Three months after his awakening as Jon Snow, the courtyard no longer intimidated him.

  in the past, Jon would have avoided Robb in the yard.

  Now, he stood across from him.

  They faced each other inside the ring, wooden swords raised, shields strapped tight. Frost clung to the stones, half-crushed by dozens of boots that had already passed through. Around them, the yard was attentive—this pairing drew eyes whether anyone admitted it or not.

  Rodrick was silent on the side, unlike his usual self.

  Robb smiled faintly.

  Jon said nothing. He adjusted his grip instead.

  “Ready?” Robb asked.

  Jon nodded.

  “Don’t take it to heart if I press too hard,” Robb said, making sure to placitate Jon for the defeat even befor the spar began. “You asked for this, Jon. You’ll learn more from a loss than an easy fight.”

  Jon took notice of the name coming out of Robb's mouth, JON, Robb called him by his name, not snow.

  Robb opened with a probing cut, light and quick, meant to test reflex rather than force a mistake. Jon caught it on his shield and felt the shock travel cleanly into his arm—not jarring, not sloppy.

  Robb followed with a second strike, then a third, varying the angle. Jon stepped back once, then stopped retreating. He shifted sideways instead, keeping the same distance between them.

  Robb noticed.

  “Good,” he said quietly, circling. “You finally stopped running away.”

  Jon answered with a short cut toward Robb’s shoulder. It didn’t land, but it made Robb raise his shield.

  “Still slow,” Robb added.

  “Why’s Robb is bothering with him? He’s nothing,” a boy muttered under his breath, eyes flicking toward Jon, but Jon didn't care in the slightest, and for Robb, he never saw himself in need to defend or explain himself, he simply does what he sees fit.

  They moved again.

  Robb pressed harder now, stepping inside Jon’s reach and forcing him to react quickly. Jon blocked one strike, absorbed another on his shield, then turned his wrist and slid his sword along Robb’s instead of batting it away.

  Wood scraped.

  They separated half a step.

  Theon let out a low whistle from the edge of the yard.... Carefree attitude as usual but deep inside, hiding both surprise and unease.

  “He’s getting better by the day,” one boy whispered to Theon, glancing at Jon.

  Theon’s eyes narrowing. “So what? He’ll be Snow today, tomorrow… always. His place won’t change.” Theon replied firmly but he was aware that a change in Jon would make a change in the yard, and if one rises, another must fall.

  Jon’s breathing stayed steady. He felt the burn in his arms, the pull in his shoulders—but it was familiar now, measured. He wasn’t fighting the fatigue; he was working through it.

  Robb advanced again. “You’ve been drilling footwork.”

  Jon deflected the strike. “Every morning.”

  Robb feinted high. Jon didn’t bite. He kept his guard centered and waited.

  That earned him a sharp nod from Rodrick on the side and Robb said with a grin, stepping back from Jon’s guard. “All that time in the study must be making you too clever for me to handle.”

  “Maybe you should spend more time in the study too, Robb,” Jon said, letting a small smile show. “Might actually teach you something.”

  Robb came in fast, closed the distance, and shoved with his shield. Jon stumbled back a step, boots slipping briefly on stone—but he recovered, adjusted his stance, and stayed upright.

  Robb hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second.

  Jon took it.

  He stepped in and drove Robb back with a solid cut to the shield, then another. Not strong enough to break through, but timed well enough to force Robb to retreat.

  Robb laughed aloud. “Alright. That’s truly new.”

  They broke apart, both breathing harder now.

  As Jon lowered his sword, a few boys exchanged quiet whispers near the edge of the yard.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “Did you see that? Snow actually held his own!” one muttered, eyes wide.

  “Yeah, but I still want the next round with Robb,” another said, nudging his friend. “I’ll prove I’m faster.”

  “I call it!” a third piped up, stepping forward eagerly. “Robb should spar with me next—he always notices good moves.”

  They argued softly, shoving and elbowing,each hoping to catch Robb’s attention first.

  Robb glanced at them, faint amusement tugging at his lips, and shook his head ever so slightly, letting them jostle for position.

  “Again,” Robb said looking toward Jon.

  Rodrick did not stop them.

  This time, Robb went straight through Jon’s guard with precision, tapped his ribs, and stepped away cleanly.... Showing the gap between him and Jon.

  Rodrick called. “Enough.”

  Jon lowered his sword.

  He had lost.

  But Robb was smiling—not politely.

  “That,” Robb said, leaning on his shield, “was worth my time.”

  Theon stared at Jon like he was trying to recalculate something. “I don’t like this,” he muttered.

  Jon wiped sweat from his face, and retreating to the corner to catch his breath and at the same moment, Robb ended up surrounded by the other boys once more, the future lord, the heir was basking in attention no matter where he goes, everyone trying to leave good impression, doing their all to engrave their names and faces in Robb's memory.

  Jon exhaled slowly, eyes still on Robb.

  “Good heart,” he murmured, so low it barely counted as sound. “Better than most and kind for now......Let’s hope they don’t teach you to forget that.”

  The yard didn’t pause. It never did. One bout ended, another began, and the world kept moving as though victories and losses were things meant to be swallowed quickly.

  Rodrick’s boots stopped beside him.

  Jon hadn’t heard him approach.

