asoiaf book moments that give me heart disease 5
Friday, 17 May 2019 12:32![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
braintransplant "Snow, how soon does Maester Aemon say you'll have use of that hand back?"
"Soon," Jon replied.
"Good." On the table between them, Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbard banded with silver. "Here. You'll be ready for this, then."
The raven flapped down and landed on the table, strutting toward the sword, head cocked curiously. Jon hesitated. He had no inkling of what this meant. "My lord?"
"The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now . . . you'd need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm that blade." Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. "I had the rest made anew. Take it."
"Take it," echoed his raven, preening. "Take it, take it."
Awkwardly, Jon took the sword in his hand. His left hand; the bandaged right was still too raw and clumsy. Carefully he pulled it from its scabbard and raised it level with his eyes.
The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had been carved into the likeness of a snarling wolf's head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip was virgin leather, soft and black, as yet unstained by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a good half foot longer that those Jon was used to, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incised in the metal. Where Ice was a true two-handed greatsword, this was a hand-and-a-halfer, sometimes named a bastard sword. Yet the wolf sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wielded before. When Jon turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal had been folded back on itself again and again. "This is Valyrian steel, my lord," he said wonderingly. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel.
"It is," the Old Bear told him. "It was my father's sword and his father's before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black."
He is giving me his son's sword. Jon could scarcely believe it. The blade was exquisitely balanced. The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. "Your son––"
"My son brought dishonor to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah's shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber. The original pommel was a bear's head, silver, yet so worn its features were all but indistinguishable. For you, I though a white wolf more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver."
When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard Stark would declare that Jon had proven himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. (...) He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin.
jon snow westoros' most popular adoptable son!!!!!!!!! jeor taking jon under his wing at the nights watch is one of my favorite parts of jon's character arc TTTT meu bebe
"Soon," Jon replied.
"Good." On the table between them, Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbard banded with silver. "Here. You'll be ready for this, then."
The raven flapped down and landed on the table, strutting toward the sword, head cocked curiously. Jon hesitated. He had no inkling of what this meant. "My lord?"
"The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now . . . you'd need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm that blade." Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. "I had the rest made anew. Take it."
"Take it," echoed his raven, preening. "Take it, take it."
Awkwardly, Jon took the sword in his hand. His left hand; the bandaged right was still too raw and clumsy. Carefully he pulled it from its scabbard and raised it level with his eyes.
The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had been carved into the likeness of a snarling wolf's head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip was virgin leather, soft and black, as yet unstained by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a good half foot longer that those Jon was used to, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incised in the metal. Where Ice was a true two-handed greatsword, this was a hand-and-a-halfer, sometimes named a bastard sword. Yet the wolf sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wielded before. When Jon turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal had been folded back on itself again and again. "This is Valyrian steel, my lord," he said wonderingly. His father had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel.
"It is," the Old Bear told him. "It was my father's sword and his father's before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black."
He is giving me his son's sword. Jon could scarcely believe it. The blade was exquisitely balanced. The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. "Your son––"
"My son brought dishonor to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah's shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber. The original pommel was a bear's head, silver, yet so worn its features were all but indistinguishable. For you, I though a white wolf more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver."
When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard Stark would declare that Jon had proven himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. (...) He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin.
(a game of thrones, 654-656)
jon snow westoros' most popular adoptable son!!!!!!!!! jeor taking jon under his wing at the nights watch is one of my favorite parts of jon's character arc TTTT meu bebe
