Hall had been watching the commotion from the side, and when he saw Jon Snow trying his hardest to act composed and mature, he couldn't help but laugh. The boy's stiff posture, his tensed shoulders, and the way he tried to shield the small white direwolf behind him—it all made Hall feel an irresistible urge to tease.
"Hey, kid," Hall drawled, grinning as he leaned over, "if it really meant harm, that 'little rabbit' in your arms would've had its neck snapped already. Our boss would have gained a brand-new pair of gloves and boots."
He clicked his tongue exaggeratedly. "And you said your name is Jon Snow? Interesting!"
Jon stiffened as soon as Hall spoke, startled by the crude remark. The small direwolf—Ghost—bared its tiny fangs even more aggressively, stepping forward with a low growl rumbling in its throat.
Seeing that Hall was about to stir up trouble again, Karl didn't even bother to turn around. He simply reached out and pressed a hand onto the troublemaker's shoulder, casually pinning him in place. Then he looked at Jon with a calm, almost gentle expression.
"My name is Karl Stone," Karl said, his voice steady. "It's a pleasure to meet you—and your direwolf."
He gave Ghost a pointed look. "Besides, I can tell it doesn't mean any harm. So there's no need to be nervous."
Karl's reassuring tone took some of the tension out of the air. Jon hesitated, glancing down at Ghost. The little wolf's growling subsided slightly, though its red eyes remained fixed on Hall with sharp suspicion.
Karl's gaze lingered on Ghost, curiosity flickering in his eyes. This was the first time he had ever seen a direwolf. In truth, it reminded him somewhat of the wild wolves in the game world he once knew. The wolves there often roamed the forests in packs, their fur mostly gray. He had killed countless such beasts while leveling up.
But Ghost… Ghost was different. A tiny creature now, sure—but its pristine white coat and blood-red eyes made it feel almost unreal, like a creature born of magic rather than flesh. Karl wondered idly whether it would grow larger than the wolves from the game. Or perhaps even bigger than the giant wolves kept by Frida—the giantess who lived deep in the Goblin Forest of the North.
Frida's two wolves were enormous monsters. Even standing on all fours, they reached Karl's height. When he had first seen them, he had nearly jumped out of his skin. One of them even had white fur and red eyes like Ghost, and it had nearly swallowed him whole when he trespassed too close to Frida's home.
And in the world of ice and fire, direwolves were not just beasts—they were creatures of ancient magic. Their size, their senses, even their instincts were unlike ordinary wolves. So Karl wasn't surprised at all that Ghost might one day grow large enough to tower over men.
But after that brief moment of wandering thoughts, Karl brought his attention back to Jon Snow.
"So, Jon Snow," he asked casually, "may I know how old you are?"
The question seemed simple, but Jon reacted strangely. His gaze flickered to Karl's face, focusing sharply on his surname. To most, "Stone" was an ordinary name. But to a bastard from the North, born under the weight of social scorn, the surnames of bastards in other regions—Rivers, Sand, Snow, Stone—were a constant reminder of identity.
And Jon Snow was painfully sensitive to anything that touched upon the subject of bastards.
When Karl introduced himself as Karl Stone, Jon's eyes widened slightly. His voice stuttered.
"I… I will turn fifteen after next year's name day, Ser Karl Stone. Are you… are you a knight from the Vale?"
He hesitated, then blurted out awkwardly,
"I heard the Vale has many knights. I once met a knight named Waymar Royce—he came to Winterfell and later took the black."
Jon's cheeks flushed as soon as he finished speaking. He realized that his question might have sounded too forward, or worse—rude. And so, in a flustered panic, he tried to correct himself.
"I—I didn't mean to offend. I was just curious, Ser Karl…"
Karl couldn't help but smile at Jon's awkwardness. The boy's earnestness, his nervousness, the way he tried to appear calm—it made him seem both pitiful and endearing.
Meanwhile, Hall—who had popped up again the moment Karl relaxed his grip—grinned broadly, enjoying the show.
"Looks like Jon Snow is pretty interested in knights!" he announced loudly. "Boss, how about I tell him about your glorious deeds? I swear I'm very reliable!"
Karl smacked him on the shoulder, but Hall dodged with a laugh.
Karl didn't bother chasing him down. Instead, he frowned faintly at Hall's words, then shifted his gaze back to Jon—who was now looking even more nervous under the combined pressure of teasing and curiosity.
"Jon Snow," Karl murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Jon… Snow…"
He crossed his arms, regarding the boy with an unexpectedly serious look.
Then, in a calm but piercing tone, he asked,
"Bastard Jon Snow, what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?"
Jon froze.
Karl's voice remained casual, but every word was sharp as an arrow.
"Will you stay in this boring, gloomy castle your whole life? Stand behind the Stark heir, serve him faithfully, guard him like a shadow?" Karl tilted his head. "Is that the future you want?"
"Or…" He raised a brow. "Are you going to don black, head to the Wall, and freeze your bird off while guarding a thousand-foot chunk of ice?"
"That's the other path for bastards, isn't it? The noble choice everyone praises—but only until they see what the Wall truly is."
Hall immediately cut in, unable to restrain himself.
"Oh, and kid—forget what you read about the Night's Watch in your storybooks. Those days are over. The Watch today is filled with bastards, rapists, thieves, and every kind of scum you can think of!"
Karl did not contradict him.
His silence was agreement enough.
Jon's lips parted, but no sound came out.
For a boy who always tried so hard to appear calm, the blunt reality struck like a slap.
The two paths Karl mentioned weren't just choices—they were like knives lodged deep in Jon's chest, carving open wounds he had long tried to ignore.
He knew these were his likely fates.
He knew he wasn't destined for anything grand.
He knew that being born a bastard meant living in the shadows.
His choices were always limited:
Remain in Winterfell forever, becoming Robb's loyal subordinate.
Or put on the black and join the Night's Watch—where most people ended up only when they had nowhere else to go.
Karl voiced truths Jon had tried to bury.
And Jon had no way to deny them.
He stared blankly at Karl and Hall, the weight of the future pressing down so heavily that it crushed the air from his lungs.
Was he doomed to become Robb's vassal? A man forced to kneel before his own brother?
Or was he meant to disappear into the cold, dark expanse of the Wall—where he would fight, freeze, and eventually die, leaving nothing behind?
When Waymar Royce had stayed in Winterfell as a guest, Sansa had been immediately enchanted by the young knight's elegance, but Jon… Jon had been drawn to something else entirely.
The black cloak.
The idea of duty. Purpose. Escape.
Even now, the thought of the Wall tugged at him.
Maybe that was where bastards belonged. Maybe that was the only place where birth didn't matter.
Jon had no mother to claim him. He had no noble inheritance. And though Lord Eddard Stark treated him kindly, Jon never forgot the truth—he was not like Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, or Rickon.
He didn't have a mother's gentle laughter to run to.
He didn't know who his mother even was.
Catelyn Stark had once asked Lord Stark about Jon's mother. The next day, no one dared mention it ever again. The matter became taboo.
Jon learned early on to read expressions, to sense when a question must never be asked.
So he swallowed it all. The loneliness. The resentment. The longing.
Karl noticed that Jon hadn't spoken for a long time. The boy's head was bowed slightly, his hands clenched at his sides.
And at some point—Karl wasn't sure when—Jon Snow's eyes had quietly reddened.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)