"Who is it?" Eddard asked.
"My lord, Maester Luwin is outside. He says it's urgent!" came Desmond's voice from behind the door.
Hearing Desmond's message, Ned glanced at his own bare self, and then at his wife seated on the bed, clutching the furs over herself.
"Did you tell him I gave strict orders not to be disturbed?"
"I did, my lord. But the Maester insisted—it's urgent and he must see you," Desmond replied truthfully.
"Very well. Let him in..."
Realizing Maester Luwin likely had pressing news that truly needed to be delivered in person, Lord Stark had no choice but to return to duty.
He walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a heavy robe to wrap around himself.
Catelyn had also begun to rise, but the moment she sat up, she immediately noticed the warmth of the room had somehow been replaced by a creeping chill.
"Should we close the window?" she asked helplessly, tugging the blanket back up to her chin.
Lord Stark looked somewhat distracted, but still nodded.
By then, Maester Luwin had already been shown in.
Desmond, ever discreet, quietly closed the thick oak door behind the Maester and withdrew without another word.
The years had painted the remaining strands of hair on the Maester's head a silvery gray. His robes, too, were woven from gray wool, trimmed with a border of white velvet.
These, after all, were the colors of House Stark.
And only after the heavy door had shut behind him and the sound of footsteps faded into the distance did Maester Luwin turn to the Lord of Winterfell and speak.
"My lord, please forgive me for disturbing your rest…"
"But someone has left me a letter!"
Ned's expression darkened. "Someone left you a letter?"
"Who left it? Was there a messenger today? Why wasn't I informed?"
"My lord, it wasn't delivered by a messenger…" Luwin lowered his eyes as he replied.
"It was placed on the desk in my observatory while I was napping—a finely crafted wooden box."
"My servant said he saw no one come or go. And we've had no other guests..."
His meaning was clear, and both the lord and lady of House Stark were taken aback by what they heard.
It was then that Catelyn caught something in his phrasing. "You said... a wooden box?"
Luwin nodded. "Inside was a finely made lens—clearly meant for stargazing. Judging by the craftsmanship, it must be from Myr."
"Lenses from Myr are unrivaled in the world," he added with certainty.
"A lens?" Ned had no patience for riddles. "And what does any of this have to do with me?"
But beneath the furs, Catelyn's body shivered involuntarily. "A lens… to see the truth more clearly?!"
"Exactly." Luwin nodded silently, then drew a tightly rolled scroll from his sleeve.
"That's the key. I took the wooden box apart—and in the false bottom, I found the real message."
"But the letter wasn't meant for me."
As he spoke, Maester Luwin looked toward them both, the scroll still in his hands.
"Then give it to me," Lord Eddard said instinctively, reaching out.
But Luwin did not move. "I'm sorry, my lord. The letter isn't meant for you either. It's addressed clearly—for Lady Catelyn's eyes only."
"May I bring it over?" he asked, turning to her.
Catelyn nodded, and Luwin stepped forward, placing the letter gently on the small table beside her bed.
By the light of the candle, Catelyn leaned in to examine the mysterious message.
And there, sealed in blue wax, was the sigil of House Arryn: a crescent moon and soaring falcon.
...
After a hearty meal, some fine wine, and the comfort of a warm bed, Kal finally had a good night's sleep.
This time, he didn't sneak into the game world to rest.
Following the king's party in their swift northern journey, and now taking in the unfamiliar sights of the northern landscape around him, Kal allowed himself a rare moment of leisure. For once, he decided to simply enjoy the experience.
Using his bearskin cloak as a blanket over his belly, he slept soundly—and even had a rare pleasant dream.
But when he opened his eyes again, blinking awake, he found himself unable to recall a single detail of the dream no matter how hard he tried.
Scratching his tousled hair, Kal sat up and turned his gaze toward the window.
The sky was a dull haze of greyish blue, heavy and subdued.
Though a faint line of golden light peeked faintly along the horizon, it was quickly swallowed up by the thick layers of fog.
He pushed the window open, drew in a deep breath of the frigid air, and only then did his still-drowsy brain start to clear.
"Dawn announced by a rooster's crow..."
"Hm~ No such thing!"
"Wait, are there no chickens in Winterfell?!"
Muttering random nonsense out of boredom, Kal yawned again before vanishing from the spot in a blur.
Roughly ten minutes later—
Kal reappeared in the same place, now fully dressed and neatly put together. Even his hair was tidy.
Most notably, there was a satisfied smile on his face.
Just now, he had stopped by the mayor's wife's place for a hot breakfast, and then took the opportunity to wash up and freshen himself.
Seeing the daylight gradually brighten outside the window, Kal suddenly remembered the squire he had just taken under his wing.
Stroking his chin, he mused, "I wonder if Jon Snow actually listened to what I told him?"
"Guess I'll go check on the kid. After all, a battle's about to start—and with his pitiful excuse for swordsmanship, if he doesn't put in some real training, how's he gonna survive the battlefield?"
