The great hall of Winterfell was warmed by the embers of the hearths. The smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and hot wine hung in the air. Maids 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 leaning behind his chair. Jeyne Poole was on the other side of the hall, next to Sansa and other maidens, but her eyes kept drifting in his direction — and not subtly.
Robb was the first to notice and gave Willian a silly smile.
"She looks at you as if she's been scorned by a knight in the middle of a tourney, I still don't understand why you won't accept her," he said, tearing a piece of meat with his teeth.
Jon discreetly looked up from his plate.
"Willian doesn't want her because he prefers coins."
Willian kept his gaze on his wine glass.
"You two have too much time to play matchmaker."
Robb laughed, nudging Willian with his elbow.
"And you have too much time pretending not to notice. She's bitter. It wouldn't cost you much to accept her courtship."
Jon calmly sliced his bread.
"She tried to seem more than she is, she tries to be the woman you desire. And you still treat her like a child."
Willian sighed.
"Because that's what she is."
Robb raised an eyebrow.
"That doesn't stop pride from being hurt. A smile costs nothing."
Willian swirled the wine in his glass, thoughtful.
"A smile can be a promise. And promises have weight. You should know better."
Jon stared at him for a moment.
"Don't start that again."
Willian gave a faint smile.
"But then I lose my charm."
Robb laughed loudly, attracting glances from nearby tables.
"You should write a book. 'The Words of a Twelve-Summer Old.'"
Willian finally let out a low chuckle.
Theon approached the table with his crooked smile and that posture of someone who thought the world owed him reverence. He grabbed a piece of meat from the platter without asking and sat on the bench next to Robb.
"Talking about coins?" he said, his mouth full. "Or is it about a woman?"
Willian didn't answer. Jon kept his uncomfortable eyes on his plate.
Theon looked at Jeyne, who was still casting furtive glances.
"She looks at you as if she wants to be deflowered before winter ends," he said with a tone of mockery. "And you sit there, serious, as if you don't have a cock, do you?"
Robb frowned, knowing Willian this could escalate quickly.
"Theon…"
But he ignored him, his focus still stuck on his poison.
"If you don't want to taste the honey between her thighs, maybe I should. It's a shame to let a flower like that wither unused." Theon leaned forward, his voice a low and vulgar whisper, meant only for Willian. "I could teach her to become a woman. And to feel how a real man acts."
Willian squeezed the wine glass harder, but his face remained impassive. The silence that followed was heavy, a promise of violence.
"You talk like a man who's had nothing but whores."
Theon laughed.
"Oh, but I've had plenty. More than one, if you want to know. And none complained. You want to tell me you don't feel the desire? That you don't think about it when she looks at you like that?" "Or... maybe you like men," Theon said, with feigned surprise. His laugh was like the crackling of dry branches.
Willian didn't look away. "I don't need to prove anything to you, Greyjoy," he said, his voice calm, but with the precision of a sword stroke.
Willian stared at him, firm.
"To think is not to act. And to act without honor is the mark of a coward. And I control my desires, I am not a worm controlled by them."
Jon straightened in his seat, tense. Robb was no longer smiling and was preparing to prevent Willian from cracking someone's skull open.
Theon held up his hands, feigning surrender with a dramatic face.
"Easy, easy. It's just a joke. The gods know I'm not made of ice."
Willian returned his gaze to the wine.
The joke. It always is. Until it's not anymore.
Jeyne Poole, who was talking to Sansa, turned her head at the wrong moment. Theon's words—too loud and too mocking—crossed the hall like a lost arrow.
She heard them.
A blush quickly rose to her cheeks, burning hotter than the fireplace's fire. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she froze—as if the whole world had stopped just to look at her.
Then, without saying a word, she turned abruptly and left the hall, her blue cloak fluttering behind her.
Robb rubbed his face, embarrassed.
"You went too far, Theon."
Jon shook his head, serious.
"That wasn't just foolishness. That was cruelty. She has an honor to protect."
Willian let out a long sigh, setting down his glass carefully.
Maybe he should have just shut the squid up before he said anything.
