The great hall of Winterfell was warmed by the blaze of the hearths. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and hot wine lingered in the air. Serving girls moved between the tables, and the sound of cups, cutlery, and conversation filled the space with life.
Willian sat between Jon and Robb, his sword resting behind the chair. Jeyne Poole was on the other side of the hall, alongside Sansa and other maidens, but her eyes kept drifting toward him — and not subtly.
Robb was the first to notice.
"She looks at you like she's been slighted by a knight in the middle of a tourney," he said, tearing a piece of meat with his teeth.
Jon lifted his eyes from the plate, discreetly.
"Or like a maiden who expected a nod and got silence."
Willian kept his gaze on the wine cup.
"You two have too much time to decode glances."
Robb laughed, nudging Willian with his elbow.
"And you have too much time pretending not to notice. She's bitter. Like she was ignored by a prince."
Jon sliced his bread calmly.
"She tried to seem more than she is. And you treated her as she is — a girl."
Willian sighed.
"Because that's what she is."
Robb raised an eyebrow.
"That doesn't stop pride from being wounded. A smile costs nothing."
Willian swirled the wine in his cup, thoughtful.
"A smile can be a promise. And promises carry weight."
Jon stared at him for a moment.
"Don't start with that again."
Willian gave a faint smile.
"But then it loses its charm."
Robb laughed loudly, drawing glances from nearby tables.
"You should write a book. 'Words of a twelve-summer-old old man.'"
Willian finally chuckled, quietly.
Theon approached the table with his crooked smile and that swagger of someone who thought the world owed him reverence. He grabbed a piece of meat from the platter without asking and dropped onto the bench beside Robb.
"Talking about maidens, huh?" he said, mouth full. "Or is it one in particular?"
Willian didn't answer. Jon kept his eyes on his plate.
Theon looked at Jeyne, who was still casting furtive glances.
"She looks at you like she wants to be deflowered before winter ends," he said with a mocking tone. "And you sit there all serious, like you've got no blood in your veins."
Robb frowned.
"Theon…"
But he ignored it.
"If you don't want to taste the honey between her thighs, maybe I should. Shame to let a flower like that wilt unused."
Willian set his cup down calmly.
"You speak like a man who's had nothing but wine and vanity."
Theon laughed.
"Oh, but I've had plenty. More than one, if you must know. And none complained. You mean to tell me you don't feel the urge? That you don't think about it when she looks at you like that?"
Willian looked at him, firm.
"Thinking isn't acting. And acting without honor is the mark of a coward."
Jon straightened in his seat, tense. Robb no longer smiled.
Theon raised his hands, feigning surrender.
"Easy, easy. Just a joke. The gods know I'm not made of ice."
Willian returned his gaze to the wine.
A joke. It always is. Until it isn't.
Jeyne Poole, who had been speaking with Sansa, turned her head at the wrong moment. Theon's words — too loud and too mocking — shot across the hall like a stray arrow.
She heard them.
The blush rose quickly to her cheeks, burning hotter than the hearth fire. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she froze — as if the entire world had stopped to look only at her.
Then, without a word, she turned sharply and left the hall, her blue cloak billowing behind her.
Robb rubbed his face, embarrassed.
"You crossed the line, Theon."
Jon shook his head, serious.
"That wasn't just foolishness. That was cruelty."
Willian let out a long sigh, setting his cup down carefully.
Theon, meanwhile, laughed loudly, without a trace of remorse.
"What? Did I say something untrue?"
But his laughter died quickly when the figure of Ned Stark appeared at the entrance of the hall.
The Lord of Winterfell walked with firm steps, his gaze as sharp as ever. Silence spread wherever he passed, as if even the stone of the castle respected him.
He stopped before the boys' table, his eyes briefly resting on each of them — and lastly, on Theon.
"What happened to the maiden who ran off?"
No one answered right away.
Willian stood, posture straight.
"It was a poorly chosen word, uncle. Nothing that can't be mended."
Ned looked at him for a moment, then turned to Theon.
"In Winterfell, words carry weight. And honor isn't measured by the laughter they provoke."
