Doubtless they thought his brother's war was none of his concern. It troubled him more than he could say. Robb was marching and he was not. No matter how often Jon told himself that his place was here now, with his new brothers on the Wall, he still felt craven.
Corn, the raven was crying. "Corn, corn."
Oh, be quiet, the Old Bear told it. "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 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 the 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."