"Oh, really?"
Kal didn't sound the least bit convinced.
Then, without warning, he unfastened the belt at his waist and flung the longsword—still sheathed in its leather scabbard—straight at the bastard boy clinging so desperately to his pitiful pride.
As Jon caught the sword, Kal spoke coldly.
"Draw it—and stab me with it."
There was nothing playful about the look on Kal's face.
Even Hall, who had just been watching for fun, froze for a second.
Jon hadn't expected Kal to actually do something like that—and he looked angry.
So when the longsword suddenly came flying his way, Jon instinctively caught it in a panic and looked up in stunned confusion, unsure of what Kal intended.
But this knight—who, like Jon, bore the surname only given to bastards—Kal Stone, after issuing the challenge, took a few steps back while gripping his wooden practice sword.
His stance made it clear: he was dead serious.
Hall blinked in surprise, glancing at Jon, then back at his commander.
Then, as if realizing something, his eyes lit up, and his expression twisted with gleeful mischief.
"Woo-hoo!" Hall let out a strange whoop. "Showtime!"
The atmosphere on their side of the courtyard had clearly shifted—and Hall's outburst drew the attention of nearby onlookers, who turned their heads and began to notice what was going on.
People from Winterfell, who didn't quite understand how a Stark bastard had managed to get into a conflict with one of the king's guards, gathered with worried looks on their faces.
Among them was Mikken, the blacksmith, who had only come along out of curiosity to get a glimpse of the king. Upon spotting Jon, he called out loudly: "Hey there, Jon! What's going on?"
"Yeah, speak up, lad! Lord Stark's still around, you know!"
Once Mikken broke the silence, the others—who had watched Jon grow up—began chiming in to support him.
In no time, the courtyard was buzzing with murmurs, and the people of Winterfell, thinking one of their own was being bullied by an outsider, started glaring furiously at Kal.
But even with all those voices rising in his defense, Jon Snow remained frozen in place, clutching the longsword in his arms, unsure of what to do.
Hearing the familiar voices stand up for him only made it harder to speak.
He didn't even understand how chasing after Ghost had somehow led to standing face-to-face with a knight—and how things had escalated to this.
And while he was still caught in his own flustered thoughts, the crowd around them continued to grow.
Now it wasn't just the local workers and residents of Winterfell...
Even the members of the Blackstone Mercenary Company had taken notice and started moving toward Kal.
They didn't say a word. They simply positioned themselves beside him, their sharp eyes fixed on the crowd that was pointing fingers at their leader.
In less than a minute, over thirty people had gathered to watch.
The commotion quickly drew the attention of Winterfell's guards.
After a few murmured exchanges, one of them broke into a run and left the scene.
The remaining six or seven guards squeezed their way through the crowd.
"What's going on here?!"
One of them, who looked like a squad leader, barked at the townsfolk.
Despite his harsh tone, he stepped forward to shield the people behind him, placing himself between them and Kal.
His eyes immediately locked onto the wooden sword in Kal's hand.
"This knight says he's challenging Jon Snow to a duel!"
With one of Lord Stark's guards backing them up, the locals grew bolder.
But Jon—who had been so overwhelmed by all the voices that he hadn't even had the chance to speak—panicked the moment he heard the word duel.
Still clutching Kal's longsword in his arms, he blurted out in a rush: "No! It's not a duel!"
"Ser Kal Stone isn't bullying me!"
Jon stepped forward to explain, clearly not wanting the situation to spiral further.
He stood there holding the sword Kal had thrown at him, looking dazed and unsure, yet still trying to clarify what had really happened.
But while Jon wanted to explain—
Kal clearly had no intention of backing down.
He shook the wooden sword in his hand and restated his demand with cold clarity: "No. This is a duel."
"Boy—I told you. Draw the sword in your hand, and strike at me."
Kal insisted on dueling Jon, forcing the Stark bastard into a moment of indecision.
But just as Jon stood there holding the real longsword Kal had tossed him, unsure of what to do, a clearly irritated voice cut in.
"Ser, I'm the one who taught Jon Snow how to wield a sword. If you want to test his skills, perhaps you should test mine instead!"
Kal looked up, curious to see who had spoken.
Then, pushing through the crowd came a short, stout middle-aged man with a face full of white beard—and an impressively groomed mustache to match.
He wore a dark cloak, and once inside the circle, he stepped directly in front of Jon.
With a swift motion, he pulled aside his cloak, revealing the longsword hanging at his hip. His gaze sharpened as it locked onto Kal.
"If you're questioning his swordplay, then clearly you're questioning my teaching," Ser Rodrik Cassel said coldly, his tone now glacial. "So why don't you try me instead?"
Seeing how many people in Winterfell were willing to stand up for Jon, Kal pressed his lips into a smile.
He looked at the old knight shielding Jon Snow, and rather than accepting the "invitation," he simply shook his head.
Then he held up the very sword that had once belonged to Jon.
