After a hearty meal, plenty of good wine, and the comfort of a warm bed, Karl slept more soundly than he had in a long time. He didn't bother returning to the game world to rest tonight. The long journey with the King's procession, combined with the marvel of seeing northern landscapes he had never witnessed before, left him both exhausted and fulfilled. For once, he allowed himself to sink into this rare moment of peace, embracing it wholeheartedly.
Using his bearskin cloak as a blanket, Karl sprawled comfortably across the bed, sinking into a deep sleep that carried not a shred of tension. He even had a dream—an unusually sweet one—but when he opened his eyes in the early dawn, the memory of that dream slipped from his grasp like a fish escaping through his fingers. He rubbed his messy hair with one hand, trying to recall it, but nothing surfaced.
With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself upright and glanced toward the window. A faint haze of gray-blue hung across the sky, thick and dull. A pale golden line teased the horizon, but any beauty it might have held was swallowed quickly by the fog that engulfed Winterfell at daybreak.
He pushed open the wooden shutters, and a sharp gust of freezing air rushed into the room. Karl inhaled deeply, letting the cold sting his lungs. It jolted him awake far more effectively than the dream had.
"The rooster crows to announce the dawn…" he murmured.
Then he frowned.
"…Hmm? No, that's not right. Does Winterfell not raise chickens?"
He stood there for a moment like a man genuinely bothered by the philosophical implications of a chicken shortage, then let out a theatrical sigh. Bored, and still not fully awake, he scratched his cheek, yawned widely, and disappeared from the spot with a gentle whoosh of displaced air.
Ten minutes later, Karl reappeared in the same room. This time, he was fully dressed, his clothes immaculate, and even his hair—normally a chaotic battlefield—was neatly styled. More importantly, he wore an expression of complete satisfaction.
He had just paid a quiet visit to the mayor's wife, enjoyed a hot meal, and taken a refreshing bath before tidying himself up. Nothing cured early-morning grogginess quite like pampering.
Staring at the steadily brightening sky, Karl suddenly remembered something—or rather, someone.
"Oh right," he said, rubbing his chin. "I have a new servant."
His eyebrow twitched with amusement.
"I wonder if Jon Snow actually did what I told him to do. With war around the corner, he can't afford to be a walking heap of mediocre skills. If he doesn't practice hard now, how is he supposed to survive a battlefield later?"
The words were terrifying—at least, they would be for anyone who understood Karl well—but he said them with the kind of casual indifference one might show when discussing the weather. He grabbed the bearskin cloak he'd used as a blanket, stuffed it into his inventory, and left the room.
Winterfell's training ground was enormous—easily the largest open space within its walls. Yesterday's banquet preparations and the king's entourage had left supplies and half-packed crates scattered around the wide yard. Servants were already beginning to sort through them, but Winterfell's morning still moved with the leisurely rhythm of the North: slow, steady, and without urgency.
Karl's guest chamber from the night before stood not far from the training yard. So, naturally, this became the first place he checked.
There, in a far corner of the open ground—almost hidden behind a stack of crates—stood Jon Snow.
Jon was alone.
And he was training.
A small boy, barely fifteen, stood before a straw-and-wood scarecrow, hacking relentlessly at it with a wooden sword. His breath came out in white puffs, and sweat clung to his forehead even in the freezing northern air.
Karl's lips curled upward.
"Well, what do we have here?" he drawled. "The scarecrow won't dodge your chew toy, kid!"
His voice rang loudly across the training ground.
Jon froze mid-swing. His expression darkened instantly. The boy didn't understand why a man who spoke to his uncle so politely—who behaved so gracefully before others—transformed into a sarcastic tormentor every time he opened his mouth around him.
Was the respectful nobleman from last night just an illusion?
Jon turned around, his face slightly flushed, and awkwardly wiped sweat from his brow.
"My teeth aren't that good, Your Excellency," he said stiffly. "And I can't bite it either."
Karl clapped a hand against his forehead dramatically.
"Oh? So you actually have that kind of quirk?"
Jon blinked.
"What quirk?!"
Karl leaned forward like someone sharing a scandalous secret.
"The chewing thing."
Jon inhaled sharply, stunned. He had absolutely no way to respond to that. Karl's words hit him like a sucker punch every time.
