Willian walked through the stone corridors, his steps firm, but his mind distant. The conversation with Ned still echoed—not because of the words, but the contained light in his uncle's eyes, a quiet hope he had never seen before. And there was the warning, the weight of that vigilance. If only it were just his uncle who would be watching him from now on...
As he approached the great hall, the sound of voices once again filled the air. But something was different. Less laughter. More tension. Jeyne Poole had not returned.
Robb was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his face grim. Jon spoke in a low voice with Sansa, who seemed uneasy. Theon, for his part, had disappeared—perhaps out of shame, or perhaps out of wounded pride.
Willian stopped before Robb. "Is she alright?"
Robb shook his head. "No one knows. Sansa tried to talk to her, but... she didn't answer. She just cried. And locked the door."
Willian pressed his lips together, his gaze fixed on some distant point. "Words have weight," he murmured.
Jon approached him discreetly. "Aren't you going after her?"
Willian hesitated, not out of doubt but out of respect. "If I go now, she'll think it's pity. And pity is another form of humiliation."
Or worse, she might think I accepted her advances.
Robb frowned. "Then what are you going to do?"
Willian looked at the hearth, where the fire was still burning.
-
The library at Winterfell was silent, as always. The smell of old parchment, oiled wood, and lamp oil filled the air. Maester Luwin was bent over a map, annotating with precision the names of villages that had changed hands after the latest conflicts.
Willian entered without a sound, but Luwin already knew. "Your steps are heavier when you're thinking too much," he said, without looking up.
Willian approached, stopping before the table. "And when I'm thinking too little?"
Luwin let out a half-smile, continuing to trace a line on the map. "At this hour you would be either on the training ground or with Lady Catelyn in the kitchen."
Willian let out a low, dry laugh—not of mockery, but of recognition. It was true. And he knew it. "Fair enough."
Luwin finally looked at him, with that gaze that did not judge, it only weighed. "Did your uncle give you what you wanted?"
Willian nodded. "Support. And vigilance."
Luwin smiled slightly. "Like any good maester. And any good lord."
Willian looked at the maps, then at the stacked books. "I've read about war. About discipline. About control. But none of that prepares me for what's not in the books."
Luwin put down his quill. "Because the books talk about how to win. Not about who is lost."
Willian crossed his arms, his gaze distant. "Do you believe knowledge can win a war?"
Luwin put down his quill. "Knowledge doesn't win wars. But it keeps them from being fought out of ignorance."
Willian crossed his arms. "And when the war has already begun?"
Luwin stood up, walking to a bookshelf. He pulled out a thin book with a worn leather cover. "Then knowledge serves to remind us what is at stake. And what cannot be lost." He handed the book to Willian. "The title is On Those Who Do Not Return. It's a record of names. Of faces. Of lives that were extinguished without being remembered. It is not strategy. It is memory."
Willian held the book carefully. "And what do I do with this?"
Luwin returned to the table, sitting down calmly. "You read it. And when you are about to make a decision that costs lives… you remember that every name in there thought they would have more time."
Willian slowly thumbed through the book. The names meant nothing—yet. But he knew that, with time, they would begin to gain faces. Faces he had never seen in this world. Faces he may have lost in the other.
I'm not going to win this war alone, even with all the knowledge. I'll need more than what the books offer, he thought, anguished. And if I fail, I won't be the only one to fall, but everyone around me.
He closed the book before finishing the first page, not for lack of time but from being distressed by the lack of progress.
-
The snow in Winter Town didn't fall, it piled up, as if the sky had grown tired of warning them. Willian walked with his hood low, beside Ser Rodrik Cassel, who kept his step firm and his gaze sharp. The old warrior did not like idle chatter, and Willian knew it.
Behind them, Jon Snow followed in silence. He hadn't been invited—but he also hadn't been turned away. And that, for Willian, said a great deal. Jon didn't ask questions. He only observed, like someone who wants to understand before judging.
Winter Town stretched out before them like a living scar—discreet, resilient, functional. The stone and wooden houses were huddled against one another, as if seeking warmth through proximity. Crooked roofs, reinforced doors, narrow windows. The kind of architecture that doesn't seek beauty—it seeks survival.
The smell of smoke hung in the air, mixed with that of leather, iron, and dark bread. Children ran between the stalls, their faces red from the cold and their eyes attentive to what could be traded. A man sold salt in clay pots. Another sharpened blades without saying a word. A woman sewed furs with fingers that no longer trembled—because winter did not forgive fragile hands.
There were those who knew the value of a well-sealed barrel, of a well-drawn map, of a word spoken at the right time. There were those who did not need a sigil to understand what was coming.
Rodrik stopped before a discreet tavern, with no name, no sigil. Only a mark carved into the wood: a circle with three crossed lines. Willian looked at the symbol. It still meant nothing. But one day, perhaps, it would. He pushed the door open.
Rodrik stopped, his hands on his back, his gaze passing from one house to another. "Did you check these people well?" he asked, his voice grave and unhurried.
Willian stopped beside him and replied with his head held high. "Yes, of course. No thieves, no bandits, no scum. Just people with potential."
