Chapter 153: One of the Thirty
The first light of dawn had barely touched Winterfell when Jon entered the training yard.
The castle remained mostly quiet.
Servants had begun lighting fires inside the Great Keep. Stable hands moved between the horses, while guards completing the final watch of the night exchanged positions with the men assigned to the morning shift.
Jon wore no armour.
A simple black tunic covered his upper body, fitted closely enough that it would not obstruct his movements. Dark trousers and light boots completed the clothing.
Two blunted swords rested in his hands.
He had not summoned Alex.
He had not called his soldiers.
He had told no one that he intended to train.
For the past several days, Jon had spent most of his time answering questions, speaking with northern lords, controlling what the southern court learned about Winter's Heaven, and preventing Robert from turning every meal into an interrogation.
His body required little traditional exercise.
The Hashirama body, breathing techniques, chakra reinforcement, and years inside the God Training Dimension had carried him far beyond normal human limitations.
But Jon had never allowed strength to replace discipline.
A body left unused became careless.
A swordsman who believed he no longer needed to practise had already begun declining.
Jon moved toward the centre of the yard.
Snow covered part of the hard ground. Training posts stood around him, scarred by years of Stark children, guards, and soldiers striking them with wooden weapons.
Jon closed his eyes.
Then he inhaled.
He did not activate chakra.
He performed no jutsu.
The breath merely entered his lungs, travelled through his body, and settled into a familiar rhythm.
His swords rose.
The first movement was slow.
His right sword descended in a simple diagonal cut. The left followed a heartbeat later, protecting the opening created by the first attack.
Jon turned.
One blade defended.
The other killed.
He stepped forward, shifted his weight, and changed direction.
The movements appeared simple enough that an inexperienced observer might have mistaken them for ordinary exercises.
But every position was exact.
His feet never crossed unnecessarily.
His shoulders remained relaxed.
His swords stopped precisely where an enemy's throat, wrist, knee, or heart would have been.
Jon repeated the sequence.
Then he increased his speed.
The separate movements began flowing together.
Arthur Dayne had fought with Dawn, but the template had given Jon more than the legendary knight's memories. It had given him the instincts, footwork, timing, awareness, and swordsmanship of a man remembered as the greatest knight of his generation.
Jon had taken that foundation and spent years improving it.
He had adapted the style for twin swords.
He had mixed it with breathing techniques, knowledge from another world, combat experience against monsters, and battles fought beyond the Wall.
The result no longer belonged to Arthur Dayne.
It belonged entirely to Jon.
His right sword moved.
Then his left.
Steel cut through the cold air.
Jon spun between two invisible enemies, ducked beneath an imaginary blade, and struck behind himself without looking.
His speed increased again.
The sound of moving steel began spreading through the quiet yard.
A guard upon the wall glanced downward.
Jon changed direction.
The snow beneath his feet scattered.
His swords became silver streaks.
He attacked high, low, left, right, and behind himself with such precision that it appeared as though several swordsmen occupied the yard instead of one.
The air whistled around the blunted blades.
One sword stopped a finger's width from a training post.
The other struck it lightly.
A thin line appeared across the wood.
Jon moved past it.
The upper portion of the post slowly slid sideways before falling into the snow.
The weapon was blunted.
Jon had not used chakra.
He had simply struck with perfect speed, angle, and force.
Jon did not pause.
His practice continued.
Jaime Lannister had not slept particularly well.
Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered two blunted swords resting against his throat and chest.
He remembered lying upon the frozen ground while two ordinary soldiers of Winter's Heaven stood over him without breathing heavily.
Ordinary soldiers.
The phrase had become increasingly irritating.
Jaime had spent most of his life knowing precisely where he stood among the swordsmen of Westeros.
There were men stronger than him.
There were men with greater battlefield experience.
But very few could match him with a sword.
He had trained since childhood. He had fought the Kingswood Brotherhood, crossed blades with the Smiling Knight, and learned from the greatest warriors of the Kingsguard.
Yesterday, two nameless soldiers had defeated him.
Jaime entered the training yard carrying a blunted sword, intending to exercise before the royal court awakened.
Then he heard the steel.
He stopped beneath the stone archway.
Jon moved across the yard alone.
At first, Jaime attempted to follow both swords.
He failed.
