Calvin's stubborn insistence on dueling Jon Snow placed the duke's bastard son in an undeniably awkward position. The crowd around them felt the tension; the moment Jon hesitantly accepted the real longsword Calvin tossed at his feet, the boy froze, unsure of whether he should lift it, refuse it, or simply run.
Before Jon could make sense of the weight of cold steel in his hands, a deep, displeased voice tore through the murmuring crowd.
"Ser knight," the voice growled, thick with irritation, "I taught Jon Snow how to wield a sword. If you wish to test the boy's skill, perhaps you should test mine instead!"
Karl lifted his head at the interruption, slightly raising an eyebrow. The sea of onlookers parted as a short but broad-shouldered, barrel-chested middle-aged man pushed his way forward. His thick white beard and grand, well-kept mustache gave him the air of an old lion who had never once surrendered his pride.
A dark woolen cloak hung from his shoulders, brushing against the ground as he stepped directly in front of Jon. With a practiced hand, he swept aside the cloak, revealing a longsword secured at his waist. His eyes—sharp, steady, veteran's eyes—locked onto Karl.
"Since you question the boy's swordsmanship," Ser Rodrik Cassel said icily, "you are clearly questioning whether I have taught him properly. So come—test my blade if you dare."
Karl couldn't help the amused curl of his lips. Winterfell's people were treating Jon Snow as though he were some precious heir wrapped in layers of protection. He glanced at the old knight shielding Jon with the ferocity of a mother bear.
But he merely shook his head at the challenge.
Instead, Karl held up the wooden training sword—the same one Jon Snow had been using moments earlier.
"He said he's fourteen, Ser," Karl replied mildly.
Then his voice hardened just a touch.
"Do you expect to stand in front of him every day for the rest of your life? Do you plan to keep him clinging to a wooden toy forever, swinging it at straw men that don't fight back?"
The remark struck home. Ser Rodrik's expression tightened.
"What becomes of him is none of your concern, Ser knight," Rodrik snapped. He was trying to remain composed, but Karl's words dug under his skin.
The air around them thickened. People gathered closer, sensing that something was about to erupt. The mood was on the verge of snapping when someone unexpectedly squeezed into the circle from behind Karl.
A blond dwarf, face smudged with travel dust, slipped through the mass of bodies like a fox diving into a henhouse. Tyrion Lannister looked up at his taller companion and sighed theatrically.
He glanced at Jon Snow—whose expression was a blend of confusion, anxiety, and frustration—and his eyes widened, as though everything had just clicked into place.
Then Tyrion laughed. Twice. Loud enough for the entire gathering to turn their heads.
Raising both hands, he addressed Ser Rodrik with an exaggerated formality.
"I must agree with him, Ser Whitebeard."
A collective gasp rolled through the onlookers.
Tyrion went on, voice playful but words cutting.
"You will be buried one day, and so will I. Such is life. But I strongly advise that you do not keep this boy sheltered like a chick under your wing. When you're gone—who will protect him?"
"I don't cry!" Jon blurted out before he could stop himself. His face flushed red immediately afterward.
Tyrion didn't even glance at him. Instead, he leaned casually against a wooden fence beam, twirling one of the gold rings on his finger.
"Are you certain," Tyrion continued smoothly, "that you can make decisions for him for the rest of his life?"
His eyes slid away from the knight and fixed meaningfully on Jon Snow. The young bastard stood stiff as a board, still holding the borrowed sword, still unsure whether this confrontation was meant to humiliate him or liberate him.
"And what then?" Tyrion added with a smirk that was both mocking and sympathetic. "Will he remain a resentful bastard forever, squatting in this frozen corner of the world? A place so cold a man thinks twice before lowering his breeches?"
Some people choked on their breath. Others avoided laughing only out of respect for Ser Rodrik.
"Perhaps," Tyrion pressed on, "you could consider granting the boy a few more possibilities. Let him choose his own future."
Ser Rodrik's brows knitted together. He opened his mouth—clearly to argue—yet hesitated. Tyrion's smile wasn't mocking anymore. It had shifted into something subtle and knowing, a smile that carried a hidden truth.
The hesitation lasted only seconds, but to the crowd, it felt like a silent battle of wills.
Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his beard, searching Tyrion's face with a scrutiny honed from decades as a teacher of young warriors.
Then he looked at Karl, who was casually leaning on Jon's wooden sword as if it were a traveling staff rather than a weapon. Karl's expression was relaxed—too relaxed. A man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Something clicked in Rodrik's mind.
He straightened. He let the cloak fall back over his sword. He stepped aside.
Then his voice boomed, firm and resolute:
"Jon. Draw your sword."
The words hit Winterfell like a shockwave.
For an instant, Jon stared blankly at his instructor—as if he had misheard.
Rodrik did not repeat himself. He simply fixed Jon with a look that said he expected obedience, not hesitation.
"Since Ser Karl Stone is so eager," Rodrik continued, "show him what you've learned. Show him your swordsmanship."
A hush fell over the crowd. The same people who'd been confident moments ago that the old knight would stop the duel now stared at him, speechless.
Was this betrayal?
Or something else?
No one dared ask. No one dared interrupt.
Rodrik Cassel was the master-at-arms of Winterfell. His word carried weight, his decisions were final.
Karl's grin brightened, almost blindingly cheerful. He glanced down at Tyrion, who responded with a tiny shrug and a mischievous gleam. Between them, no words were necessary.
Karl turned to Jon.
"You heard him, kid. Your instructor told you to draw your sword."
Respect for Ser Rodrik forced the crowd into silence. Whatever they thought, whatever fears or anger stirred in their chests, they swallowed it. If Rodrik had made up his mind—none of them could undo it.
Jon swallowed hard, nerves fluttering beneath his ribs. His hand tightened around the hilt of the longsword Calvin had thrown at him. The steel reflected Winterfell's pale light, the blade gleaming as if hungry for battle.
It was his first time holding a real weapon—an actual killing tool. He could feel the difference instantly, the weight, the danger, the promise.
His palms were sweating.
After a long moment of steadying his breathing, he turned to his instructor and said with genuine earnestness:
"Ser Rodrik… I think I should switch to a wooden sword."
But before Rodrik could respond—
A shadow moved.
A presence loomed.
Karl had appeared in front of Jon without Jon even noticing the moment he moved. The young knight raised the wooden sword—not lazily now, but with a precision that screamed of real danger.
He looked down at Jon with a smile that was no longer friendly.
"Are you looking down on me?"
Jon froze.
Karl's voice rang across the courtyard, sharp as winter wind:
"Little brat, the one standing in front of you is Karl the Swift Sword!"
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