"All hells, boy that's not how you hold a hammer."
Dracule Mihawk lowered the hammer, his arms trembling from the weight after hours of helping out. The forge's heat prickled against his skin as his father's calloused hands adjusted his grip. "Thumb here, fingers tight like you're wringing out a wet rag," the blacksmith grunted. "Else you'll crack your own skull open." The boy frowned but didn't argue. He knew better.
Wintertown's forge was cramped, the air thick with the scent of coal and molten metal. Outside, snow muffled the sounds of haggling merchants and barking dogs. At nine, Mihawk was already taller than most boys his age, his frame lean but corded with the beginnings of muscle from helping his father in the forge. He preferred the quiet rhythm of the forge to the chaos of the town square, though he'd never admit it to the old ass.
A commotion outside shattered the forge's rhythm shouts, the clatter of hooves on frozen earth. Mihawk's father didn't even glance up from the horseshoe he was shaping. "Go see what the fools are yelling about," he muttered.
Mihawk set the hammer down with deliberate care his father's temper flared faster than the forge and ducked through the low doorway into the biting wind. The commotion came from near the butcher's stall, where a cluster of townsfolk had gathered, their breath clouding in the cold. A woman's voice, sharp with panic, cut through the murmurs: "She was just here, seven years old, how does a child vanish like smoke?"
Then he saw him, Ser Jory Cassel, his Stark-grey cloak dusted with snow, talking to a local vendor to get information. The captain's face was tight. "They say they saw a girl head toward the forest," he muttered to a guardsman. Mihawk didn't think he was already moving, weaving past the crowd toward the tree line. He knew those woods better than any guardsman. Wintertown boys learned early where the ice was thin over creeks.
Mihawk's boots crunched through the frosty underbrush, his breath coming in steady plumes of white. The trees swallowed sound even the distant shouts from Wintertown faded into nothing. He paused, crouching to examine the snow. Small footprints, erratic, veering off the game trail. A child's. Fresh.
He followed them deeper, where the pine branches sagged under their weight of snow. The cold bit at his ears, but he ignored it, focusing on the tracks. Then, a sound not a sob, but the choked hiccup of someone trying very hard not to cry.
The hiccup came again muffled, but unmistakable. He pushed through a tangle of frost-laden brambles, the thorns snagging at his sleeves. Beneath the skeletal branches of an ancient oak, a small figure hunched in the snow. Arya Stark, her dark hair matted with twigs, hugged her knees to her chest. Her grey eyes widened when she saw him,
"You lost?" Mihawk asked, squatting to her level. He kept his voice flat, like he was asking about the weather. Arya's chin jutted out, but her lower lip trembled.
"I wasn't lost," Arya lied, her voice cracking on the last word. She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand, smearing dirt across her cheek, then tilted her nose up. "I was following a direwolf. A real one."
Mihawk exhaled through his nose, fog curling in the air between them. "Direwolves don't come this far unless their sewn onto banners," he said, but held out his hand anyway. Arya hesitated, then grabbed it with icy fingers, letting him haul her to her feet. Her palms were scraped raw, her woolen dress damp from the snow.
Ser Jory Cassel's sword was halfway out of its scabbard when Mihawk emerged from the treeline with Arya clinging to his side. The captain's grip slackened as his eyes landed on the disheveled Stark girl. "Gods be good," he breathed, before his expression hardened into something unreadable. He strode forward, snow crunching under his boots, and crouched before Arya. "You gave your mother a fright, little wolf," he said, voice low. Arya ducked her head, but Mihawk saw the way her fingers tightened around his sleeve.
Wintertown's murmurs swelled as they returned whispers of "blacksmith's boy" and "Stark girl" threading through the crowd like smoke. Mihawk kept his gaze fixed ahead, ignoring the stares prickling his neck. Arya, though, straightened beside him, her earlier fear replaced by something. Defiance, maybe. Or pride.
Ser Jory's hand came down heavy on Mihawk's shoulder, the weight of it warmer than the forge's embers. "You've got eyes like a hawk, boy," the captain muttered, loud enough for the gathered townsfolk to hear. Arya sniffled beside him but didn't pull away when Jory scooped her up onto his hip with a grunt. The captain's gaze lingered on Mihawk assessing, unreadable. "Come to the training yard tomorrow at dawn. Bring your father."
Mihawk's stomach lurched. Training yard meant steel, not hammers. It meant Stark men, not Wintertown blacksmiths. His father's calloused fingers dug into his shoulder that evening as they walked home, the man's silence louder than any lecture.