Karl ignored Jon's confusion and walked closer, examining the straw-filled torso of the scarecrow. Even in the dim dawn light, he could easily make out the uneven, shallow cuts Jon's wooden sword had left behind.
He clicked his tongue loudly.
"Has anyone ever told you," Karl said, tapping one of the slashed straws with mock seriousness, "that your swordsmanship is absolutely terrible?"
Jon's face heated in anger. Not even five breaths into the morning and this man already started insulting him.
He scowled, lifted the wooden sword, and protested, "Now you have!"
Karl let out an exaggerated gasp.
"Tsk-tsk… Growing up surrounded by lies. How tragic. Truly tragic."
Jon puffed up defensively.
"My instructor told me I'm doing well!"
Karl glanced at him with open pity.
"Then that just makes you even more pathetic."
Jon's voice cracked.
"Why?!"
"Because whoever taught you," Karl said solemnly, "is not only incompetent… but also blind."
Jon's expression hardened instantly.
Those were fighting words.
He raised his wooden sword and pointed it at Karl with the seriousness of a boy defending something he truly believed in.
"You shouldn't insult Ser Rodrik!" Jon snapped, glaring fiercely. "He's a good man. And… you're my knight now. You should apologize for saying that!"
Karl blinked.
He looked down at the wooden sword pointed at him. Then he nodded lightly…
…before shaking his head again.
"Well, that's a mixed bag," Karl muttered. "You've got guts, but you also don't. How should I evaluate this?"
Ignoring Jon's bewildered expression, Karl stepped around him, walked to the scarecrow, and yanked one of the thick wooden rods from the straw-stuffed limb.
He swung it experimentally.
Whoosh.
The air cracked around it.
Karl nodded.
"Good balance. Nice weight. And now—unlike before—the scarecrow can move."
Jon stared blankly.
Karl rested the rod on his shoulder and looked at Jon with an amused smirk.
"You want me to apologize to your instructor? Then show me whether he deserves it."
"W-What?" Jon stuttered.
Karl pointed at him with the wooden rod.
"From this moment on, I'm taking over your training. Whatever you show me now? That's the result of everything your instructor taught you. If he really deserves an apology… I'll decide after watching you."
Jon gulped.
His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.
Suddenly, he regretted opening his mouth at all.
He glanced up at Karl nervously.
"What do you want me to do…?"
Karl raised two fingers lazily.
"I'm going to teach you the first lesson of swordsmanship."
Jon's eyes brightened.
"What is it?"
Karl gave a long, dramatic sigh.
"That… is a very difficult question."
"What question?" Jon asked, leaning unconsciously forward.
Karl lifted the wooden rod and pointed it directly at Jon's chest.
"The question is," he said slowly, "what do you do when you meet someone you can't possibly defeat?"
Jon stiffened.
Images from yesterday—Karl flicking him around like a rag doll—flashed into his mind.
He didn't have an answer.
After a moment, Jon clenched his jaw and turned the question around.
"Then… what would you do?"
Karl pointed at himself, eyes widening as though Jon had asked the most foolish question in the world.
"Me?"
His smile sharpened like a blade.
"If it were me…"
He leaned forward.
"…I would run away."
Jon blinked.
"W-What?"
Karl raised his voice dramatically.
"Not later! Not after thinking! Not after a deep breath or a heroic speech!"
He swung the rod behind him like he was preparing to sprint.
"I'd turn around and run immediately!"
There was a pause.
Then he roared:
"Run away NOW!"
Jon's jaw dropped.
Karl grinned.
"That, my dear servant," he said, tapping Jon's forehead with the rod, "is the first lesson of swordsmanship."
He straightened.
"Don't fight battles you can't win. Don't pretend to be a hero. A reckless corpse cannot protect anyone—not even himself."
Jon swallowed hard.
It was the simplest lesson he'd ever heard.
But something in Karl's voice told him it was also the most important.
Karl lowered the rod to his side.
"Alright. Lesson one finished. Now…"
He cracked his neck.
"Let's see what you've got. Show me everything Rodrik taught you—because from here on out, you'll be learning from me."
Jon tightened his grip on his wooden sword.
His heart pounded.
But for the first time that morning…
…he felt excited.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)