Theon swallowed hard, trying to keep his smile.
Ned turned to Willian.
"Come with me. We need to talk."
Willian nodded, calmly picking up his sword.
Ned walked to the hearth and leaned against the stone edge. He stood there for a few seconds, silent, watching the flames. The warmth didn't seem to reach him — as if the cold of the North was always present, even inside Winterfell.
Willian waited, standing firm, unmoving. His eyes were alert but respectful. He knew Ned disliked haste and words thrown to the wind.
The Lord of Winterfell turned slowly and walked to the desk. There was an open scroll with handwritten numbers. Columns of golden dragons, sales records, contracts. Ned scanned them carefully, as if reading not just figures, but consequences.
He let out a sigh — not of weariness, but of relief. A rare kind. The kind not found in battles, but in accounts that finally balance.
Ned watched his nephew for a moment, then spoke in a firm, low voice:
"You've done more than just observe. Your ideas… they've blossomed."
Willian inclined his head slightly.
"I'm just glad to have helped."
Ned looked at him with that steady gaze, weighing every word before speaking.
"The soap. That simple formula you taught the craftsmen… You've seen what it's done? The artisans now sell to White Harbor, to smaller castles, even to southern merchants. I never thought something so trivial could be worth so much."
Willian gave a half-smile.
"Cleanliness is underrated. But when it becomes coin, people learn quickly."
Ned let out a low laugh, almost a rumble. It was a rare sound.
"And the distillate. The 'white fire.' The barrels don't last in the taverns. The men of the North respect it. The gold it brings… it's made Winterfell's coffers breathe easier."
The pride in Ned's eyes was undeniable. He was seeing a Stark — even if not by blood — use intelligence and vision to strengthen the North.
But, as always, the relief gave way to concern. Ned ran his fingers along the edge of the desk, as if touching the weight of the responsibility he carried.
"What you've done… isn't common. Nor expected. But it worked."
Ned's voice became more serious.
"And that's what worries me. This knowledge… this vision… they can be a double-edged sword, Willian. Wealth and power attract the attention of snakes. And the North, my nephew, does not bend to games of intrigue."
Willian crossed his arms. "These aren't games, uncle. It's preparation. And I'm the one in control."
Ned sighed, a heavy sigh. He turned, leaning his hands on the desk and facing his nephew. The conversation about the mercenary company would follow, with Ned's gaze weighing on every word.
He turned again, leaning his hands on the desk, staring at his nephew.
"With this gold, you could buy lands. Invest in trade. But you want to form a mercenary group."
Willian nodded.
"Yes. Trained men. Discipline over strength. Loyalty over fame. Like the Swiss I read about in the manuscripts — long spears, tight formations, firm shields."
Ned frowned, but didn't interrupt.
"Mercenaries aren't well regarded in Westeros. They fight for contracts. For coin. Not for honor."
Willian stepped forward.
"I don't want raiders. I want prepared men. People who can face what's coming. Because something is coming, uncle. And it won't be defeated with empty promises and dull blades."
Ned remained silent. His gaze wasn't one of disapproval — it was one of calculation. As if weighing the proposal against everything he knew of the world.
"You see far. Further than many lords. But remember: gold buys swords. Not loyalty."
Willian held his gaze.
"That's why I'll choose carefully. And train better."
Ned approached slowly. He stopped in front of Willian and looked at him for a long moment. There was no smile. But in his eyes — a restrained glimmer, almost imperceptible. Pride. And perhaps a hint of hope.
"And if those men are loyal to you… and not to Winterfell?"
Willian didn't hesitate.
"If they're loyal to me, they'll be loyal to the North. Because that's why I'm doing all this."
Ned let out another sigh. Lighter. Like someone who sees that, for now, the path is still safe.
He returned to the desk, picked up the scroll, and rolled it carefully.
"If you're going down this path, you'll have my support. But also my attention."
Willian responded with a discreet nod.
"That's enough."
Ned looked at him once more. And this time, the gaze lingered. As if he were seeing not just his nephew — but the man he was becoming.
Willian held his posture, but inside, his mind was already working.