TitoVillar
patreon
GOT Chapter 45: It’s Just a Stick
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 06:09:51 +0000 UTCHall, who had been watching the scene unfold with interest, couldn’t help but let out a couple of amused snorts when he saw Jon trying so hard to act like a grown man.
He immediately felt the urge to tease.
“Hey, kid—if it really meant harm, that little ‘rabbit’ of yours would’ve had its neck twisted by now.”
“And our captain here would’ve ended up with a new pair of gloves and boots…”
“And you said your name’s Snow? Now that’s interesting.”
As soon as Hall said this, Jon instinctively froze for a moment.
Ghost bared his sharp fangs even more, his snarl low and clear.
Seeing Hall stir up trouble, Kal casually reached back and shoved the troublemaker aside without even turning his head. Then, with calm eyes, he looked at Jon.
“My name is Kal Stone. It’s a pleasure to meet you—and your direwolf.”
“And I can tell—it doesn’t mean any harm... so there’s no need for you to be so tense.”
Kal offered those words to reassure Jon and his wolf. He then shifted his gaze back to Ghost with visible curiosity.
This was his first time seeing a direwolf. To be honest, the creature did resemble the wild wolves from the game world. But unlike those grey-coated wolves that only roamed aimlessly through the woods, this one—
Kal had killed plenty of those while leveling up.
But the little one before him was clearly still just a pup.
He wondered if, once grown, it might become even larger than the wild wolves from the game.
Or perhaps… even larger than the wolves raised by that female giant, Frida, who lived north of the Goblin Forest.
Frida had two massive wolves. One of them also had red eyes and snow-white fur. The first time Kal saw it, it had scared the hell out of him.
Even without standing upright, just on all fours, her wolves were already as tall as Kal himself—monsters, really.
And in the world of ice and fire, direwolves seemed to carry a touch of magic in their blood. So it wasn’t all that surprising if they grew to such enormous size.
Still, as for Jon’s Ghost, Kal gave him only a passing glance and didn’t dwell on it.
His focus returned to Jon.
“So, Snow—mind telling me how old you are?” Kal asked casually, the teasing now gone from his tone.
Jon glanced at Kal, noting how the man still had one hand pressed down on the guy who had mocked him earlier.
But Jon wasn’t bothered by Hall’s provocation. Instead, what caught his attention was Kal’s last name.
Anything related to bastards always struck a nerve with Jon, so when Kal introduced himself as “Stone,” Jon couldn’t help but widen his eyes, his voice thick with surprise.
“I… I’ll be fifteen after next name day, Ser Kal Stone…”
“You’re a knight from the Vale… aren’t you?”
“I—I heard there are many knights in the Vale… I even met one once. A knight named Ser Waymar Royce—he went to the Wall and joined the Night’s Watch…”
Jon’s voice faltered, as if embarrassed to speak too directly.
But after the words slipped out, he realized they might have come off as rude, so he hurried to amend them in a slightly flustered tone.
Kal looked at Jon—his wide-eyed, flustered, and visibly young expression—and couldn’t help but find it a little amusing.
Hall, who had just been held down with one hand a moment ago, popped up again like he hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly enjoying the show. “Looks like our little Snow here is quite fascinated with knights, eh?”
“Boss, want me to tell him some glorious tales of your adventures?”
“Trust me—I never mess things up!”
“You’ll do everyone a favor by shutting up,” Kal shot back, smacking a hand in Hall’s direction. But Hall just ducked away with a laughing dodge.
Kal didn’t bother chasing after him. Instead, as Hall’s words sank in, his expression grew more serious, and a faint furrow appeared on his brow.
His gaze returned to Jon, who now looked even more tense under scrutiny.
“Jon… Snow…” Kal murmured, folding his arms and pinching his chin in thought.
Then he looked straight into Jon’s grey eyes and asked, with a tone that was just a bit more serious, “Bastard Snow—what do you think of the road ahead?”
“Are you planning to stay cooped up in this gloomy castle where the sky is always grey, waiting to become the right hand of the future heir to House Stark?”
“Or are you going to take the black—head to the Wall where the cold can freeze your balls off—and spend the rest of your days surrounded by snow, ice, and a bunch of crusty old bastards who maybe bathe once a year?”
“Oh—forgot to mention,” Kal added, his tone dry, “the Night’s Watch today isn’t quite what you’ve read in books or heard from your old wet nurse…”
“They’re full of scum: rapists, thieves, and all kinds of lowlife trash!” Hall jumped in again, this time more excited, as if the topic genuinely fired him up.
