Winterfell, the seat of the North, was nearly as old as the Wall itself.
People said the Starks had ruled the North from Winterfell for eight thousand years.
Vast and dark, Winterfell sat south of the Wolfswood like a black crown set on the land.
But now the castle simmered with tension and anger.
Its lord had only ridden south to serve as the king's Hand, and within half a year word came back that he'd been condemned to die for treason.
Everyone in Winterfell knew what kind of man Eddard Stark was. They all believed the false king Joffrey was spouting nonsense.
The Starks least of all could accept it.
Inside the castle, smiths worked harder than ever, turning out weapons day and night. Guards drilled until their arms ached, ready to move the moment Eddard's son gave the order.
Robb stood in front of a map of the North, listening to Maester Luwin lay out plans and numbers.
Off to one side stood a young man a bit older than Robb—lean, dark, and restless, practically buzzing to be useful.
It was Theon Greyjoy, Eddard Stark's foster son in name—his ward and hostage in truth.
He wanted his chance to help clear his foster father's name, too.
"...House Karstark should be able to call up between two thousand and twenty-five hundred men," Maester Luwin said. "House Bolton can likely raise around four thousand. Barrowton... and the mountain clans should take the field as well..."
Luwin had served Winterfell for nearly thirty years. He didn't need to check ledgers to rattle off numbers like these.
He'd even delivered every one of Catelyn's children.
He was small and slight, with more pockets than seemed possible, and no matter what figure Robb asked for, Luwin could pull it out immediately.
In a feudal realm like this, when a liege called his bannermen, those lords were expected to bring their own food and supplies.
Even so, housing them and coordinating them would be a headache.
Most of these men were veterans—hard fighters who'd followed Edd into Robert's Rebellion.
Robb had only just come of age. He didn't yet have the record or experience to truly command men like that without friction.
But Robb's mind clearly wasn't stuck on logistics. His eyes burned as he studied the map, turning bold plans over and over—until he hit one problem he couldn't route around.
Just then, an assistant to the maester entered Robb's study with a letter.
"My lord. Maester. A message from the Wall."
"The Wall?" Robb frowned. "We sent supplies not long ago. Why would they be writing now?"
He took the letter and began to read. Beside him, Luwin's brows knitted in disappointment and displeasure—only for his expression to ease as Robb turned the page.
"What is it?" Theon asked carefully, stepping closer. The Wall meant little to him, except that Edd's gloomy bastard had gone there.
"Jon ran—" Robb caught himself mid-sentence. "Jon's coming back from the Wall."
As he spoke, he handed the papers to Theon and Maester Luwin.
"He actually deserted?" Theon glanced quickly at Robb, then put on an exaggerated look of surprise—half stirring the pot, half enjoying it a little too much. "How could he do that?"
Theon was holding the letter Aemon had dictated for Sam to write. Luwin held Jon's own note—the one Jon had left behind.
Luwin thought for a moment, then said, "Robb, Jon left without permission, yes—but he did it for Lord Eddard. What's wrong with a son worrying about his father?"
"And he wasn't truly sworn to the Watch," Luwin added. "Not yet."
Luwin had watched every child in Winterfell grow up.
Jon and Theon were the exceptions in different ways, and Luwin had always carried a measure of pity for Jon.
Once Jon realized what it meant to be a bastard, distance opened up between him and the other children—not because they pushed him away, but because he wrapped himself in a shell called insecurity.
He kept to the shadows, longing for warmth from a mother he'd never known.
He rarely called Eddard "Father." More often, he said "Lord Stark," as if the title hurt less.
Now Jon wanted to do something—anything—to help save the man who raised him, and Luwin decided to give him a hand.
There was another reason too: for nearly three hundred years, the Watch had been flooded with criminals.
Outside the North—really, outside House Stark's belief that joining the Watch was an honor—most people treated the Wall like a dumping ground.
"The Watch sent Jon's note along with their letter," Luwin said. "They're likely hoping he joins the force that's going to rescue Lord Eddard."
He'd caught the meaning immediately, and it eased something in Robb's chest.
If even the Night's Watch took that stance, why should Robb pretend to hesitate?
Robb had two younger brothers, but one was crippled and the other was only three.
Having a brother his own age—grown, capable—would be a gift right now.
Catelyn had ridden south and still hadn't returned.
With all of this dropping on him at once, Robb felt stretched thin.
"Then we bring him home," Robb said, decision made.
Luwin gave him a firm, approving look.
Robb turned to Theon and said, "Theon—if Jon's coming back, it'll take time. He left the Wall in a hurry, so he probably has no food and no coin. When he gets close, go meet him for me."
Theon wasn't thrilled.
A bastard, and Theon should ride out to welcome him?
But he kept that off his face and said instead, "The letter says the Watch already sent men to catch— to find him. What if he doesn't make it back?"
"He will," Robb said, shaking his head. His voice turned steady. "He'll make it."
Robb's certainty made something sour twist in Theon's gut—envy, or maybe jealousy.
In Winterfell, Theon lived in a strange middle place: not quite one of them, but not beneath notice either.
Jon, the bastard, had always been the one person Theon could look down on and feel taller.
He might have been Eddard's ward, not Eddard's true son—but Theon was still heir to the Iron Islands.
His father, Balon Greyjoy, had crowned himself king in rebellion after Robert took the throne.
The rebellion was crushed quickly, but for a brief stretch, Theon had technically been a prince.
He'd been too young to remember any of it—but the idea of it was enough.
Even as a hostage in all but name at Winterfell, it let him lift his chin and tell himself he mattered.
Whatever else was true, he was better than Jon Snow.
And now the North was about to march to war. Theon would be Robb's right hand—his most important support.
Jon suddenly returning would threaten that position.
After all, Jon and Robb were both Eddard's sons. In a way that mattered, they were closer.
Then Theon's thoughts shifted.
Maybe this was an opportunity.
If Jon had slipped away from the Wall, he'd be anxious and jumpy the whole way back.
Theon could give him a good scare—tell him Robb had decided to cut his head off, something like that.
By the time he looked back at Robb, Theon's expression had smoothed into something agreeable.
"Don't worry," he promised. "I'll make sure he gets back."
Robb smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.
Feeling that solid weight of trust in the gesture, Theon felt good all the way down to his bones.