"He just said he's already fourteen, ser…"
"So what—you think you'll stand in front of him for the rest of his life? That he should spend it swinging some laughable wooden sword at straw dummies that don't fight back?"
"What happens to him is none of your concern, Ser," Rodrik snapped, clearly unimpressed by Kal's argument. His tone was downright stiff.
The growing tension in the air naturally began to draw more eyes.
And then, from out of nowhere, someone no one had expected to appear squeezed through the crowd—a short man with blond hair.
He somehow emerged right from behind Kal.
First, he looked up at his suddenly "stubborn" friend, Kal Stone. Then his gaze shifted to Jon, who still looked completely at a loss.
After a moment's thought, a flicker of understanding passed through his eyes.
Tyrion suddenly let out a hearty laugh, loud enough to pull everyone's attention toward him. With a smile and open hands, he turned to Ser Rodrik Cassel and said cheerfully, "I think he's got a point, Ser Whitebeard."
"You'll be buried one day. So will I."
"But when that day comes, let's just hope the boy you've been shielding like a mother hen won't be left bawling because there's no one left to protect him."
"I won't bawl!" Jon blurted instinctively, offended that the Queen's brother would say such a thing about him.
But the Imp didn't even glance his way. He just kept smiling pleasantly at Winterfell's old master-at-arms.
In fact, he looked completely at ease—leaning back with one elbow resting on a crossbeam of the fence, casually twirling the gold ring on his finger.
And then, still watching the old knight, he added lightly, "Besides—are you certain you'll be the one making all his decisions for the rest of his life?"
Tyrion only then slowly shifted his gaze away from the old knight, landing it on Jon Snow—the boy who had just stepped forward and insisted he wouldn't cry.
Tyrion stared at Jon, the smile on his face laced with meaning.
"So what, he just stays here the rest of his life? Just another bastard pushed aside, squatting in this gods-forsaken place where it's too cold to even pull down your trousers?"
"Maybe… maybe you ought to give him a chance to choose a different future."
As the Imp said this, Ser Rodrik instinctively furrowed his brows, clearly about to retort.
But then, noticing the subtle smirk playing at the corner of Tyrion's lips, he stopped himself. The words caught in his throat—and instead, a thoughtful look crept into his eyes.
Three seconds later, a flicker passed through them—realization.
He tugged at his beard, a habitual motion, then turned a deep, penetrating stare toward the little man still grinning mischievously at Jon.
And then his gaze shifted again—this time to Kal, who at some point had leaned his body sideways, using Jon's training sword like a walking stick, looking utterly relaxed.
After pondering all this for a moment, Ser Rodrik Cassel said no more.
Instead, he pulled his cloak back into place and stepped slightly aside.
"Jon," he said, "draw your sword."
"If Ser Kal Stone is so eager to see your swordplay…"
He didn't wait for Jon's reaction. The words came out sharp and firm.
His expression was stony, making it clear this wasn't a jest.
And Ser Rodrik never joked.
As soon as those words left his mouth, the surrounding onlookers—many of whom had been hoping the situation would be resolved peacefully—were stunned.
They stared at the old knight in confusion.
It felt like betrayal.
They hadn't expected Ser Rodrik would actually yield.
But it was equally clear he had no intention of explaining himself.
Even as the skeptical gazes of the crowd fell upon him, Rodrik's expression remained solemn—he genuinely intended to let Jon Snow duel the King's knight.
And with no one stepping in to stop it, Kal's smile grew even "brighter."
He cast a subtle glance at Tyrion, raising an eyebrow. The look they exchanged said everything—no words were needed.
Then Kal turned to Jon with a low chuckle. "You heard him, boy. Even your master says draw your sword!"
Seeing the situation unfold, the bystanders—out of respect for the old knight—found themselves unable to voice any objections.
After all, Rodrik Cassel was still Winterfell's master-at-arms, and he was the one who had personally trained Jon in swordsmanship.
So, despite their confusion, no one dared to argue. They had no choice but to step back and make space—for the local boy and this newly arrived troublemaking knight to have their duel.
Still, looking at the wooden blunted sword in the knight's hand, the onlookers understood this was probably just a way for Kal to blow off some steam by giving Jon a beating.
Their anger simmered quietly, but in the end, they held their tongues.
And just like that—without anyone fully grasping how—Jon Snow found himself standing face-to-face with Kal, holding the knight's longsword in his hands.
He instinctively drew the weapon. As the blade caught the light, a gleam danced across the steel—and in Jon's eyes, too, there was a flicker of something new.
It was his first time wielding real iron. And for some reason, it made him nervous.
After taking several long moments to prepare himself mentally, Jon suddenly turned to look at his instructor, his face serious.
"Ser Rodrik… I think we should switch back to wooden swords," he said earnestly.
But before the last word had even left his mouth, a shadow loomed before him.
Kal had stepped forward, raising the wooden practice sword high above his head. His smile was gone now—his face stony as he stared down at Jon.
"You looking down on me, boy?"
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