Just as things were about to explode, Tyrion—who never missed a chance to stir the pot—chimed in from the sidelines with a casual remark.
Jon instinctively turned his head again, his eyes still carrying a trace of clear, confused innocence.
Kal, however, was not amused. Jon had actually dared to let his mind wander in the middle of a "duel."
Without warning, the raised wooden sword came crashing down. Its broad side landed "gently" on the outer thigh muscle near Jon Snow's knee—
[Smack!]
A crisp, clean sound rang out.
Still dazed with the longsword in hand, Jon collapsed on the spot.
Faced with an attack too fast to follow and a sudden burst of pain and numbness in his thigh, Jon had no time to react.
So, in just the first exchange, he fell clumsily to the ground—his face contorted in pain.
Seeing such a pitiful sight, Kal didn't hold back a single ounce of mockery.
"Get up, boy. Let's continue…"
"A real enemy won't give you a warning before he strikes!"
"And now let me think where I should hit you next. Maybe you'd like to give me a suggestion?!"
Kal's words were sharp enough to make one cough blood.
Struck down by a sneak attack, Jon lay on the ground, feeling the sharp pain and numbing discomfort in his thigh. Gritting his teeth, he glared furiously at Kal, who stood there gloating.
And this time, Jon—who had been trying to avoid this whole confrontation—was truly angry.
He no longer cared about switching to a wooden sword. After all, being humiliated in front of so many people had already wounded what little pride he had left.
So, biting back the pain and saying nothing, he scrambled back to his feet with both hands and knees, and once again faced Kal head-on.
This time, his gaze grew sharp, his tone full of restrained fury as he glared at the so-called "honorable" knight who had just ambushed him.
"I'll give you a suggestion—but not with words!"
With that, Jon no longer bothered with manners or courtesy. Raising Kal's longsword, he charged.
He was human. He wasn't without temper.
Even if, as a bastard in Winterfell, life hadn't been easy, and he had learned early how to observe others and read the room—
That didn't mean he would keep his head down when someone stepped all over him. He wasn't the type to just swallow it, retreat, and cry where no one could see him.
So after getting up and spitting those harsh words at Kal—
He turned the blade sideways and swung it diagonally at Kal's shoulder.
But his movement was sluggish. Kal simply let out a short, scornful laugh.
Then, as Jon stepped in close, Kal suddenly took half a step forward—sidestepping the strike with ease—and swept his foot out in a quick trip.
Jon hadn't expected Kal to advance rather than retreat. With no real combat experience to speak of, he panicked instinctively.
But by then, it was already too late. He had no time left to react.
Jon suddenly felt something hook his foot—and in the next instant, he staggered and lost his balance.
And because he'd thrown all his weight into that wild sword swing, the anger on his face instantly gave way to panic. Arms flailing, he stumbled forward with no way to stop himself.
[Thump!]
Jon Snow fell flat on his face—right into a muddy pit left behind by horse hooves.
The moment he landed, dirty water splashed up around him.
And when he finally lifted his head again, his face and mouth were both covered in thick, grimy mud—only his two blinking eyes gave any clue that he was still human.
"Oh~ So when you said you wouldn't be using your mouth, was it because it was already full?"
Kal's laughter echoed louder now as he looked down at Jon Snow sprawled in the mud.
"…"
"Ptui!"
Jon lay there, dumbfounded, and spat out a mouthful of sludge.
But this time, he didn't say a word. Not a single complaint.
Even in the face of Kal's merciless taunts, he simply picked up the longsword again.
Without a word, he got to his feet, turned, and once again raised the very sword Kal had thrown to him.
"Looks like someone still hasn't learned what it means to quit."
"Come on, little snowflake—I'll teach you how to stand up straight before you try running again!"
Kal didn't let up, even as Jon met him with silence.
He raised a single finger and curled it in a mocking invitation.
Then, instead of waiting for Jon to come at him again, Kal did the opposite—he charged first.
[Smack!]
Jon couldn't react in time. Kal's sudden, unpredictable attack had no warning, no rhythm—and before he could even raise his guard, a clean strike slammed against his arm.
This time, he couldn't even hold onto the sword. The longsword clattered to the ground.
Jon's arm trembled from the pain, and he couldn't help letting out a hiss.
But even though he had failed to block Kal Stone's attack, and even though his weapon had just been knocked from his hands—
Jon Snow, for reasons even he couldn't explain, suddenly lunged forward and threw himself at Kal.
It seemed he was trying to bring Kal down with him—maybe if they both ended up grappling in the mud, he'd have a better shot.
But while the idea sounded good in his head, reality was far less forgiving.
Kal didn't even need to try.
He simply used his longer reach, planted a hand firmly on Jon's chest, and shoved.
With nothing more than that clean, simple motion—borrowing Jon's own momentum—Kal sent him flying right back into the mud pit.
Again.
Kal was absolutely wrecking the poor kid.
Tyrion, swaying slightly as he walked, casually sidestepped the two in the middle of the chaos and quietly made his way to Ser Rodrik Cassel's side.
"Quite the show, isn't it?"
"If by 'show' you mean a grown man bullying a child, then no, I've got nothing to say."
Rodrik wasn't just wearing a stern expression now—he was tugging at his beard, and his face looked about as pleasant as a pair of underpants that hadn't been washed in a month.
But Tyrion merely chuckled at the rebuke. Watching the stubborn boy once again struggle to his feet and charge at Kal Stone, he grinned.
"My friend is quite fond of him."
"You're probably the only one who would think that. Is that why they call you the Imp?"
Tyrion raised his eyebrows, completely unfazed by Rodrik's displeasure.
"No, no, Ser Rodrik. If my friend had no interest in him, he wouldn't even bother acknowledging the boy—who, incidentally, is also a bastard."
"Most of the time, Kal gives me the feeling that he doesn't quite belong in this world... as if nothing really matters to him."
"He's... aloof. Yes—aloof—that's the word!"
As he watched the performance unfolding before them, Tyrion mimicked Rodrik's beard-tugging habit. Except he had no beard—so all he could do was pinch his own chin.
Hearing this, Rodrik shifted his gaze from Jon—who was still getting battered like a toy—and looked at the Lannister dwarf with a bit more seriousness.
"Sorry... I just don't see it," the knight admitted, his tone now slightly less rigid.
Tyrion let out a soft laugh. "Then tell me—do you see this boy becoming a knight?"
"…"
Rodrik Cassel fell silent.
Watching Jon Snow being tossed around in Kal Stone's hands like a plaything, he started to doubt whether his usual evaluations of the boy had been just wishful thinking.
And so, after another ten minutes or so of this merciless one-sided ordeal—
Jon Snow lay flat in the mud again, staring blankly at the sky, the hopelessness in his eyes as deep as the abyss.
"You've got a lot of training to do, kid—so we'll stop here for today."
"Go clean off that stench you're covered in, and I want to see you at the training yard before dawn tomorrow."
Kal stood over him, utterly merciless, delivering his verdict.
Hearing that voice, Jon's gaze sharpened slightly. He used what little strength he had left to turn his head toward him.
"Why?"
"No reason," Kal replied with a smile, turning to retrieve his longsword. "I just wanted to ask if you're interested in becoming my so—ahem, my squire?"
"Decent pay. Upon graduation, you get three warhorses and a full suit of plate armor."
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