"I heard Sir Carl Stone was chasing your brother around Winterfell before dawn…"
"People even said they heard him screaming!"
Princess Myrcella spoke lightly as she threaded her needle through the silk in her hands. Her expression was calm, but her eyes flickered with amusement. What she didn't say aloud was what her mother had whispered while laughing—that the sound was "like a donkey herding a sheep."
Sister Mordan, who stood nearby supervising the girls' embroidery practice, noticed that the princess and Sansa were already more focused on their conversation than on their stitches. But she didn't interrupt them. Girls their age needed social interaction, after all. It was natural.
When Myrcella mentioned the bastard of Winterfell, Sansa's brows pinched out of instinct. Jon was her brother—half-brother—but still family. The thought of him being chased around by someone made her uncomfortable.
However, the moment Myrcella mentioned Carl Stone, Sansa's eyes brightened just a little, and the tension between her brows eased.
Last night, before retiring to bed, Sansa had specifically asked a few servants about the tall knight who stood out among the king's escort. His height, striking features, and heroic bearing were impossible to ignore. And more importantly, he was the king's bodyguard.
Why a young knight served as the king's sworn protector instead of a member of the Kingsguard was unclear to her, and the curiosity lodged itself firmly in her mind.
Stone… that was a name given to the illegitimate children of the Vale, wasn't it? So was Ser Carl an illegitimate son as well?
But if he was already knighted, shouldn't he have changed his name? Why keep the bastard surname?
Sansa pondered quietly, her mind drifting, though she still offered Myrcella a warm, polite smile. She knew instinctively what to say, how to say it, and how to appear pleasant—her mother had taught her well.
"Ser Carl Stone is very responsible and very kind," Sansa said brightly. "He even took Jon as his squire and seems incredibly committed to training him."
She spoke with confidence, praising a knight she hadn't exchanged a single word with. But her praise wasn't entirely performative—she genuinely believed Ser Carl carried the qualities of a true knight. Noble. Composed. Capable.
"Jon is lucky," she added, still smiling.
The moment Sansa spoke those words, Princess Myrcella's needle jerked off course. She almost pricked her own finger, her expression twisting in a way that made Sansa blink in confusion.
Sister Mordan immediately stepped forward.
"Princess, are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, Sister Mordan. Don't worry," Myrcella said quickly, pulling her hand back with a tiny, embarrassed cough.
Across the table, Arya—whose own sewing had gone disastrously off track—grimaced at the sight.
Sansa let out a soft breath of relief, but she had also noticed the timing of Myrcella's mishap. The princess reacted right after she praised Carl Stone.
Her courtly instinct told her she might have said something wrong.
"Princess Myrcella… did I misspeak?" Sansa asked cautiously.
"No, no," Myrcella answered too quickly, then softened her tone. "I only tugged too hard on the thread. That's all."
She looked down at her lap, unsure how to explain herself.
Because… Sansa wasn't wrong. Carl Stone was responsible. He had saved her brother's life. And when her brother lied and framed him afterward, Carl didn't act angry or spiteful. Instead, he forgave the offense, choosing to let it pass without demanding anything in return.
He'd even said a prince didn't need to apologize. That his duty as a sworn knight of the king was to uphold the royal family's dignity, not demand restitution.
But King Robert hadn't agreed. Her father made Joffrey apologize in person—and even gave Carl Stone a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt as a token of apology.
Carl had accepted neither insult nor honor with arrogance. He remained composed. Kind.
And yet…
This same knight had killed two Kingsguard with his own hands.
Myrcella hadn't witnessed the trial by combat. But rumors spread in Winterfell like frost on glass, and eventually they found her ears. She may have been only eight years old, but adults often forgot she could understand more than they assumed.
The contrast unsettled her.
How could someone so gentle be so deadly? How could someone so humble carry such overwhelming strength?
And then Carl Stone refused the king's offer to appoint him to the Kingsguard.
He said he fought for justice and honor, not for position.
He said the outcome of the gods' trial was his proof of innocence.
He said the king deserved honorable guards—he himself was too unworthy.
Myrcella thought he was wrong about that. In her young heart, no one seemed more suited to the white cloak.
Perhaps, if he truly were to become one of the Kingsguard someday…
Perhaps she would ask her father to appoint him as her guardian knight—just as Joffrey had Sandor Clegane.
The idea made her cheeks warm.
…Elsewhere, on the training grounds of Winterfell
"Hound? What are you doing here?"
Carl wiped his blade clean after yet another effortless victory over Jon, who lay panting on the ground.
"Don't tell me you want to be my squire too. One fourteen-year-old headache is already enough."
Before dawn, he'd dragged Jon out of bed. After breakfast, he gave the boy half a bottle of energy potion and resumed their training, ignoring Jon's protests and broken pride.
Jon, trembling and sore, groaned and forced himself back onto his feet.
Carl raised his practice sword again—only to notice a looming presence at the edge of the training yard.
Sandor Clegane.
The Hound approached with heavy steps, clad in full plate armor and wearing his signature hound-shaped helm. The sight of him alone would send a flock of crows scattering.
He stopped a few paces away. His silence was heavy.
Jon, wiping sweat from his brow, froze.
Sandor's helm creaked as he lifted it from his head.
Jon recoiled at the sight beneath.
The left half of Sandor's face was a landscape of melted flesh—burnt, twisted, pocked with ridges and pits. His lips could not close properly, leaving red cracks across charred skin. Bone showed faintly along his jaw.
His right eye regarded them sharply, cold as steel.
Carl stared back without flinching.
"What exactly happened that day?" Sandor asked, his voice low, raw with frustration.
Carl blinked lazily. "Which day?"
He knew. Of course he knew. But pretending ignorance was second nature to him.
Sandor's good eye narrowed.
"The day Prince Joffrey fell into the water."
His burned cheek twitched, dragging the ruined half of his face into a grimace.
"Why can't I remember anything? What did you do to me?"
Carl tilted his head, examining the man as if he were an annoying puzzle.
"Maybe you hit your head," he said lightly. "Or maybe trying to rescue someone while wearing armor was just as stupid as it sounds."
A beat of silence.
Jon glanced between them nervously.
Sandor stared at Carl—then slowly reached back and drew his longsword.
The blade gleamed as he stepped backward to give himself room.
"I don't believe that," he growled. "I may be ugly, but I'm not as stupid as you say."
His sword lifted. Its point leveled directly at Carl's chest.
"I want the truth. Now. Or I will make you talk."
Jon instinctively grabbed his own wooden sword, as if that would help.
Carl let out a deep, weary sigh and finally turned around to face the Hound fully.
"Look at him," Carl muttered. "He's urgent again."
He lowered his guard—not out of fear, but annoyance—eyeing Sandor like someone who had interrupted his nap.
"Fine," Carl said. "If you want to act like this, I'll deal with you after I finish beating my squire."
Jon: "You just beat me—!"
Carl ignored him.
Sandor's sword lowered a fraction. His good eye flickered with confusion.
Because Carl wasn't scared.
Not even a little.
And Sandor Clegane, killer of men and monster of the battlefield…
was suddenly the only one here feeling uneasy.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)