  “What was that?” Rodrick asked.

  Jon glanced up. “Nothing, Ser.”

  Rodrik didn’t move. “You were talking.”

  Jon hesitated, just long enough to be noticed. “Reminding myself of mistakes.”

  “Whose?” Rodrik asked.

  Jon looked back toward the ring, where Robb was already being circled by eager boys. “Mine.”

  Rodrik studied him in silence. The way he stood. The way his breathing had already settled.

  “You weren’t speaking about footwork, were you?” Rodrik said.

  Jon’s jaw tightened, then loosened again. “Sparring shows more than stance and footwork.”

  Rodrick gave a short huff. Not amusement. Interest.

  “It does,” he agreed. “And you’ve been showing more than I’d expect.”

  Jon shrugged. “I’ve been reading.”

  “Books don’t steady the hand,” Rodrick said.

  “Right… but books show you what happens when a man fails to steady his hand.” Jon answered.

  That earned Jon a longer look.

  Rodrik folded his arms. “You weren’t like this before… what changed?”

  Jon didn’t answer immediately. He knew better than to rush it.

  “I read about wars,” he said finally. “Real ones. Men who thought strength was enough. It wasn’t.”

  Rodrik’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

  “And?”

  “And I got tired,” Jon added, quieter now, “of being the boy people don’t bother to measure.”

  The words hung between them.

  Rodrik considered him for a long moment. Then, “Determination usually comes from pain.”

  Jon met his gaze. “Or from deciding not to wait for it.”

  Rodrik’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile.

  “Careful,” he said. “That kind of thinking makes men dangerous.”

  Jon lowered his eyes. “I’m not trying to be dangerous.”

  Rodrik snorted softly while nodding. “Aye. I can see that.”

  He turned to leave, then paused.

  “Keep at it, Snow,” Rodrik said. “But don’t mistake effort for wisdom. You’re still young.”

  Jon nodded. “I know.”

  Jon stayed where he was, hands still resting on the rim of his shield.

  And Rodrick walked away.

  after sometime, Ser Rodrik Cassel watched the boys disperse before finally lowering his practice blade. The yard slowly emptied, laughter and complaints trailing as the cold air crept across the stone.

  “Enough for today,” he muttered, though none remained close enough to hear him now.

  He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, feeling the dull ache settling into his knuckles. Age announced itself in small rebellions these days — stiffness in the joints, soreness that lingered longer than it once had. He rolled his shoulder once before turning toward the archway leading out of the training yard.

  His boots crunched softly over the thin crust of frost.

  Training the next generation of Winterfell had never been a duty he treated lightly. Steel was only part of it. Discipline, loyalty, restraint — those mattered more than any blade stroke. Boys learned to swing swords quickly. Teaching them when not to swing one took longer.

  His mind, as it often did after dismissal, drifted through the faces of his students.

  Rodrick moved through the corridors, time seemed to slip by almost unnoticed as he nodded to a passing servant and exchanged a few quiet words, letting his mind wander—until a familiar voice called from behind him.

  “Finished frightening the boys into proper soldiers, or did you finally run out of practice swords to break?”

  Rodrik’s head turned at the voice, and he snorted softly before he even saw its owner.

  Jory Cassel leaned against one of the pillars, arms folded across his chest, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

  “You’ve grown bold, nephew,” Rodrik said dryly, approaching. “Standing idle while honest men freeze in training yards.”

  “I’ve spent the day drilling guards who believe armor is a substitute for attention,” Jory replied. “I’d gladly trade them for your boys. At least yours listen quietly when corrected.”

  Rodrik huffed a short laugh.

  “They’ll become louder soon enough.”

  Jory pushed off the pillar and fell into step beside him as Rodrik continued toward the inner keep.

  “How did they fare today?” Jory asked.

  “As they always do,” Rodrik said. “Robb grows into his strength. Theon shoots straighter than his sense allows. The younger ones try to kill themselves impressing each other.”

  “And Snow?”

  Rodrik glanced sideways at him.

  “Improving,” he said simply. “Still weak with the bow. Stronger with the blade than he was a few months ago. Learns quickly. Works harder than he used to.”

  Jory nodded once, thoughtful.

  They walked in silence for several steps, boots echoing faintly against the stone corridor as they entered the keep proper. The warmth inside was slight but noticeable, carrying the faint scents of cooked meat and burning peat.

  “Lord Stark will want reports soon,” Jory said eventually. “The guards rotation needs adjusting, the result of the armoury inspection and the progress of the guards and the kids training.”

  Rodrik grunted in agreement. “I was thinking the same. It has been some time since the last time we reported to lord stark.”

  Jory’s smirk returned. “Meaning you’ve gathered enough complaints about lazy squires and sloppy sword grips to fill an evening.”

  “And you have not?” Rodrik shot back.

  “I save mine for when the ale is stronger,” Jory replied.

  Rodrik barked a short laugh at that, the sound echoing briefly along the corridor walls.

  “Come then,” he said, adjusting his gloves. “If we delay longer, your lord will think we’ve grown incompetent.”

  “Gods forbid,” Jory said solemnly.

  Together, they turned toward the stairs leading to Lord Stark’s solar, their steps steady, their conversation fading into the quiet strength of Winterfell’s stone halls as dusk settled fully beyond its walls.