His eyes moved toward the right-hand blade because it appeared to begin the attack.
The left blade completed it.
Jon changed direction so quickly that Jaime briefly believed he had slipped upon the snow.
Then he realised the movement had been deliberate.
One sword defended an attack which did not exist.
The second pierced the opening that defence would have created.
Jaime remained beneath the archway.
He forgot why he had come.
Jon's swords accelerated.
Silver lines surrounded him.
Jaime narrowed his eyes, attempting to identify the style.
He recognised fragments.
A high guard associated with the Reach.
A low thrust favoured by Braavosi water dancers.
A defensive transition Jaime had seen Barristan use.
A turning strike that reminded him of Arthur Dayne.
But none lasted long enough to become predictable.
Jon passed from one style into another without interrupting his rhythm.
Sometimes he fought like a knight.
Sometimes like a duellist.
Sometimes like a soldier surrounded upon a battlefield.
Then all familiar patterns disappeared, replaced by movements Jaime had never encountered.
Jon became faster.
Jaime could no longer see both swords.
He could only hear them.
"Gods."
The quiet word came from beside him.
Jaime turned.
Barristan Selmy stood beneath the archway.
The old knight's attention remained upon Jon.
"How long have you been standing there?" Jaime asked.
"Long enough."
"Do you recognise the style?"
"Several of them."
"Several?"
Barristan watched Jon rotate between three imaginary opponents.
"He changes his centre of balance according to the enemy he imagines before him. Each adjustment belongs to a different method of fighting."
Jaime looked toward Jon again.
"He changes styles without changing his rhythm."
"Yes."
"Can you follow both swords?"
"Not anymore."
That answer made Jaime glance at him.
Barristan Selmy rarely admitted limitation.
Jon moved again.
For a brief moment, his right side appeared completely open.
Jaime's instincts immediately identified the opportunity.
Then Jon's left sword passed through the space an attacker would have entered.
Jaime's expression changed.
"He creates openings deliberately."
"He does."
"Every one?"
"Every one I have observed."
Jaime tightened his grip upon his training sword.
He imagined stepping into the yard.
He imagined Jon turning toward him.
He imagined attempting to pass through those two moving blades.
For the first time since hearing the stories about Jon, Jaime did not feel excitement at the possibility.
Only caution.
Barristan continued watching.
"Ser Arthur used to practise alone at sunrise."
Jaime looked toward him.
"You trained with him."
"Occasionally."
"Was he this good?"
Barristan remained silent for several seconds.
"No."
Jaime expected the answer.
Hearing it still affected him.
More footsteps approached from behind them.
Robert entered the yard beneath a heavy fur cloak. A servant followed with a cup of heated wine.
"What in seven hells is making that noise?"
Jaime stepped aside.
Robert looked into the yard.
His complaint disappeared.
Jon's swords had accelerated until his arms became difficult to see. Snow rose around his feet as he crossed the yard, yet not one step broke his balance.
Robert took the wine from the servant without looking.
"Gods."
"That appears to be everyone's first response," Jaime said.
Robert ignored him.
"Has he been doing this long?"
"Several minutes," Barristan answered.
"And that is practice?"
"Yes."
Robert took a drink.
More people began arriving.
The guards upon the walls had noticed Jon first. Servants then carried the story into the castle. Within minutes, the sound of twin swords drew an increasingly large audience.
Ned arrived with Robb.
Catelyn followed with Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Arya pushed past everyone until Robb caught her shoulder and prevented her from entering the yard.
Tyrion appeared wrapped in enough fur to make him resemble a walking blanket.
Sandor remained near the archway.
Myrcella and Tommen arrived with their guards.
Joffrey followed more slowly, his expression darkening when he discovered the source of everyone's attention.
Cersei came last.
She entered the yard with measured dignity, as though she had not hurried after hearing that Jon was practising alone.
Her green eyes found him immediately.
Jon gave no sign that he had noticed the growing audience.
But Cersei suspected he knew precisely who stood around him.
The previous night returned to her.
His certainty.
His amusement.
His promise that he would prove the story of the thirty elite soldiers.
He had not announced a demonstration.
He had not summoned Robert's court.
Instead, he had entered Winterfell's yard alone and moved with enough speed to attract everyone naturally.
Cersei's eyes narrowed slightly.
