Jon stood alone in the courtyard, bruised and winded. Robb had just bested him again in sparring.
The younger Stark siblings watched from the archways, silent.
> "You're always too angry," Robb had told him. "That's why you lose your balance."
But Jon didn't want to hear it.
He gripped his training sword tighter, knuckles white.
That was when Köinzell stepped forward.
> "You're using rage to steady yourself," Köinzell said calmly, brushing snow from his shoulder. "But rage is loud. And loud swords die first."
Jon looked up, wary. "What do you know of it?"
Köinzell smiled faintly. "Enough to have survived battles you can't imagine."
Without waiting, he drew a wooden sword and raised it in one hand.
> "Attack me. Show me your best."
Jon hesitated, then lunged forward, shouting—his strikes fast, emotional, and wild.
Köinzell moved like wind slipping between stones. His parries were effortless. A twist of his wrist, a shift of his foot—and Jon was in the snow, disarmed.
> "You think strength comes from blood or name?" Köinzell asked, helping him up. "No. It comes from clarity. Calm. Control."
Jon gritted his teeth. "Then teach me."
Köinzell's golden eyes narrowed slightly.
He saw it—the flicker of dragonflame in the boy's heart.
> "Fine. But know this—true strength comes with a cost. You may gain power, but you will lose the warmth of the crowd. Walk too far ahead… and you walk alone."
Jon looked down at his hands.
> "I've always been alone."
Köinzell nodded slowly.
> "Then perhaps… you're ready."
From that day on, they trained in secret—under moonlight in the godswood, behind the armory at dawn, and during midnight patrols in the darkened halls. Köinzell taught him stances used by sword saints, how to breathe in battle, and how to sense a killing intent before it emerged.
Jon was a fast learner. Too fast.
But Köinzell knew why.
> He is Rhaegar's son. And Lyanna's resolve lives in his blood. The boy was born for war.