Theon, for his part, laughed loudly, with no trace of remorse.
"What? Did I say something untrue?"
But his laughter died quickly when the figure of Ned Stark appeared at the hall's entrance.
The Lord of Winterfell walked with firm steps, his gaze as sharp as ever. Silence spread wherever he passed, as if even the castle's stone respected him.
He stopped before the boys' table, his eyes briefly resting on each of them—and finally, on Theon.
"What happened to the maiden who ran out?"
No one answered immediately.
Willian stood up, his posture erect.
"It was a poor choice of words, uncle. Nothing that can't be fixed."
Ned stared at him for a moment, then turned to Theon.
"In Winterfell, words have weight. And honor is not measured by the laughs 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 fireplace and leaned on the stone edge. He stood there for a few seconds, in silence, watching the flames. The heat didn't seem to reach him—as if the cold of the North was always present, even inside Winterfell.
Willian waited, standing, firm, motionless. His eyes were attentive, but respectful. He knew Ned didn't like haste or words thrown to the wind.
The Lord of Winterfell turned slowly and walked to the table. There was a parchment open with numbers written by hand. Columns of gold dragons, records of sales, contracts. Ned analyzed them carefully, as if he were reading not just numbers, but consequences.
He let out a sigh—not of tiredness, but of relief. A rare kind. The kind not found in battles, but in accounts that finally balance.
Ned observed his nephew for a moment, then spoke in a firm and low voice:
"You did more than just observe. Your ideas... they blossomed."
Willian bowed his head slightly.
"I am only happy to have helped."
Ned looked at him with that firm gaze, weighing each word before speaking.
"The soap. That simple formula you taught the artisans... Did you see what it did? The artisans now sell to White Harbor, to smaller castles, even to merchants from the south. I never thought something so trivial could be worth so much."
Willian gave a half-smile.
"Cleanliness is underestimated. But when it turns into coin, people learn fast."
Ned let out a low, almost silent laugh. It was a rare sound.
"And the distilled spirits. The 'white fire.' The barrels don't last long in the taverns. The men of the North respect it. The gold it brings... made Winterfell's coffers breathe a little easier."
The pride in Ned's eyes was undeniable. He was seeing a Stark—even if not by name—use intelligence and vision to strengthen the North.
But, as always, relief gave way to worry. Ned ran his fingers along the edge of the table, as if touching the weight of the responsibility he carried.
"What you did... is not common. Nor expected. But it worked."
Ned's voice became more serious.
"And that's what worries me. This knowledge... this vision... 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. "They're not games, uncle. It's preparation. And I'm the one in control."
Ned sighed, a heavy sigh. He turned, placing his hands on the table and facing his nephew. The conversation about the mercenary company would follow, with Ned's gaze weighing on every word.
He turned again, placing his hands on the table, facing his nephew.
"With this gold, you could buy land. Invest in trade. But you want to form a group of mercenaries."
Willian nodded.
"Yes. Trained men. Discipline above strength. Loyalty above fame. Like the Swiss I read about in the manuscripts—long spears, compact formations, firm shields."
Ned frowned, but did not interrupt him.
"Mercenaries are not well-regarded in Westeros. They fight for contracts. For coin. Not for honor."
Willian stepped forward.
"I don't want looters. 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 was not of disapproval—it was of calculation. As if he were weighing the proposal against everything he knew about the world.
"You see far. Farther 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 slowly approached. He stopped in front of Willian and looked at him for a long moment. There was no smile. But in his eyes—a contained, almost imperceptible glimmer. Pride. And perhaps a hint of hope.
"And what if those men are loyal to you... and not to Winterfell?"
Willian did not hesitate.
"If they are loyal to me, they will be loyal to the North. Because that's what I'm doing all this for."
Ned let out another sigh. A lighter one. As if he saw that, for now, the path was still safe.
He returned to the table, picked up the parchment, and rolled it up carefully.
"If you go 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 look lingered. As if he were seeing not just his nephew—but the man he was becoming.
Willian maintained his posture, but inside, his mind was already at work.