"I heard that Ser Kal Stone was chasing after your brother outside Winterfell before the sun even rose..."
"A lot of people said they heard him screaming!"
Princess Myrcella spoke while stitching a piece of silk in her hands. As if suddenly remembering something, she turned her head to chat idly with Sansa beside her.
What she didn't say was that her mother had compared it to a donkey chasing a sheep.
Septa Mordane, sitting nearby, of course noticed the girls had let their attention drift and were now chatting.
But she pretended not to see it—after all, young girls were supposed to socialize. It was completely normal.
The moment Princess Myrcella brought up her bastard brother, Sansa instinctively frowned.
But upon hearing the name Kal Stone, her eyes lit up slightly and she quickly smoothed her brow again.
In fact, just last night she had deliberately tried to find out more about the man who stood out so much in the crowd. With such a tall build and striking appearance, it was impossible not to notice him.
More importantly, he seemed to be one of the king's guards.
Though she wasn't sure why it wasn't the White Knights guarding their king, but rather a young knight like him.
Stone? That was what bastards from the Vale were called... Could Ser Kal be a bastard too?
But he was already a knight. So why hadn't he changed his name?
These thoughts distracted Sansa for a moment.
Still, even as her mind wandered, she didn't neglect Princess Myrcella. With a sweet smile, she took the opportunity to praise the knight who had arrived with the king's entourage.
"Ser Kal Stone is a very responsible and kind knight. Not only did he take Jon as his squire, but he also seems very dedicated to training him!"
Sansa praised the knight—someone she had never even spoken to—because as a noble, she instinctively knew what should be said and when.
But in truth, everything she was saying came from genuine admiration. She truly thought Ser Kal Stone was a proper knight, a man of noble character.
"Jon is very lucky," Sansa said with a smile.
At those words, the embroidery needle in Princess Myrcella's hand slipped slightly—almost pricking her own finger—as a strange expression briefly flickered across her face.
Septa Mordane noticed it at once. She quickly put down what she was holding and rushed over.
"I'm fine, Septa Mordane. You don't need to worry about me," Princess Myrcella said politely, soothing the concerned septa.
And Arya, whose own embroidery needle had just slipped as well, glanced at the scene and curled her lip in irritation.
Seeing that the princess wasn't hurt, Sansa let out a breath of relief. But with her sharp perception, she also realized that Myrcella's reaction had only come after her own comment.
So she thought she must have said something wrong. "Is something the matter, Princess Myrcella? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"
"…"
"No, not at all. I just pressed a bit too hard—it came out crooked. No need to worry."
Hearing Sansa's question, and seeing the confusion on her face, Myrcella didn't know how to explain it.
After all, calling Ser Kal Stone responsible and kind wasn't exactly wrong.
He had not only saved her brother, but even when her brother later slandered him, he hadn't seemed particularly angry.
In fact, he had generously waived the king's demand that the prince apologize.
Myrcella remembered Ser Kal Stone's words clearly: that a prince should never have to apologize to others, and that upholding the dignity of the royal family was his duty as the king's knight.
Those words had greatly pleased her father.
And yet, her father still insisted that Joffrey apologize to him personally—and even gave Kal a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt as a gift to make amends.
But that same kind and noble knight had also killed two powerful Kingsguard with his own hands, all to defend his own honor.
Myrcella hadn't witnessed the trial by combat herself, but as time passed, rumors carried by the wind inevitably found their way to her ears.
She was only eight years old. Adults often ignored her when they spoke.
And so, thinking about this sharp contrast—his duality—Myrcella found herself slipping into thought.
Perhaps Sansa was right. But not entirely.
Because Ser Kal Stone wasn't just kind and responsible. He was also incredibly powerful—and truly humble.
After all, he had even turned down the king's offer to appoint him to the Kingsguard.
Ser Kal Stone had said that he fought for justice, and that only by doing so in his own name could he accept the Seven's judgment through trial by combat.
He hadn't killed Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount for the sake of becoming a Kingsguard.
In fact, he had even advised the king to select men of greater virtue to serve as the new protectors of the king.
Myrcella thought—perhaps he was the one who truly deserved to be a Kingsguard.
If he ever did become one of the White Knights, maybe she should ask her father to appoint Ser Kal Stone as her personal sworn shield.
Just like Joffrey had Sandor Clegane!
…
"The Hound? What are you doing here?"
"Don't tell me you want to become my squire too. One fourteen-year-old boy is already more than enough trouble!"
Kal had just let Jon finish his breakfast and rest for twenty minutes, only to drag him back out to the training yard again after forcing down half a bottle of stamina tonic.
Just as Kal knocked Jon down with another strike, he caught something in the corner of his eye—Sandor Clegane had approached without him noticing.
The Hound wore his signature helmet, shaped like a snarling dog's head with a hinged jaw.
He was fully armored, a massive greatsword strapped across his back as he strode forward—clearly not here in peace.
Kal, naturally, took note of his imposing approach.
Sandor stopped in front of him, throwing only a brief glance at Jon, who was scrambling back to his feet, before turning his sharp gaze on Kal and speaking in a low, gravelly voice.
