what kind of weaponry is forged here in the north, and perhaps try your hand at some Winterfell steel.

The Armoury is dark and cavernous like most of Winterfell, light spilling in from one narrow tall window. There is a great selection of swords, bows and maces organised against the wall, and a large practice area with straw-stuffed dummies in battered armour.

Since there is nobody else here you decide to take a few practice swings with one of the swords, and soon find yourself wasting the hour away hacking at the straw dummies. Back home you are known for your skill in battle, something you had almost forgotten in all the political business of the past few years.

After more than an hour has passed you are ready to return to your rooms for some rest, or possibly a bath, when suddenly the door creaks behind you.

A beautiful young man with ebony curls walks into the room sheepishly. His face and hands are pink and Dewey, almost as though he has just gotten out of the bath.

He bows his head. “Your Grace, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he says, shy and unconvincing. “I was sorry I could not attend your welcome party yesterday, I was kept away by my duties.”

You realise from the information that Littlefinger has supplied you that this must be the bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow.

You tell Jon Snow you were just about done with the practice area, so he is free to have the place to himself. He bows gratefully and awkwardly grabs a sword from the rack.

You take your shirt off and use it to towel the sweat from your chest as you watch Jon hack away at the straw dummy. His strikes are rough and heavy, they lack the finesse of a skilled warrior. Clumsily, he hacks off the reedy figures head and looks triumphantly at the mess on the floor.

He looks back at you. “I have been training.” He smiles.