The forge fire was banked low when they arrived, the tools hung neatly in their places. His father said nothing until the door thudded shut behind them. Then, with a roughness that hid something else entirely "Don't shame me."
The dawn air bit sharper when Mihawk stood outside Winterfell's training yard, his breath misting. His father had left him at the gates with only a grunt and a shove between his shoulder blades no advice, no warnings.
Ser Jory Cassel's voice cut through the yard's murmur before Mihawk could second-guess his footing. "Blacksmith's boy. You're late." The captain stood with his arms crossed, shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. Behind him, two boys near Mihawk's age traded wooden swords with the clumsy enthusiasm of pups. Robb Stark's auburn hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, while Jon Snow's dark curls bounced with each parry. Both paused mid-swing to stare.
Ser Jorry handed him a practice sword, it felt like a dead branch in Mihawk's hands, wrong balance, wrong weight. Ser Jory tossed him a wooden shield without comment, the thud of it hitting the dirt louder than it had any right to be. "First lesson," the captain said, kicking the shield toward him. "You don't block with your face." Robb snorted. Jon cracked a smirk.
Mihawk crouched to retrieve the shield, the leather straps were stiff with age, the iron boss rusted at the edges. He slipped his forearm through without fumbling, small victories he supposed. When he straightened, Ser Jory was already advancing, his own practice blade resting casually against his shoulder.
The first strike came faster than Mihawk could blink. Wood cracked against wood as Ser Jory's practice sword smashed into his raised shield, the impact shuddering up his arm like a lightning bolt. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall yet. Behind him, Robb Stark whooped while Jon Snow watched silently.
"Eyes open, boy," Ser Jory growled, circling him like a wolf sizing up prey. Mihawk tightened his grip on the sword, his palms already slick with sweat despite the morning chill. The captain feinted left, Mihawk flinched then struck right. This time, the blade slipped past his guard, smacking his ribs with a dull thud. Pain bloomed hot under his skin, but he bit back a grunt.
The sting of Ser Jory's blow still burned when Mihawk caught movement from the corner of his eye Lord Eddard Stark stepping into the yard, his expression unreadable beneath the morning shadows. The training yard fell silent, even Robb freezing mid-swing. Jon Snow's grip on his practice sword tightened.
"Again," Ser Jory muttered, ignoring the sudden stillness. His blade came crashing down before Mihawk could brace properly. Wood clacked against wood as Mihawk barely parried, the force driving him back a step. His arms trembled, but he kept his shield raised, his stance wide.
The world narrowed to the rasp of Mihawk's own breath and the dull ache spreading through his ribs. Ser Jory's blade was a blur to him, each strike landing with precision. Mihawk's shield arm throbbed, the leather straps biting into his flesh. He tasted copper where his teeth had cut into his cheek.
Then, a shift subtle as a change in the wind. The captain's next swing came slower, telegraphing its arc. Mihawk saw the opening a gap in the man's guard wide enough to drive a wagon through. He hesitated. Traps tasted like honey in stories, but Ser Jory wasn't a man for tricks.
Mihawk lunged. His wooden sword whistled through the air, aiming for the gap only for Ser Jory to twist like a river eel, the blade grazing his side harmlessly. The captain's counterstrike slammed into Mihawk's ribs with a crack that echoed off Winterfell's stone walls. He hit the frozen dirt hard, his breath punched out in a white plume.
"Dead," Ser Jory said, not unkindly. He nudged Mihawk's fallen sword with his boot. "But you saw the opening. That's something."
The taste of dirt and iron lingered on Mihawk's tongue as he pushed himself up from the frozen ground. His ribs throbbed where Ser Jory's practice sword had landed, but he kept his face as still as the statues in Winterfell's crypts. Behind him, Robb Stark muffled a laugh into his sleeve, while Jon Snow tried not to join him.
Lord Eddard Stark stepped forward, his boots crunching over the frost. "You've a sharp eye, boy," he said, voice quieter than the wind through the godswood. Mihawk stiffened, unsure if he was meant to respond. The Lord of Winterfell studied him for a heartbeat longer, then turned to Ser Jory. "See that he trains with Robb and Jon. The boy found my daughter. He's earned steel."
The mornings after that first sparring session blurred together, dawns spent with his hands wrapped around a sword hilt instead of a hammer. Ser Jory drilled him mercilessly alongside Robb and Jon, their sessions stretching from sunrise until their arms shook too much to lift their blades. Mihawk's palms blistered, then calloused over. His ribs ached from Ser Jory's relentless strikes, but he never complained. Not once.