"What the hell happened that day?!"
"That day? Which day?"
Of course, Kal knew exactly what Sandor was referring to. But that didn't stop him from playing dumb like a seasoned pro.
Seeing Kal feign ignorance, Sandor lifted a hand and removed his helmet.
Beneath his long hair, the ruined left half of his face was revealed—causing Jon to recoil in alarm.
The scarred side of Sandor's face, split down the middle at the nose, was a mess of twisted flesh, puckered pits, and deep, uneven craters.
Thankfully, his eye on that side still worked.
His right side, by contrast, bore sharp cheekbones, thick brows, and grey eyes—fierce and brooding, though tinged with a strange weariness.
"The day Prince Joffrey fell into the water…"
"What happened that day? Why can't I remember anything?!"
Sandor wasn't interested in playing games. He got straight to the point.
And as he spoke, Kal noticed the way his burnt lips tugged at the scars across his cheek, revealing raw, reddish splits where the flesh couldn't properly close.
The lower part of his jaw, half-charred and partially exposing bone, made the sight even more grotesque.
Kal looked away, pulling back his curiosity. The man was hideous enough to ruin anyone's appetite.
He casually gestured for Jon to keep going, brushing Sandor off with a dismissive tone.
"Maybe you lost your memory. After all, diving into a river wearing full plate isn't exactly what I'd call a smart idea."
"…"
Hearing that all-too-familiar phrasing, Sandor fell silent for a moment.
Then, with Jon gasping in shock, he drew the greatsword from his back, stepped aside to clear some space, and locked eyes with Kal, gaze dark and razor-sharp.
"I don't buy it. I'm not dumb enough to do something that stupid."
"I want the truth. If you won't tell me willingly, I'll beat it out of you."
The Hound raised his greatsword, its tip aimed squarely at Kal.
Feeling the cold killing intent radiating from behind, Kal sighed helplessly and finally turned around to face him.
"There it is—you're losing your temper again."
...
It had already been half a month since Sandor Clegane stirred up trouble last time.
But the amusement from that incident hadn't faded with time.
After all, in this godforsaken land called the North, even the smallest event could serve as dinner-table gossip for at least half a year.
What's more, this time the King had come north in person—and on the very next day, the Warden of the North, Lord Stark himself, agreed to travel south with the King.
Matters of politics were things common folk could only whisper about in private. At most, people were just excited at the possibility that their Lord might become the next Hand of the King.
As for other forms of entertainment, aside from drinking, eating meat, and cozying up with women, the best outlet for one's energy was of course the wide and spacious training yard.
Especially since the incident at the crossroads inn, when Kal Stone had become the center of attention.
Ever since arriving in Winterfell—and taking on his very first squire—Kal had become a daily spectacle in the training yard.
No one had expected the duel Sandor Clegane initiated two weeks ago to end in such an anticlimactic fashion.
The Hound, tall and broad as he was, seemed a full size smaller standing before Kal. Even the greatsword in his hand looked like a child's toy in comparison.
Kal had simply used the wooden sword he mockingly called Jon Snow's "teething stick" to block Sandor's blade in a single exchange. Then, with a follow-up headbutt, he completed a dazzling disarming maneuver.
In the second round, taking advantage of the moment Sandor was reeling from the sour, spicy, bitter sting of his shattered nose flooding his sinuses, Kal grabbed him by the collar and landed another solid punch. That put Sandor right back to sleep for a nice little nap.
"I don't think Lord Stark would appreciate someone sleeping here. Can a few of you help drag this guy back inside?"
"And someone find a maester to set his nose straight again. He's already ugly enough."
Kal simply clapped his hands, as relaxed as if he'd just finished his morning piss and given it a satisfying shake.
That battle immediately made the name Kal Stone famous across Winterfell.
People hadn't seen his so-called "Quick Blade," but they had seen, crystal clear, that overwhelming strength.
So from then on, whenever Kal was training Jon, it wasn't just the household guards of various families—most of the spectators crowding the training yard were there just to watch Kal and Jon spar.
In an age starved for entertainment, there really was nothing more thrilling.
And Kal didn't shoo them away. In fact, he enjoyed it.
Every day, he would pick a few lucky onlookers from the crowd and have them go a round of passionate man-to-man brawling with poor Jon Snow.
So Kal laid down a rule for Jon in the training yard: only Kal himself would use real weapons against him; for all other opponents, anything went.
And among the men present—aside from the truly useless drunkards—weren't most of them either sly veterans or seasoned warriors?
So when it came to taking care of a "child," they naturally had plenty of experience.
As a result, Kal himself rarely needed to lift a finger. These freeloading, yet incredibly useful laborers completed Jon's training regimen perfectly on his behalf.
Even the ladies would occasionally wander over to watch.
Though, in Kal's opinion, they were probably there to watch him.
As the days of intense training went on, people couldn't help but grow curious: how was it that the Stark bastard seemed so durable? No matter how much they put him through, he never broke.
In fact, he got stronger by the day, his progress nothing short of astonishing.
This inevitably led some to question whether the old rumor was true—that bastards really did grow up fast.
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