Jon was creating the opportunity without allowing anyone to realise it had been planned.
Perhaps even Jaime believed his arrival had been accidental.
Cersei knew better.
Jon's swords changed rhythm.
Every conversation ended.
He entered the final sequence of his exercise.
The first ten movements came so quickly that most spectators saw nothing except silver flashes.
Jon crossed half the yard.
A row of training posts stood before him.
He never touched them directly.
He passed between them, turned, and returned to his original position.
Then he stopped.
Both swords rested at his sides.
His breathing remained slow.
His chest rose and fell evenly.
No sweat marked his forehead.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then thin lines appeared across the training posts.
One after another, pieces of wood fell into the snow.
The yard remained silent.
Robert looked from the destroyed posts to the blunted swords in Jon's hands.
Then he began laughing.
The sound filled the morning air.
"Gods, nephew!"
Jon turned toward him.
Robert descended the short steps into the yard.
"You are strong. If I were twenty years younger, I might have been foolish enough to challenge you!"
Jon looked deliberately at Robert's stomach.
"Only twenty?"
Several people concealed their amusement.
Robert followed his gaze downward.
The king's laughter became even louder.
"Aye! Perhaps thirty."
He slapped his stomach through the heavy cloak.
"But give me the body I possessed at the Trident and my warhammer, and I would at least make you work for the victory."
Jon examined him thoughtfully.
"That would improve your chances."
Robert's grin widened.
"Improve?"
"Not guarantee."
Robert threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"Gods, Ned! Your son possesses even less respect than you did!"
"He respects you," Ned said.
"He has a strange way of demonstrating it."
Jon handed one sword to a nearby guard.
"You said you preferred honesty."
"Aye, and one day honesty will convince me to strike you with something heavy."
"You should begin training for it."
Robert pointed his cup at him.
"I liked you better before you became my nephew."
"No, you did not."
Robert considered the statement.
"No," he admitted. "I did not."
Arya escaped Robb's grip and hurried toward Jon.
"Teach me that."
"No."
"You did not even ask which part."
"All of it is beyond you."
"I can learn."
"You have not mastered one sword."
Arya looked at the weapon remaining in his hand.
"Then teach me one first."
Jon raised an eyebrow.
"That was almost a reasonable request."
"It was completely reasonable."
"Almost."
Bran approached next.
"Could you cut an arrow while it was flying?"
"Yes."
"Three arrows?"
"Yes."
"Ten?"
"Depending upon their direction."
Rickon looked toward the fallen training posts.
"Could you defeat Torghal?"
Jon glanced toward the distant camp where the armoured giants could be seen beyond Winterfell's walls.
"That depends upon what we are allowed to use."
Rickon considered this answer seriously.
Catelyn watched the children surround Jon.
Only moments earlier, he had moved through the yard like a living storm of steel.
Now Arya argued with him, Bran buried him beneath questions, and Rickon attempted to arrange a battle between him and a giant.
Jon answered them with patient amusement.
Catelyn looked toward Robert.
The king watched the same scene.
Pride appeared in Robert's face.
Then his gaze shifted toward Joffrey.
The pride faded.
Joffrey stood beside Sandor with resentment twisting his features. He had not praised Jon's display. He had not asked how such skill was achieved.
He merely hated that everyone else had witnessed it.
Robert looked away from him.
Jaime stepped into the yard.
Jon noticed the blunted sword in his hand.
"You came to practise?"
"I intended to."
"And now?"
Jaime looked toward the fallen posts.
"I find myself reconsidering the wisdom of using this yard while you occupy it."
Robert laughed.
Jon handed his second sword to the guard.
"You wished to ask something."
Jaime's eyebrow rose.
"How did you know?"
"You have been staring at my swords with the expression Tyrion uses when he discovers a locked library."
Tyrion called from beneath his layers of fur.
"I consider that praise."
"No one asked you," Jaime replied.
He returned his attention to Jon.
"Yesterday, your ordinary soldiers defeated us."
"Yes."
Jaime's mouth tightened at the casual answer.
"You take considerable pleasure in saying that."
"No. I simply have no reason to pretend it did not happen."
Robert moved closer.
"What are you asking, Jaime?"
Jaime looked toward Jon's camp outside the walls.
"You told us those ten were ordinary soldiers."
