Winterfell had always been more than just a castle; it was a living symbol of the North's endurance. Its history stretched back thousands of years, rivaling even that of the Wall itself. Built of ancient stone, vast in size and shadowed by towering battlements, Winterfell sat proudly on the edge of the Wolfswood, a black crown resting upon the land it ruled.
It was said that the Starks of Winterfell had been Kings in the North for over eight thousand years, their power stretching across snow-covered mountains and endless forests. Yet now, within those very walls that had seen countless winters, a tension unlike any other gripped the hearts of its people.
The cause was no secret. Their lord, Eddard Stark, had gone south less than half a year ago to serve as Hand of the King. Now, word had returned that he had been executed for treason under the orders of the boy-king Joffrey Baratheon.
But no one in Winterfell believed it.
The people knew Lord Eddard. They had seen his honor, his steadfastness, his refusal to lie even when truth brought him pain. The very idea that he would betray his king was an insult too ridiculous to accept. To them, it was clear—Joffrey's accusations were nothing but the poisoned lies of the South.
The castle buzzed with grim purpose. Blacksmiths hammered steel with relentless force, sparks showering into the cold air as swords, spears, and armor were forged at twice the usual pace. In the courtyards, men drilled from morning until dusk, their war cries echoing against the stone. Winterfell was preparing for war, and all awaited the command of their new lord—Robb Stark.
Inside the solar, Robb stood before a great map of the North, candlelight flickering across his young but determined face. Though barely a man grown, responsibility now weighed heavily upon him. At his side, calm and precise as always, stood Maester Luwin, the gray-haired keeper of knowledge and counsel.
Another figure lingered close by—taller, older, with dark hair and sharp features. His smirk betrayed a certain eagerness. This was Theon Greyjoy, ward of House Stark, and in his own mind, more than just a guest of Winterfell.
Luwin's voice broke the silence, his finger tracing over the map as he spoke.
"House Karstark will raise no fewer than two thousand, perhaps as many as twenty-five hundred men. House Bolton, four thousand strong. Castle Cerwyn will provide several hundred more. And do not forget the mountain clans—they may not be great in number, but their loyalty to House Stark is beyond question. They too will march."
The maester's memory was sharp, his years of service making him an invaluable advisor. He had delivered each of Catelyn Stark's children into the world, and now he aided her son as the boy prepared for war. Though small in stature, Luwin's pockets bulged with scrolls and notes. Any figure, any lineage, any fact Robb might need—Luwin could produce it at once.
Yet, as plans were made and names spoken, Robb's eyes often drifted back to the map. His hand rested on the carved wooden markers representing castles and armies. In his mind, bold strategies took shape—ambushes, marches, and battles yet to be fought. One location in particular drew his gaze again and again, a place that could not be ignored.
The quiet was broken by the arrival of an assistant maester, who bowed low and presented a letter sealed with wax.
"My lord, Maester Luwin—a message from the Wall."
"The Wall?" Robb echoed, frowning. He had only recently sent supplies northward; what reason could the Night's Watch have to write now?
He broke the seal and began to read. His expression shifted—first confusion, then a brief shadow of disappointment, before finally something lighter, something almost like relief.
"What is it?" Theon asked, stepping forward, eager for news.
Robb hesitated, then said, "Jon… has left the Wall. He is coming back to Winterfell."
Theon raised his brows, feigning shock. "He deserted? The bastard actually deserted?" His words carried a mocking lilt, though his eyes flickered with something sharper—jealous amusement.
The letter was not in Jon's hand but in that of Samwell Tarly, dictated by Maester Aemon. Along with it was Jon's own farewell note, written in hurried strokes. Luwin read it carefully before speaking.
"Robb, though Jon left without leave, he did so for your father. Can a son be faulted for wishing to save his lord and kin? Besides, he has not yet taken the vows fully. He is no true brother of the Watch."
Luwin had always felt a certain pity for Jon Snow. The boy had grown up with his Stark siblings, yet never truly among them. A bastard's place was always on the edge of shadow. Jon had built walls of his own—walls of silence, of inferiority, of yearning for a mother he would never know. Rarely did he even call Eddard "father," choosing instead the distant "Lord Stark."
And yet, despite all that, Jon had always carried honor within him. Now, in this desperate hour, the boy sought only to fight for the father he could barely claim. Luwin's heart softened. He would not speak against Jon now.
"The Night's Watch sent this letter willingly," Luwin continued. "That in itself is telling. They do not condemn Jon, but rather pass along his words. It seems they wish him to aid in Lord Eddard's rescue. If they hold no grudge, why should we?"
Robb nodded slowly. A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. With his mother still in the South, two little brothers—one crippled, one still in swaddling years—and the burden of command pressing on him, the thought of Jon's return was more than welcome.
"Yes," Robb said firmly. "We will bring him back."
Turning, he laid a hand on Theon's shoulder. "Theon, when Jon arrives, go out and meet him. If he left the Wall in haste, he may have little in the way of provisions. See to it that he returns safely."
Theon stiffened at once. His smile faltered, though he quickly forced it back. Inwardly, bitterness burned. Me? Sent to meet him? Jon is a bastard, a Snow, and yet Robb sends me like some errand boy to fetch him?
"But the letter also says the Watch has sent men to… track him," Theon said, grasping at excuse. "What if they catch him first? What if he never makes it back at all?"
Robb's eyes flashed with determination. "He will," he said, with the same certainty he would give an oath. "Jon will come home."
Theon said no more. But jealousy gnawed at him.
In Winterfell, Theon was always second-best. He was Eddard's hostage, the ward taken after Balon Greyjoy's failed rebellion. He was tolerated, but never fully trusted. Respected, but never truly loved. And though he was heir to the Iron Islands, here he was little more than a reminder of his father's folly.
Jon, on the other hand, was a bastard—supposedly beneath him in every way. And yet, Robb trusted him. Robb welcomed him back with open arms. Robb spoke his name with the weight of brotherhood.
Theon clenched his jaw. I am the trueborn son of a king. Jon Snow is nothing. And yet… he returns, and I am told to fetch him like a servant.
Still, another thought crept in. Perhaps this was an opportunity. Jon was returning in shame, a deserter of the Watch. Why not twist the knife a little deeper? Why not greet him with the threat of Robb's anger, with whispers that his head would roll for breaking vows? Theon's lips curled slightly at the thought. Yes, it would be amusing to see the bastard squirm.
Out loud, he said only, "Do not worry, Robb. I will bring him back properly."
Robb smiled then, clapping Theon on the shoulder with brotherly strength. "I know you will."
Theon felt the weight of that hand, firm and steady, and for a moment he basked in the warmth of being needed. Yet even as his bones thrilled at the touch, his mind remained cold. For every step Jon took closer to Winterfell, Theon felt his own place slipping further away..
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