The first time Mihawk bested Robb Stark in the yard, the sound of his wooden sword cracking against his ribs echoed louder than any forge hammer ever had. Robb staggered back, face twisted between shock and indignation, before his boot caught on a loose stone and sent him sprawling into the mud. The yard fell silent even Ser Jory paused mid-stride, his brow furrowed. Jon guffawed.
Mihawk didn't gloat. He lowered his sword and offered Robb a hand up, fingers streaked with dirt from the morning's drills. Robb stared at his outstretched palm for a heartbeat before grabbing it with a rueful grin, his grip slick with sweat. "Lucky strike," the Stark heir muttered.
The next morning, Mihawk arrived at the training yard before even the stableboys had stirred. Frost clung to the practice dummies like silver lace, crunching underfoot as he paced the perimeter, tracing the patterns Ser Jory had drilled into him footwork first, always footwork. He didn't hear Jon Snow approach until the bastard's shadow fell across his path.
Jon's practice sword was already drawn, its blunt tip resting against the packed earth. "You move like a blacksmith," he said, voice low enough that the words wouldn't carry beyond them. "All shoulders, no finesse." There was no mockery in it just observation, sharp as a gutting knife.
Mihawk flexed his fingers around his own sword's grip. Jon circled him, boots whispering over frost. "Show me."
Jon Snow's first strike came like winter, sudden and brutal. Mihawk barely got his shield up in time, the impact rattling his teeth. Jon didn't pause, didn't gloat; he flowed into the next attack, his wooden blade flicking low to test Mihawk's stance. A feint. Mihawk caught it halfway, twisting his wrist to redirect the force just as Ser Jory had drilled into him but Jon was already pivoting, his boot hooking behind Mihawk's ankle. The frozen dirt met Mihawk's back with a thud that knocked the wind from his lungs.
"Dead," Jon said, flat as a whetstone. He didn't offer a hand up.
Mihawk spat dirt and rose without complaint, the ache in his spine a dull echo of Jon's victory. Snow's eyes grey as the Stark banners flapping above the yard remained unreadable. The bastard didn't smirk, didn't taunt. He simply reset his stance, blade angled low. Mihawk mirrored him, adjusting his grip. Blacksmith's hands, yes, but they'd learned the weight of steel faster than most.
The second bout lasted longer. Mihawk let Jon dictate the rhythm at first, studying the way he shifted his weight before striking left foot forward, right shoulder dipping. A tell. When Jon lunged again, Mihawk pivoted on his heel, letting the bastard's momentum carry him past. His counterstrike grazed Jon's ribs, drawing a grunt. A hit. Not clean, but undeniable.
The crack of wooden swords echoed sharper than anvils in Winterfell's training yard as Jon Snow whipped around, his dark curls clinging to his forehead with sweat. Mihawk didn't let him recover; he pressed forward, shield raised, driving Jon back toward the weapon racks.
The sharp crack of splintering wood echoed across the yard as Mihawk's sword shattered against Jon's shield. Both boys staggered back, chests heaving, their breaths misting in the frigid dawn air. Jon's lip was split, a thin trail of blood smeared across his chin, while Mihawk's left forearm throbbed where Jon's last strike had slipped past his guard. Neither yielded.
Ser Jory's voice cut through the tension like a blade through parchment. "Enough." The captain stepped between them, his shadow stretching long across the trampled dirt. "You'll break every practice sword in Winterfell at this rate." His gaze flicked to Mihawk's bruised knuckles, then Jon's split lip. "Or each other."
Jon Snow wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, his grey eyes never leaving Mihawk's. There was no anger in that stare, maybe curiosity.
Then Robb Stark barreled between them, his auburn hair wild from the morning's exertions. "Seven hells, you two fight like wildlings," he laughed, clapping Mihawk on the shoulder hard enough to make his bruises protest. Jon said nothing, only retrieved his fallen shield with a jerk of his wrist. Ser Jory sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like a man who'd just realized he'd adopted a particularly feral dog.
The first time Mihawk saw Arya Stark again after retrieving her, she was lurking behind the training yard's wooden posts like a scrawny shadow. Her grey eyes sharp as Valyrian steel tracked every swing of his practice sword with unsettling focus. When Ser Jory dismissed them for the midday meal, he found her standing where he'd left his waterskin, her small hands clutching something wrapped in oiled cloth.
"You fight like a bull," Arya announced, thrusting the bundle at him. Inside lay a whetstone, its surface worn smooth from years of use. "My brother says you're supposed to keep your sword sharp.