"They were."
"And the thousand men you brought to Winterfell?"
"Elite soldiers."
Jaime remembered the discussion with Barristan after yesterday's defeat.
"If your ordinary soldiers can fight as they did, what separates them from your elites?"
Jon answered without hesitation.
"Training. Experience. Greater mastery of breathing techniques. Specialised combat styles. Coordination under extreme conditions. The quality of enemies they have survived."
Sandor's expression hardened slightly at the word survived.
Jaime looked beyond the walls again.
"I would like to see them."
Cersei became very still.
Her attention moved from Jaime to Jon.
He had done it.
He had created the situation without mentioning their private agreement.
Jaime had asked to see the elites.
Robert would certainly support him.
Nobody would suspect the request had begun with Cersei upon the battlement the previous night.
Jon appeared to consider Jaime's words.
"What would you like to see?"
"The difference."
Robert clapped one heavy hand against Jaime's shoulder.
"Aye! Yesterday, ten ordinary men embarrassed my finest fighters. Let us see what Jon calls elite."
Every eye turned toward Jon.
For the briefest instant, Jon looked at Cersei.
Only she understood the amusement within his grey eyes.
"Very well."
Jon turned toward the archway.
Alex stood there.
Cersei had not noticed him arrive.
Jon raised one hand.
"Bring thirty."
Alex struck his fist against his chest.
"Yes, Your Grace."
He left without another word.
Thirty.
Cersei's pulse quickened.
Exactly thirty.
Jon was truly going to fulfil the challenge.
The thirty soldiers entered Winterfell several minutes later.
Conversation disappeared before they reached the centre of the yard.
They wore identical dark armour.
No bright colours.
No decorations.
No family crests.
Their swords were ordinary castle-forged steel with blunted edges. None carried the publicly revealed Valyrian-steel blades.
Yet their weapons did nothing to lessen their presence.
They marched in three lines of ten.
Every step landed simultaneously.
They stopped before Jon and struck their right fists against their chests.
"Your Grace."
"At ease."
Their formation relaxed.
The pressure did not.
Yesterday's ordinary soldiers had appeared unremarkable until activating Basic Breathing.
These men felt dangerous while standing still.
Some bore scars across their faces.
Others carried marks upon their armour that had been repaired rather than hidden. Their bodies remained perfectly balanced, and their eyes continuously measured the yard without obvious movement.
Jaime walked closer.
One soldier near the centre shifted his attention toward him.
The movement was almost invisible.
Jaime still felt it.
Barristan observed the thirty with a soldier's caution.
"They breathe differently."
Alex stood beside Jon.
"They have mastered maintaining breathing techniques without conscious effort."
"Continuously?" Barristan asked.
"Yes."
Robert looked along the formation.
"These are your best?"
"Among the thousand accompanying His Grace," Alex answered.
Robert's expression changed.
The reminder was important.
These thirty were not necessarily the finest warriors in all of Winter's Heaven.
They were thirty elites selected from Jon's travelling escort.
Jaime moved along the formation.
None appeared nervous.
None looked eager to prove himself against the Kingslayer.
They simply waited.
"What demonstration did you have in mind?" Jon asked.
Jaime stopped.
"Would they spar against one another?"
"They already understand one another's abilities."
"Then perhaps one of them could spar with me."
Cersei looked sharply toward Jaime.
Jon's expression remained calm.
"You fought yesterday."
"Against ordinary soldiers working as a unit."
Jaime pointed toward one of the thirty.
"I want to understand the difference personally."
Jon looked at the selected man.
The soldier appeared to be in his late twenties. A narrow scar crossed his jaw, and another disappeared beneath the collar of his armour.
"Name."
"Corvin, Your Grace."
"Do you accept Ser Jaime's request?"
Corvin struck his fist against his chest.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Barristan stepped forward.
Everyone turned toward him.
"After yesterday's demonstration, allowing Ser Jaime to face an elite soldier alone may tell us very little."
Jaime glanced toward him.
"You wish to join me?"
"I wish to understand what we are witnessing."
Jaime smiled.
"Ser Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister against one soldier."
Robert's excitement returned instantly.
"Now that is a proper demonstration!"
Ned looked toward Jon.
"Is this safe?"
Jon examined Jaime and Barristan.
