Yet in his nightmare he faced it again... and this time the burning corpse wore Lord Eddard's features. It was his father's skin that burst and blackened, his father's eyes that ran liquid down his cheeks like jellied tears. Jon did not understand why that should be or what it might mean, but it frightened him more than he could say.
A sword's small payment for a life, Mormont concluded. "Take it, I'll hear no more of it, is that understood?"
Yes, my lord. The soft leather gave beneath Jon's fingers, as if the sword were molding itself to his grip already. He knew he should be honored, and he was, and yet...
He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon's mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. I will not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. Yet he could scarcely tell Lord Mormont that it was another man's sword he dreamt of...
I want no courtesies either, Mormont said, "so thank me no thanks. Honor the steel with deeds, not words."
Jon nodded. "Does it have a name, my lord?"
It did, once. Longclaw, it was called.
Claw, the raven cried. "Claw."
Longclaw is an apt name. Jon tried a practice cut.