Half a month had passed since Sandor Clegane's last outburst.
But even after so many days, the incident remained a popular topic throughout Winterfell.
In the North—this cold, bleak, gods-forsaken stretch of land—any tiny scrap of entertainment was enough to feed gossip for half a year. And when that scrap involved a clash between two giants of very different kinds, one a renowned royal hound and the other a man who treated danger as casually as his morning piss, people remembered.
Besides, after the King announced his intention to travel south again—and Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, agreed to accompany him—there was little for common folk to discuss openly. Politics could only be whispered about behind closed doors, and most of Winterfell's subjects were still too stunned and proud to process that their own lord was about to become Hand of the King.
So what did people do?
They returned to the three true joys of northern life: drinking, eating, and messing around. And when those weren't enough to release the restless energy in their bones, they flocked to the only other place that offered excitement: the training grounds.
Especially because Carl Stone was there.
Ever since Sir Carl Stone had made a name for himself at the Crossroads Inn, he had become a northern fascination—a southern-born brute who somehow fit perfectly into the frozen North. Since arriving at Winterfell, he had taken on his first squire, Jon Snow, and the daily chaos on the training grounds had become a spectacle everyone wanted to witness.
The duel Sandor Clegane had initiated two weeks ago had been the highlight. People had expected a grand clash—steel ringing, sand flying, the ground shaking. What they got instead was something so anticlimactic that even now, recalling it left people half laughing, half bewildered.
The Hound, who normally looked enormous and terrifying, seemed to shrink beside Carl Stone. Even the massive greatsword he wielded looked like a child's toy. Carl, wielding nothing more than the wooden practice sword he jokingly called Jon Snow's "teething club," had shattered Sandor's attack in a single clean parry.
Then Carl had headbutted him.
A single, decisive, skull-rattling headbutt that echoed across the training yard like a smith hammering iron. Before the Hound could recover from the shock, Carl grabbed him by the collar, punched him again for good measure, and sent him toppling like a felled tree.
Sandor had been unconscious before his head even hit the dirt.
"I don't think the Duke of Stark likes people sleeping on his parade ground," Carl had said, brushing the dust from his hands as casually as if he had finished relieving himself behind a bush. "Someone drag this mutt away. And find him a maester to fix that nose—he was already ugly enough."
That moment sealed Carl Stone's reputation in Winterfell.
People might not have known or cared about the southern nickname "Fast Sword," but strength—genuine, unquestionable, absurd strength—people understood.
Since then, as Carl trained Jon each day, more and more warriors, guards, and plain bored northerners gathered to watch. In this era lacking theaters, singers, or any real entertainment, watching two men pummel each other in the mud was considered high culture.
Carl didn't chase them away. In fact, he enjoyed it.
Because every day, he picked a few "lucky volunteers" from the crowd and told them to brawl with Jon Snow. He called it training. Everyone else called it madness.
He even made rules. Well, one rule:
Jon could use any method except real weapons—unless he was fighting Carl.
Unrestrained fighting. Hair pulling, biting, rolling in mud, grabbing crotches—anything went. The northerners loved it. They had centuries of tradition in beating each other senseless with creativity.
They especially enjoyed beating up Lord Stark's bastard.
At first, the matches were completely one-sided. Jon, inexperienced and lacking technique, got thrashed every day. And the crowd—those generous, honorable northerners—quickly began betting on his losses.
But after half a month of Carl's brutal regimen, things had changed rapidly.
Jon Snow didn't break.
He didn't collapse.
He didn't even complain.
Instead, he grew tougher. Faster. Meaner.
Every day his resilience shocked the onlookers, and people started whispering that perhaps there was some truth in the rumor that bastards grew up faster.
On this particular morning, the training ground was packed. Hundreds of people crowded close, faces flushed from shouting, breath steaming in the cold air.
"Smash his nose! What kind of punch is that, you limp goat?!"
"Kick his crotch—did that girl drain you dry last night?!"
"Yes! Bite him! Bite his ear off!"
Two bodies rolled through the mud in the center of the ring. Jon and a stocky man named Harris were locked together like two wolves wrestling for dominance. Faces mud-smeared and unrecognizable, they clawed, punched, and grunted, their arms trembling from exhaustion.
Jon's breath came in ragged bursts as he pressed his chin against Harris's hand to stop him from grabbing his hair. His own hands were buried in Harris's hair, keeping the man's face away.
Three seconds—that was all Jon needed to catch his breath.
With a burst of strength, he kicked Harris off his legs, grabbed the man's head, and smashed it forward.
The sound was sickening.
"OGH—!! Bloody hell!" Harris yelped, spitting mud.
"I surrender!" he shouted immediately, tossing his white rag.
Jon let him go and collapsed backward, gasping for air but smiling despite the pain radiating across his face.
The crowd erupted—not in applause, but in groans, curses, and triumphant laughter.
"Seven hells! I bet on Harris!"
"Damn it—I thought the bastard would lose again!"
"Hahaha! I knew Jon Snow would win! Pay up!"
"Rot in a ditch, you smug rat!"
Their curses made Jon's chest shake with exhausted laughter.
Half a month ago, no one placed bets on him winning.
Now he had cost them more silver than the taverns did.
As Jon lay there smiling weakly at the sky, a shadow fell over him. A large hand appeared in front of his face.
Carl Stone.
"Get up," Carl said. "I told you—Duke Stark won't like anyone sleeping on his parade ground."
Jon groaned and took the hand. "My father never said anything like that."
Carl grinned, hauling him to his feet with ease.
"If that's what bothers you," Carl said with a wink, "I don't actually mind if you call me father."
Jon blinked—then spat mud, face flushing.
"FUCK!!!"
The crowd burst into laughter.
And just like that, another day of chaos on Winterfell's training grounds had begun.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)