The duel had barely begun when Tyrion, ever hungry for excitement, leaned forward with a grin and tossed in a cheerful comment of his own. Jon Snow, who was already tense, instinctively turned his head to look at him—eyes still dazed, still confused, still not fully understanding how exactly he'd been dragged into this mess.
Karl noticed the distraction immediately.
He blinked once. This kid is really looking somewhere else in the middle of a duel?
The wooden sword in Karl's hand—raised high a moment ago—descended instantly.
With a sharp, clean smack, the flat of the blade struck the muscle on the outside of Jon's thigh.
Jon didn't even register what had happened before his leg buckled.
"Ah—!"
He collapsed, long legs folding under him as he toppled into the dirt. Startled, hurt, and with a fiery sting shooting up his thigh, Jon sat frozen for a heartbeat, clutching the longsword Karl had thrown to him earlier.
It wasn't a deep wound, but it was the kind of pain that made your eyes water before you even realized it.
Karl sighed theatrically.
"Get up, boy. Let's continue."
He planted the wooden sword against his shoulder, his voice dripping with smug amusement.
"A real enemy won't warn you before attacking. That's your first lesson."
Then Karl tilted his head, pretending to ponder something deeply.
"Also… where should I hit you next? I'm open to suggestions."
The mockery hit harder than the wooden sword.
Jon's face grew red—not the kind of redness that came from physical pain, but the kind that came from humiliation.
He had wanted to avoid a confrontation. He had wanted to stay out of trouble. But now, with the sting in his thigh and Karl's smirk hovering above him, something inside him snapped.
He pushed himself off the ground, refusing to let a pained sound escape his lips.
He didn't ask to switch to a wooden sword again.
He didn't plead.
He didn't even speak.
He simply stood—back straight, long hair matted with sweat and dirt—longsword raised, breathing hard through his nose. His eyes fixed on Karl with a seriousness that made even Tyrion arch a brow.
"I'll give you advice," Jon said through clenched teeth, "but not with words."
And he charged.
Gone was the hesitant boy from earlier.
This was a young man fueled by wounded pride, righteous anger, and stubbornness carved from years of being the odd one out in Winterfell.
He swung the sword diagonally, aiming for Karl's arm—a clean strike, full of force and emotion.
Karl chuckled.
To him, Jon's movements were painfully slow. Practice-slow. Lesson-slow. The kind of slow that let Karl finish an entire cup of wine in his mind before needing to react.
He stepped forward—forward, not back—dodging the blade with ease.
Jon's eyes widened in panic.
He expected Karl to retreat, defend, block—anything but advance.
Karl's foot hooked behind Jon's ankle.
Jon stumbled.
He fell again.
Face-first.
Into a mud pit carved by horses' hooves.
A wet squelch followed by an eruption of muddy water splashed upward, splattering his face, his clothes, his pride.
When Jon finally lifted his head, mud dripped from his chin, nose, even his eyelashes. Only his dark eyes remained visible beneath the mess.
Karl burst into laughter.
"Oh, so that's why you don't like using your mouth—because it's always full?"
A few people snorted.
Tyrion clapped like an enthusiastic spectator at a street show.
Jon spat mud. "Pah!"
But he didn't defend himself.
He didn't protest.
He didn't even glare.
He reached for the longsword, stood up slowly—silently—and raised it again, determined.
Karl arched a brow.
"It seems some people still haven't learned what 'giving up' means."
He crooked his finger, taunting.
"Come on, little baby. Let's teach you how to stand properly before you try running."
Then, before Jon could respond, Karl sprinted toward him—fast, reckless, and completely unpredictable.
Jon, startled by the sudden charge, fumbled to defend. It didn't matter.
Karl struck his arm with a quick, precise hit of the wooden blade.
Jon hissed in pain as his numb fingers released the longsword. It clattered to the ground.
Still, even without a weapon, Jon tried.
He lunged.
Maybe he wanted to tackle Karl.
Maybe he wanted to drag him into the mud with him.
Maybe he simply wanted to feel like he was fighting back.
Karl lifted him by the chest with one arm—easily, almost lazily—and flung him back into the same mud pit, where Jon landed with a pathetic splash.
Again.
Tyrion sauntered past them, hands clasped behind his back. "Isn't this wonderful?"
Ser Rodrik Cassel's beard twitched violently.
"If you mean adults bullying children, then I suppose it's… something," he said sourly.
Tyrion didn't look offended. He rarely did.
"No, no, Ser," he said with a knowing grin. "If my friend didn't like the boy, he wouldn't bother bullying him. Karl never pays attention to things he doesn't care about."
Rodrik blinked, surprised. "I… cannot tell."
"You can't?" Tyrion smirked. "You also can't tell whether the boy you're teaching can become a knight."
Rodrik's eyes drifted toward Jon—still crawling out of the muck, still refusing to surrender.
He said nothing.
The duel continued for ten more agonizing minutes.
And every minute, Jon fell.
Every minute, Karl pointed out another flaw.
Every minute, Jon got back up again, wounded pride stitching itself back together through stubbornness alone.
By the end of it, Jon Snow lay flat in the mud, chest heaving, arms trembling, eyes glassy. He stared blankly at the sky, as if reconsidering every life decision that had led him to this exact moment.
Karl walked over and nudged him with a boot.
"Kid," he said without a shred of sympathy, "you need a lot more practice. That's enough for today."
Jon didn't move.
"Go wash yourself," Karl added. "And be on the training grounds before dawn tomorrow."
Jon blinked slowly, focusing on Karl's face. He summoned the remaining strength left in his soul.
"…Why?" he croaked.
Karl grinned down at him.
"No reason."
He turned away, lifting his longsword.
"I just wanted to ask if you'd like to be my son—"
He paused, coughed loudly, then corrected himself.
"—my servant! Yes, servant!"
Jon froze.
"Excellent benefits!" Karl added cheerfully. "When you complete your training, you'll get three warhorses and a full set of plate armor."
Jon stared at him, mud dripping from his chin.
Tyrion looked at Rodrik and whispered,
"See? Told you. He likes him."
Rodrik groaned.
And Jon Snow wondered—just briefly—if getting knocked unconscious might have been the kinder outcome after all.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)