He gave the big black wolf an angry glance out of the corner of his eye. "Take a lesson, Bran. The man who trusts in spells is dueling with a glass sword. As the children did. Here, let me show you something." He stood abruptly, crossed the room, and returned with a green jar in his good hand. "Have a look at these," he said as he pulled the stopper and shook out a handful of shiny black arrowheads.
Bran picked one up. "It's made of glass." Curious, Rickon drifted closer to peer over the table.
Dragonglass, Osha named it as she sat down beside Luwin, bandagings in hand.
Obsidian, Maester Luwin insisted, holding out his wounded arm. "Forged in the fires of the gods, far below the earth. The children of the forest hunted with that, thousands of years ago. The children worked no metal. In place of mail, they wore long shirts of woven leaves and bound their legs in bark, so they seemed to melt into the wood. In place of swords, they carried blades of obsidian."
And still do. Osha placed soft pads over the bites on the maester's forearm and bound them tight with long strips of linen.
Bran held the arrowhead up close. The black glass was slick and shiny. He thought it beautiful. "Can I keep one?"
As you wish, the maester said.
I want one too, Rickon said. "I want four. I'm four."