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”Do you think Ned Stark's bastard bleeds like the rest of us?”
Oh, Jon bleeds. He can bleed, and he has, many times. He knows that the weight of a wound is not of the weapon, but of the skill, no matter what people might say about it.
He knows, because in his childhood recently ended, he always bore a sword, clutched it in both of his hands. Relied on it. Never did it stop his brother from poking the cries out of him and then, later, the red.
There's something much more alive, Jon thinks, about a man when he bleeds. During his first training matches at the Wall, he cannot help but lack pity on those he knocks down. He thinks them not more unskilled, perhaps, but simply-- men.
Jon doesn't feel like a man when he gets one Watcher after another to fall flat on their faces in front of him. He hasn't fought these for long, doesn't need skill, really. Just his sword, just the things he knows, and to Robb, his knowledge was not always enough. The fact that here, with these untrained young men, it seems to be enough, makes Jon's insides twist.
He's brave, all right, the Stark bastard. But to think that he would only be so brave as he could when he fought what he knew. And that's not brave, is it? That's just play, a battle that ends when supper is ready, and then he would laugh with his “enemy”, and Robb would pat him on the back. Never for pity, not even whenever Jon lost. Only because... Now they knew each other completely again. Now, the battle was over. Now they felt each other as brothers again.
All this manages to race through his head during the training hours, and he thinks his blade slips for a moment just then. But so, nobody noticed, nobody saw, because a couple seconds later, the next Watcher's down, and Jon breathes heavily but not as heavy as he has.
The battle is over, but he doesn't bleed, and he doesn't feel like a man, because he doesn't feel alive.