"For my soldier?"
Robert laughed loudly.
Jaime did not.
Ned's expression hardened.
"I meant for everyone."
Jon looked toward Corvin.
"Do not cause serious injuries."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Jaime stared at him.
Jon had not ordered the soldier to win.
He had not instructed him to fight carefully.
Victory appeared to be assumed.
The only command was to avoid injuring the two greatest swordsmen present.
Jaime moved into the yard.
Barristan joined him.
Servants brought blunted swords and light training shields. Barristan refused the shield. Jaime did the same.
Corvin carried only one blunted sword.
He removed the sheath and handed it to Alex.
Then he entered the centre of the yard.
The remaining twenty-nine elites stepped backward in perfect unison.
A wide circle formed.
Robert, Ned, Catelyn, Cersei, the children, and the gathered nobles moved toward the edges of the yard.
Arya stood beside Robb, her eyes bright with excitement.
Joffrey watched his uncle and Barristan, desperate for them to restore some pride to the royal court.
Corvin faced the two knights.
His sword remained lowered.
Jaime raised his own weapon.
"You appear very calm."
"You have not attacked."
"That will change."
"I know."
Barristan took position slightly behind Jaime and to his left.
The old knight examined Corvin's feet, shoulders, and grip.
Nothing in the soldier's posture offered an obvious weakness.
Alex stepped between them.
"Victory by surrender, disarmament, unconsciousness, or a clean strike upon a fatal point."
Jaime nodded.
Barristan remained focused.
Corvin said nothing.
Alex raised his hand.
The yard became silent.
His hand descended.
"Begin."
Jaime attacked immediately.
He crossed the distance with a speed that surprised many spectators after yesterday's defeat.
His first strike came from the right.
Corvin blocked.
Jaime changed direction before the weapons separated and attacked the soldier's wrist.
Corvin withdrew by half a step.
Barristan moved simultaneously.
His sword entered from Corvin's left, aimed toward the ribs.
Corvin twisted between both weapons.
Steel struck steel.
The soldier retreated.
Jaime pressed forward.
His sword became a blur.
He attacked high, changed low, then turned the movement into a thrust toward Corvin's chest.
The elite soldier deflected each strike.
Barristan did not compete with Jaime.
He supported him.
Whenever Corvin moved away from Jaime's attack, Barristan occupied the escape route. Whenever the soldier attempted to turn, the old knight forced him back toward the younger swordsman.
The two Kingsguard began moving as one.
Robert shouted encouragement.
"There! Press him!"
Jaime's smile returned.
This was different from yesterday.
There were no additional soldiers surrounding him.
No attacks coming from behind.
Only one opponent.
A dangerous opponent, but still one man.
Jaime increased his speed.
Corvin's sword moved continuously, deflecting one attack before meeting another.
Barristan waited.
He watched the soldier's rhythm.
Corvin blocked Jaime from the right.
His shoulder turned.
Barristan attacked the opening.
Corvin barely avoided the strike.
The blunted sword passed close enough to touch the edge of his armour.
Several spectators shouted.
Joffrey smiled for the first time that morning.
"They have him."
Cersei did not answer.
She watched Jon.
He displayed no concern.
Corvin continued retreating beneath their combined attack.
Jaime possessed the aggression.
Barristan possessed the patience.
Together, they demonstrated why their names were known throughout Westeros.
Jaime created opportunities through speed and talent.
Barristan recognised those opportunities and transformed them into genuine threats.
Corvin blocked a downward strike.
Jaime rotated his wrist and attacked from the opposite direction.
The soldier avoided it.
Barristan's sword was already waiting.
Corvin bent backward.
The weapon passed before his face.
Jaime followed immediately.
His sword nearly touched the soldier's shoulder.
Corvin shifted aside at the last possible instant.
Robert struck one fist against his palm.
"Aye!"
Northern and southern knights watched with open admiration.
Whatever had happened yesterday, nobody could deny the skill displayed before them.
Jaime Lannister was brilliant.
Barristan Selmy was magnificent.
Against almost any fighter in Westeros, their combined assault would have ended the contest within moments.
Corvin continued defending.
Robb looked toward Alex.
The commander showed no concern.
"You expected this?" Robb asked.
Alex watched the fight.
"Yes."
"They are forcing him back."
