"Draw! Loose!" Ser Rodrik Cassel barked the command across the courtyard of Winterfell.
Bran Stark released the bowstring. The arrow flew true but struck slightly off-center, burying itself into the outer ring of the straw target.
A chorus of good-natured laughter erupted from the older boys watching. Robb, the heir to Winterfell; Theon Greyjoy, Ned Stark's ward; and Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, all stood in the crisp northern air, offering their critiques. High above on the wooden gallery, Lord Eddard Stark and his wife, Catelyn, watched the proceedings in silence.
Among the youths, Theon Greyjoy was the eldest. Taken as a hostage nine years prior after his father Balon's rebellion was crushed and his two older brothers were slain, the nineteen-year-old heir to the Iron Islands possessed a lean, dark-haired arrogance and a penchant for mocking smiles.
"Steady your grip, Bran. Don't rush the release," Jon whispered, stepping closer to his younger brother.
Bran glanced at Jon, took a deep breath, and drew the next arrow. He focused, held, and let it fly. The shaft traced a graceful arc and buried itself dead center in the bullseye.
Jon clapped his hands, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his long, solemn face. With his dark brown hair and storm-grey eyes, Jon Snow possessed more of the Stark look than any of his trueborn siblings.
"Well struck, our fine little knight!" Theon laughed loudly, clapping Bran on the shoulder.
"A fine shot, Bran," Robb agreed, walking over to inspect the target. Robb was growing broad and muscular by the day, but his coloring belonged entirely to House Tully—fair skin, auburn hair, and striking blue eyes. "An archer only needs a steady heart to find the mark."
Jon stepped back, a familiar shadow falling over him. Knight, he thought bitterly. A proud title for them. Robb was already the superior lance, though Jon knew his own swordplay and horsemanship were unmatched in the yard. Yet, in all the vastness of Winterfell, there seemed to be no place for a bastard to truly thrive.
"Have you heard the tales from White Harbor?" Theon asked suddenly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The King's bastard. They call him the Hammer King across the Narrow Sea. They say he commands an army of unsullied eunuchs, screaming horse lords, and a fleet that blots out the sun."
Jon's ears pricked up. He had heard the whispers in the hall. The mercenary king was said to be invincible, a master of the warhammer and a terror in the saddle. A quiet, burning envy flared in Jon's chest. They were both bastards, yet this Gendry had cast off the shadow of his birth and carved an empire out of the East.
"If the King and his son come to blows..." Robb began, his brow furrowing with unease. The North respected the ancient laws of blood and guest right. Kinslaying was the most heinous of sins, cursed by gods old and new. Considering King Robert's age and the rumors of his expanding waistline, Robb genuinely feared for the monarch.
"They talk a good game across the water," Ser Rodrik scoffed, adjusting his white whiskers. "Those cheese-peddlers and sellswords boast loudly. But when it comes to true courage and strength of arms, who can match the men of the North?"
Jon's gaze drifted up to the gallery. Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn were deep in conversation, their faces grave. Jon was accustomed to reading the silent currents of the castle; he knew his father had been carrying a heavy burden these past few days.
On the gallery, Eddard Stark rested his hands on the wooden railing. "When the day comes that Robb sits in Winterfell, Bran and Rickon will be fine bannermen to him," he said quietly.
Catelyn felt a swell of maternal pride. She cherished the unity among her children. But in that moment of warmth, her eyes snagged on the dark-haired boy standing beside Robb. The boy who looked more like a Stark than any of her own sons.
She could never find it in her heart to love the bastard. It was the one sin she could never forgive Ned for. Jon was a constant, living monument to her husband's infidelity, an eyesore in the heart of her home.
"Robert would not make this journey without a dire reason. I feel it in my bones, Cat. He will ask me to go South," Ned said, turning the conversation back to the King's impending arrival.
"The South," Catelyn mused, pulling her cloak tighter against the chill. "The realm is teetering. Jon Arryn is dead, and Robert's bastard shelters the last Targaryens. He needs his brother now more than ever."
"And I intend to refuse him," Ned thought aloud, his jaw setting stubbornly. "My duties are to the North. I have no place in the viper's nest of King's Landing."
Catelyn remained silent. Raised in the sunlit halls of Riverrun, she had always found the North cold and desolate. The Starks were creatures of the ice, worshipping old gods in the dark woods, built to endure the long winters.
"He is the King now, Ned," she warned gently. "Kings are not like other men. To defy him might invite peril."
"He loves me as a brother," Ned insisted. "He may rage and shout, but within a week, we would be drinking and laughing as we did in our youth."
"That was years ago. Men change." Catelyn did not wish to argue the point. They would simply have to wait for the royal procession to arrive.
"But if Robert commands me to ride to war... I do not think I can refuse him," Ned admitted, a heavy resignation in his voice. "I have not marched south since Balon Greyjoy's folly. And this new rebellion may be far bloodier."
"The boy is his own blood..." Catelyn kept her tone carefully neutral, refusing to say the word bastard aloud.
"I warned Robert. I warned him about his drinking and his whoring, but he never listened," Ned said, his mouth twitching in a humorless, bitter line. "And now, his own lusts have birthed his greatest enemy."
"Is the threat truly that severe?" Catelyn asked, a chill creeping up her spine that had nothing to do with the wind. She knew the histories; she knew the devastation the ancient Triarchy had wrought during the Dance of the Dragons.
"Myr, Tyrosh, the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands... that is the bulk of the old Triarchy's power," Ned explained grimly. "Not to mention the two Targaryen orphans he keeps by his side. If Robert's son grows bold enough to blockade the Narrow Sea as the Three Daughters once did, the Iron Throne will have no choice but to answer with fire."
"Two Free Cities united," Catelyn murmured. She knew little of Essos, but she knew the cities were obscenely wealthy. The combined fleets, mercenaries, and gold of the Free Cities could match the Seven Kingdoms in a war of attrition.
"It is a cleaner thing to fight a brother than a father," Ned said, his eyes distant. "If Robert intends to pass the Iron Throne to Prince Joffrey, he must eliminate the threat across the water first."
He will go South, Catelyn realized with quiet certainty. And with that realization came a spark of ambition. If Ned rode south to serve the Crown, it opened a door that had remained firmly shut in Winterfell.
"Going South need not be a tragedy, Ned," Catelyn said, her voice softening. "The children are growing. Sansa, Arya... if we could arrange matches for them at Court..." She dared not speak her highest hope aloud—that Sansa might catch the eye of the Crown Prince.
"And Jon?" Ned asked, reading the shift in her tone.
Catelyn's face hardened, her blue eyes turning to frost. "He can go wherever he pleases. But I will not have him remain in Winterfell once you are gone."
Ned looked at his wife, the silence stretching between them. He offered no argument, only a look of profound, helpless sorrow.