Mihawk turned the whetstone over in his palms, the weight of it unfamiliar yet solid. Arya hovered nearby, shifting from foot to foot like a sparrow ready to take flight. "Thank you mi'lady", "I'm not a lady" she said but Arya's grin flashed, quick and bright, before she vanished into the yard's shadows, her footsteps silent.
Timeskip 5 years later. Mc is 14 now
He'd taken to arriving at the yard even earlier this last year, practicing his grips until his fingers locked around the hilt like roots. This morning Robb Stark stumbled upon him mid-drill, Mihawk didn't pause his footwork a circling dance around a practice dummy whose straw guts spilled from a gash in its side.
"You're going to wear a trench into the damn yard," Robb observed, leaning against a wooden post with arms crossed. His breath fogged in the predawn chill.
Robb's shadow stretched long across the trampled earth as Mihawk finished his sequence a downward slash, a pivot, a reverse cut that would have disemboweled a man. The sword's tip quivered in the stillness before Mihawk lowered it, his breath coming in controlled bursts despite the cold gnawing at his lungs.
"Father says you've got the makings of a knight," Robb said, kicking a loose pebble with his boot. The words hung between them, weightier than any blade. Mihawk wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. Knights were southern vanity, Northern men said but Robb's tone held no mockery, only the quiet certainty of a boy raised to rule.
Robb's words settled like anvils in the silence. Mihawk rolled his shoulders, the morning chill biting through his sweat-damp shirt. "Your father's generous," he said at last, sheathing his sword with a practiced flick of his wrist.
A shout shattered the quiet. Jon Snow stood at the yard's edge, his dark curls wild from sleep, two practice swords balanced across his shoulders. "You're late," he called, tossing one toward Robb. The wooden blade spun end over end before the Stark heir caught it with a grunt.
Ser Jory arrived with the sun cresting Winterfell's walls, his boots kicking up frost as he crossed the yard. "Ser Jorry's looking grim," Robb muttered, nudging Mihawk with an elbow. "Must've drawn the short straw for babysitting duty again." But the jest died on his lips as the captain stopped before them, his expression unreadable beneath his beard.
"Change of plans," Ser Jory said, tossing a bundle at Mihawk's feet. The cloth unfolded to reveal a padded gambeson, its leather worn but serviceable. "Lord Stark wants you suited up. We're riding out."
Mihawk's fingers traced the gambeson's stitches black thread on dark leather, nearly invisible. Riding out meant more than bandit patrols or wolf hunts; Winterfell's guards didn't don steel for petty skirmishes. Jon Snow's jaw tightened, his grip whitening on his practice sword. Robb exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Where?" The word slipped out before Mihawk could bite it back.
Ser Jory's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Wolfswood. Raiders hit a crofter's village near Last Hearth's borders. Left the women and children, took the men." His gaze flicked to Jon, then Robb. "Your lord father's orders: you two stay. Mihawk comes."
The silence that followed was colder than the dawn. Jon's practice sword hit the dirt with a thud. Robb's face darkened Stark temper flashing hot beneath the ice. "That's—"
"His decision," Ser Jory cut in, voice like iron. "Not yours to question." The captain turned on his heel, leaving the gambeson at Mihawk's feet like a challenge. "Be at the stables by midday. And bring your own damn sword."
Jon Snow was gone before Mihawk could straighten, his footsteps crunching over frost toward the keep. Robb lingered, his auburn hair catching the weak sunlight as he scowled at the discarded gambeson. "Father never takes green boys on raids," he muttered.
Mihawk shrugged into the gambeson, the leather stiff against his shoulders. "I'm not a Stark."
Robb's laugh was bitter. "No. You're the one who brought Arya home." He kicked at the dirt, sending a pebble skittering toward the weapon racks. "Just don't get yourself killed, hawk-eyes."
The path to Wintertown's forge felt longer than usual. Mihawk's father stood over the anvil, hammer ringing against red-hot steel, his back turned. The sword hung where it always did—above the hearth, wrapped in oilcloth. Mihawk didn't ask. He reached for it.
The cloth fell away with a whisper, revealing steel darker than any Northern forge should produce a blade too long for a boy of fourteen, its edge catching the firelight like a slit throat. His father's hammer stilled. "That's no practice sword," the blacksmith said, not turning.
Mihawk tested the weight. Perfect balance. "I'm not going to practice."
His father's shoulders stiffened. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the forge's crackle. Then, gruff as a bear's growl: "Don't shame me."
The sword's hilt fit his palm like it was forged there. Mihawk left without another word, the blade's shadow stretching long behind him as he walked toward the stables toward whatever waited in the Wolfswood.