"No."
Robb frowned.
"He has retreated across half the yard."
"He is measuring them."
"Measuring?"
"Their speed. Strength. preferred attacks. Coordination. Recovery time. The movements they select when pressured."
Robb looked toward Corvin.
The soldier avoided another combined attack.
"He is studying them?"
"Yes."
Jon spoke from beside them.
"He wants to understand why Westeros considers them its finest swordsmen."
Robb turned.
"Then he has not begun fighting seriously?"
"No."
Jaime heard none of the conversation.
His attention remained entirely upon Corvin.
The soldier had avoided everything.
But he had not attacked more than twice.
Jaime assumed Barristan's positioning prevented it.
He pressed forward again.
Corvin blocked.
Jaime felt the strength behind the defence but ignored it.
Barristan attacked from the left.
Corvin stepped backward.
Jaime smiled.
"You are not as impressive as yesterday's stories suggested."
Corvin looked directly at him.
Something changed in the soldier's expression.
Not anger.
Completion.
"I have finished evaluating you."
Jaime's smile disappeared.
Corvin inhaled.
The breath entered deeply.
His chest expanded.
The rhythm changed.
Pressure descended upon the yard.
Snow shifted around his boots.
Barristan recognised the transformation first.
"Jaime!"
Corvin vanished.
Jaime raised his sword through instinct alone.
The impact struck before he completed the defence.
Steel exploded against steel.
Pain travelled through Jaime's wrist.
His fingers opened.
The blunted sword spun away.
Corvin appeared before him.
A dark blade stopped against Jaime's throat.
The movement had occurred too quickly for most spectators to follow.
Jaime froze.
Corvin withdrew before Barristan's weapon reached him.
Barristan changed direction instantly.
The old knight attacked once.
Corvin blocked.
Barristan attacked again.
Corvin moved aside.
Unlike Jaime, Barristan did not attempt to match the soldier's speed. He relied upon experience, placing his sword where Corvin would need to move rather than chasing him.
For three exchanges, it worked.
Corvin's first attack was deflected.
His second missed as Barristan turned his body.
His third met the old knight's sword at the correct angle.
Several of Jon's elites looked toward Barristan with faint approval.
Corvin increased his speed.
He appeared upon Barristan's right.
Their swords collided.
Before Barristan could recover, Corvin stood upon his left.
A second impact shook the old knight's arm.
Then came a third.
A fourth.
A fifth.
Barristan's experience allowed him to block attacks his eyes could barely follow.
But his body could not maintain the pace.
Corvin struck from above.
Barristan blocked.
The soldier turned his weapon and struck near the guard.
Barristan's sword left his hand.
It had barely begun falling when Corvin caught it with his left hand.
His own blade stopped against Barristan's chest.
Silence filled the yard.
Corvin stood between the two knights.
Jaime remained disarmed behind him.
Barristan's sword rested in Corvin's left hand.
His own weapon touched the old knight's heart.
The final exchange had lasted only seconds.
Corvin stepped backward.
He lowered both blades and offered Barristan's weapon hilt-first.
"Match concluded."
Barristan accepted the sword.
His breathing was heavier than before.
Corvin's remained controlled.
Jaime retrieved his own weapon from the snow.
He stared at the elite soldier.
"You could have done that from the beginning."
"Yes."
"Then why did you allow the fight to continue?"
Corvin looked between Jaime and Barristan.
"I wished to understand the finest swordsmanship Westeros could offer."
The words contained no mockery.
That made them strike harder.
Barristan studied him.
"And what did you conclude?"
Corvin considered the question seriously.
"Your reputations are deserved."
Jaime's mouth curved slightly.
Then Corvin continued.
"Your skill is exceptional."
His eyes moved between them.
"But your bodies cannot keep pace with that skill."
Jaime's smile disappeared.
Nobody spoke.
One elite soldier had faced Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy simultaneously.
For most of the contest, he had not attempted to defeat them.
He had studied them.
Measured them.
Allowed the two greatest swordsmen in Robert's company to display everything they possessed.
Then, once satisfied, he ended the match in seconds.
Cersei looked beyond Corvin.
Twenty-nine other elite soldiers stood in perfect silence.
Then her eyes moved toward Jon.
He had promised to fight all thirty.
End of Chapter 153
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