Speaking such ominous words, Kal casually stored the bearskin cloak he had used as a blanket back into his inventory, then turned and left his room.
...
The most spacious place in all of Winterfell was the training yard, and that's exactly where Kal headed after coming down from the guest quarters.
Located right in the center of the castle, the training yard was just next to where Kal had stayed the night before.
When he arrived, many of the supplies brought in with the king's entourage were still piled up in the open, not yet fully sorted from the day before.
In a corner of the yard, a short boy was hacking away at a straw dummy with the wooden sword in his hand.
"A straw dummy won't dodge your little teething stick, kid!"
Seeing that Jon Snow had taken his advice to heart and was now diligently following through, the happiness from Kal's recent breakfast was joined by a faint sense of gratification.
He did intend to help the boy—but only if the kid showed initiative. If not, Kal wouldn't waste his time on him.
After all, Kal had never intended to gain anything from him, so he owed Jon nothing.
Hearing the voice behind him, Jon Snow—who had been hacking at the straw dummy—froze mid-swing, his expression instantly souring.
He couldn't quite understand how someone who could speak so politely and graciously with his uncle would, whenever facing him, act as if he couldn't get through a single sentence without throwing a jab.
It was as if the man who had conversed like a noble last night with his uncle had been nothing but a mirage.
"My teeth aren't that strong, Ser," Jon retorted. "And I can't even bite through this thing."
Stopping his training, Jon turned around and shot back with a defiant look on his face, pushing back against his knight in his own stubborn way.
"Oh? So you're into that sort of thing?" Kal grinned, having clearly picked up a few bad habits from the little imp—his verbal jabs were especially cutting.
Caught off guard and lacking the experience to parry such a blow, Jon was left dizzy and speechless.
Kal approached as he spoke.
Even in the dim light, he could clearly see the marks Jon had left on the straw dummy.
"Has anyone ever told you your swordsmanship is absolute trash?"
He reached out and fingered some of the cut straw from the dummy, continuing with his ruthless commentary.
Hearing this knight of his start the morning with nothing but criticism, Jon wiped the sweat from his brow with visible frustration.
He muttered under his breath, clearly displeased, "Well… now someone has."
"Tsk, tsk. What a shame. You've lived all this time surrounded by lies," Kal scoffed, clearly not ready to let up.
Jon's mouth twitched at the comment, and he instinctively tried to defend himself. "But my instructor told me I was doing well…"
"That just makes it worse."
"Why?"
"Because not only is your teacher shit—he's also blind."
At that, Jon's face tightened. With a swoosh, he raised his wooden sword—clearly unhappy with Kal's jab at Ser Rodrik Cassel.
"You may be my knight now," Jon said firmly, "but I still think you owe Ser Cassel an apology."
"He's a good man…"
Jon glared at Kal, his eyes filled with youthful defiance.
He was clearly serious.
But hearing those words, Kal simply looked down at the wooden sword being pointed at him, then slowly nodded.
But then Kal shook his head again.
"Hmm, not bad—you've gained one good point, but now you've also added a new flaw. So how am I supposed to rate you fairly now?!"
As he spoke, Kal glanced left and right, then let his gaze fall once more on the straw dummy Jon had just been practicing on.
With a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he stepped forward and casually pulled a wooden rod from the dummy's arm.
He gave it a few test swings. It felt nice in the hand, and the way it sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh showed it was surprisingly sturdy and flexible.
Satisfied, Kal nodded.
"That dummy didn't move before… but now it will."
"And if you want me to apologize for what I said about your so-called instructor, then that'll depend entirely on how you perform."
He finally looked at Jon Snow, who was still frozen in place, dumbfounded by his actions.
"Because starting now, I'm taking over your training."
"And everything you show me from this point forward—everything you've learned—will speak for your instructor. Whether he deserves my apology… or not."
"So, I hope you won't disappoint me."
Gripping the stick in his hand, Kal gave Jon a cheerful smile.
For some reason, a pang of regret stirred in Jon's chest. His Adam's apple bobbed reflexively.
Then he tilted his head up to look at Kal and, without thinking, asked, "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to learn your very first real lesson—what swordsmanship truly is," Kal replied casually.
"What's that?" Jon asked, his eyes wide and full of innocence.
"It's the lesson of a difficult choice…"
"What kind of choice?"
Kal's tone darkened slightly. "The choice you must make when you face an opponent you can't defeat. What then?"
"…"
Hearing those words, for some reason, Jon couldn't help but think back to how Kal had so thoroughly bested him yesterday.
But he didn't know how to answer the question.
Then, glancing up at Kal's towering frame, a spark of cleverness lit in his eyes—and he kicked the question back.
"Then… what about you? What would you do?"
"Me?" Kal pointed at himself, his grin widening into something that sent a chill down Jon's spine.
"If it were me…"
"I would turn around and run—immediately! Without hesitation! Right this instant!"
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