The old knight let out a low sound, a murmur that was half disbelief, half approval. He looked at Willian, a crease deepening in his brow. "That's rare. Usually, only scum wants this kind of work."
Willian gave a half-smile, the kind that didn't reach his lips but lit up a sparkle in his eyes. There was a silent joke there, that he knew something others didn't. "I don't know if I should be offended or flattered."
Rodrik huffed, but a hint of a malicious smile formed on his own face. "Pleased would be more correct, boy. Finding people like this is luck."
"Or a specialty. Maybe I'm good at it," Willian said, the smile deepening just a bit before it disappeared, his face taking on a calculated seriousness. He gestured with his hand toward Winter Town. "The North helps. A lot of people are desperate for a chance to stop eating ice and snow... Not you, Jon."
Jon, who was a few steps behind, finally approached. He kept his voice low, his gaze attentive. "It's true. Even during the long summer, things are difficult here."
Willian agreed, his gaze still serious. "True. And luckily, there's no shortage of good people in this place." He looked at the tavern door; his expression was more than the facade of a lord. It was that of a man who knew that, even in the coldest place in the world, ambition could flourish.
Willian observed each of them. The first was Harlon, a former caravan master. Thick hands, the look of someone who has seen blizzards swallow people. He didn't speak much, but when he did, no one interrupted.
Beside him, Maera, a cartographer. Her eyes didn't blink—they only measured. She had worked for White Harbor, and for whoever paid best. But now, she wanted something that would last longer than a contract.
Then, Torrin, too young to look so old. He knew the paths between villages, the shortcuts between mountains, and the silences between men. There was something on his shoulders—not weight, but purpose.
Finally, Brenn, a smith. Three wars, two visible scars, one he never talked about. The type of man who doesn't ask "why"—only "when."
Rodrik remained standing, arms crossed, as if he were evaluating a lot of horses before the war. The cold wind whistled on the street, but his voice was firm. "None of you have hands for a sword. I can see that from afar."
Maera, a small woman but with eyes that seemed to have seen the world, replied with her head held high, without averting her gaze. "We don't. But we have hunger. And will."
Rodrik huffed, the sound dry as the cracking of bones. "Hunger doesn't hold a shield. Willpower breaks at the first hit."
Harlon stepped forward, his tone more direct, with the grave voice of someone who has given many orders. "And money? Do you have it or not?"
Willian replied before Rodrik could, his voice echoing in the silence of the place. "I do. A silver piece a week, plus bread and a roof. It's not much, but it's more than you have now."
Torrin, the youngest, looked at him, suspicious, his eyes narrowed. "And what if we come in and are treated like scum?"
Willian faced the group, his gaze dull but penetrating. He didn't need threats; his presence was enough. "If you are scum, you will leave. If you are useful, you stay. It's that simple."
Rodrik approached the table, his gaze hard, passing from one to another. "If you're good, I'll train you. If you're bad, you'll learn quickly. Or you'll leave even faster."
Maera crossed her arms, her eyes still fixed on his. "And what if we want to leave later?"
Willian replied bluntly, his words sharp as a blade. "You leave. But you take nothing. No money, no shelter. No respect."
Jon, who had been leaning against the wall until then, spoke for the first time, his voice low but firm. "In the North, no one gives anything without wanting something in return. If he's offering food, it's because he wants people who can endure."
Torrin looked at Jon, who remained leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze attentive. "And the bastard of Winterfell? Is he with us?"
Jon raised an eyebrow, but didn't move. "I only came to accompany Willian. Nothing more."
Maera smiled at the corner of her mouth. "Now that is rare."
Willian did not smile. But inside, something was hardening. It wasn't a company. Not yet. It was a seed. And these were the hands that would plant it.
Rodrik observed the faces at the table, then looked at Willian. "With these three... how many do you have?"
Willian took a moment to reply, not out of doubt but out of calculation. "A hundred and fifty-one."
The silence that followed was not of astonishment.
It was of recognition.
Jon's gaze shifted to the window, where the snow was beginning to thicken. "And no one knows?"
Willian looked at him, not smiling. "They know what they need to know. For now."
Rodrik let out a short sigh, like someone confirming something he had already suspected. Jon walked beside Willian, without haste. The snow crunched under their feet, but neither of them spoke.
Until Jon broke the silence: "They're crude."
Willian chuckled softly. "Don't be offended by them, Jon, they didn't speak to degrade you."
Jon shifted restlessly. "Do you trust them?"
Willian did not answer immediately. "Trust is built. I'm offering the foundation. They still need to be trained and gain discipline."
Jon looked at him. "Are you sure you know who's following you? Because if you don't, you'll end up surrounded by people who want to see you fall."
Willian walked on in silence, but inside, his thoughts were racing.
-
Lord Cerwyn sends a messenger to Winterfell. The letter does not accuse, but questions.
"It has come to my ears that certain men have been gathering in Winter Town—discreetly, without sigil, without oath. I imagine that such a movement does not occur without the knowledge of House Stark, nor without your acquiescence.
The North is vast, but it is not blind. And though silence is a virtue, there are times when it becomes unsettling.
I hope that such actions are not foretelling something that demands clarification… or containment."