Kal didn’t react to Hall cutting in. Clearly, he wasn’t going to contradict him.
Jon stood in awkward silence.
Fourteen years old and desperately trying to act like a man, Jon could only stare at the two men with dazed eyes. He opened his mouth—wanting to speak—but the words just wouldn’t come out.
Kal’s words had drawn out two paths for Jon—two blades, each stabbing into his chest and leaving him breathless.
But he had no way to refute them.
It was as if, from the moment he was born, his life had already been set in stone—meant to be pushed aside, meant to be shunned and bullied.
He was lost in thought, unsure whether his future lay in becoming one of Robb’s bannermen, staying here in Winterfell, or leaving to some smaller, colder castle to live out a predictable, dead-end life.
Or perhaps donning the black, like Ser Waymar Royce, who had once been a guest here—becoming a crow that would never fly.
At that thought, something shifted faintly in Jon’s expression. He found himself curious: what was the Wall really like?
It wasn’t just Sansa who had been stirred by Waymar Royce.
Back when Jon first laid eyes on that second son who chose to wear black, the thought had stirred in his own heart too.
Maybe the Wall truly was where he belonged. Maybe the black cloak was a bastard’s proper fate.
There would never be a stone tomb waiting for him in the Stark family crypt.
He didn’t want to become Robb’s bannerman, forced to kneel to his own brother.
He was just a lowly bastard, even if his father loved him as dearly as the other children.
But unlike Robb and the others, he had no mother to dote on him, no arms to cling to, no maternal warmth to shield him without restraint.
He didn’t even know who his mother was…
Lady Catelyn Tully had once tried to uncover the answer—but after that day, no one in Winterfell dared speak of it again.
The identity of Jon Snow’s mother had become a taboo.
And as a bastard long trained in reading the moods of others, Jon had never dared ask his father that question himself.
Kal watched as Jon fell silent at his words—and somewhere along the way, he noticed the boy’s eyes had quietly turned red.
Kal thought that if Jon’s eyes were just a bit redder—and if he had a full head of silvery white hair—he might pass for Ghost’s brother.
As long as Jon could keep the tears in his eyes from falling, there was still a chance.
So Kal smiled, then stood up and took two steps forward until he was standing directly in front of Jon Snow.
He looked down at the boy before him, who only came up to his chest.
Jon was startled by Kal’s sudden movement and instinctively took a step back—without noticing that Ghost had, at some point, come up to rub against his leg.
Fortunately, Kal reached out and grabbed him before he could fall.
But Kal paid no mind to Jon’s awkwardness.
Instead, he suddenly raised a hand and pointed at the longsword strapped to Jon’s waist. “What’s that on your hip? A dagger?”
“It’s a sword…” Jon mumbled, though for some reason, Kal’s words filled him with a deep sense of embarrassment.
As if someone had stripped him naked in front of a crowd.
Hearing Jon’s explanation, Kal abruptly reached out and drew the so-called "sword" from Jon’s belt.
Jon was too slow to react. He hadn’t even tried to stop Kal before the weapon was already in his hand.
The redness in Jon’s eyes faded—but it quickly spread to his cheeks.
Kal paid no attention to the boy’s shame. Instead, he hefted Jon’s “sword” in his hand, testing its weight.
It did feel somewhat like a sword, just as Jon had claimed.
Unfortunately, it was made of wood.
The blade hadn’t even been sharpened. It merely bore the shape of a sword.
So Kal let out a few dry chuckles.
“Oh, so it’s just a stick!”
“I used to like these straight sticks too, when I was little. I even called them ‘swords’.”
“But…”
“This kind of thing—I’d make it myself. So tell me, did your father carve this for you?”
As he looked at the thing, Kal suddenly burst out laughing.
Jon’s face grew even redder.
Still, he didn’t turn around and flee with tears in his eyes. He stood his ground, stubbornly glaring up at Kal.
“This is the weapon we use for practice. I… I could use a real sword, actually, but our instructor, Ser Rodrik Cassel, won’t allow it!”
“And I’m good at swordsmanship!”
Jon shouted in protest, as if saying it louder would somehow soften the sting of being mocked.
He was determined to emphasize the areas where he believed he excelled.
After all, among Lord Eddard Stark’s children, even Robb was only slightly better than him with a spear. But when it came to the sword—Jon believed no one could beat him.
