The training ground lay on a side stretch of Winterfell, nestled between the stables and the old patrol yard. It was a forgotten space, once used by squires before they were sent to the Wall — now revived by Willian, with improvised lines and sharpened discipline.
From the eastern tower, Eddard and Catelyn could see everything. The yard bore no sigils, no banners — but the steady footsteps and watchful eyes spoke louder than any flag.
Willian walked among them, his hood down, his gaze sharp. His voice wasn't loud—but it cut through the air.
"Feet together. Shoulders straight. Eyes forward. If you want to look like men, start by looking alive."
Ser Garran Vex watched from the side, leaning on an iron cane. His left leg no longer served him, but his gaze was still steel.
"They've got legs," he murmured. "Now let's see if they have spines."
Willian stopped before Torrin, whose posture was crooked. "You know shortcuts through the mountains. But you can't even straighten your shoulders?"
Torrin tried to correct himself. Willian didn't wait. "Three laps of the yard. Running. Without your cloak."
Torrin hesitated. Garran raised his voice for the first time. "Obey. Or get out."
Torrin ran.
Willian continued the drill. Synchronized steps. Silent turns. Posture. Breathing. Repetition. For every mistake, a correction. For every success, nothing. Because discipline is not rewarded—it is demanded.
Robb Stark watched from the side, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. Jon Snow stood beside him, quiet, his eyes attentive.
"Are you training soldiers or breaking men?" Robb asked, without irony.
"And women," Jon pointed to a few women in the ranks.
Willian didn't answer. He just kept going. Maera maintained her rhythm with precision. Brenn gritted his teeth, but didn't complain. Harlon watched the others, as if measuring the tempo of each step.
Willian crouched to correct one of the men's posture. His voice still low, but sharp: "You hold that spear as if it's going to bite you."
Jon approached and crouched beside Willian. The men looked on nervously.
"They're afraid of you," Jon whispered, his voice for him alone.
Willian didn't answer. He just looked at Jon, then returned his attention to the drill.
"Good," he murmured.
Fear was useful. Respect was earned.
Garran approached as the men marched in a line. "Where did you learn this?"
In another world.
Willian didn't look at him. "In books, of course."
In another time. In another place.
Garran nodded. The years in the army served some purpose, after all.
Willian stopped. He observed the men. Sweat began to bead on their brows, even in the cold. The sound of their boots against the snow was the only constant noise. "They're not soldiers. Not yet."
Garran looked at Maera, who marched with precision. "Using women like this... you're a bold boy."
Robb approached, his tone more firm. "What if she falls? What if one of them won't take orders from a woman?"
Willian looked at him. "Then he's of no use. And he'll fall alone."
"Aren't you afraid they'll harm them during the training?" Jon asked.
Willian laughed. "But that's what I hope for." Willian pointed to everyone. "They are all soldiers, equal, with no distinction."
Jon watched in silence. But Willian knew—he understood.
Willian walked to the center of the yard. The wind blew harder, but no one moved. "You have no sigil. You have no oath. But you have a choice. And whoever chooses to be here, chooses discipline."
He looked at each face. Some averted their gaze. Others held it. "Whoever doesn't want to... can leave now. No judgment. No hard feelings."
No one moved.
Garran smiled discreetly. "Then let's begin for real."
As he shouted commands, Willian felt something old align within him. The years in the army, the days of silence and order—everything that seemed forgotten now made sense. Not all of them would be warriors. Many would be caravan guards. Others might enter commercial trades. But the goal was the same: to create something invisible that bound them to him. Something different from an oath to a Lord.
And yet, between crooked spears and attentive eyes, the company began to exist.
Willian watched the recruits in silence. The sound of boots against the snow was constant, almost ritualistic. The formation was starting to take shape—not through force, but through repetition.
Robb approached, arms crossed, his gaze curious. "How about we test this... odd method of Willian's?" he said, with a half-smile.
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Odd?"
Robb pointed to the recruits. "Discipline as a priority. Fighting as a second thought. This isn't how Rodrik taught us."
Jon looked at Willian, who continued in silence, correcting one of the men's posture. "Sure," Jon said with a light laugh. "What would it cost?"
Willian heard, but didn't react. He just turned to the two of them. "If you want to join the formation, straighten your shoulders. No exceptions."
Robb hesitated for a second, then took off his cloak and stepped into the line. Jon followed him, adjusting his feet with precision.
Garran watched from the side, a discreet smile on his face. "Now we've got some real meat in the soup," he murmured.
Willian walked to the center of the yard. "You think you know how to fight. But fighting isn't just cutting. It's knowing when not to cut. It's knowing how to wait. It's knowing how to obey." He looked at Robb. "You are an heir. But here, you're just another body in the line."
Robb nodded, serious.
Willian looked at Jon. "And you... you already know that."
Jon didn't reply. But his look said everything.
The drill began again. Steps. Turns. Silence. And now, with two Starks in the line, the recruits marched with more firmness.
Not just out of fear. But out of respect.
-
From the high stone balcony, Eddard Stark watched the yard below. The snow fell thin, but constant. The recruits marched in formation, guided by Willian, who did not shout—but commanded.
Catelyn approached, wrapped in a wool cloak. She stopped beside her husband, her eyes following the rhythmic steps. "He's really doing it," she said, with a contained smile. "Training the smallfolk as if they were soldiers."
Ned nodded, without taking his eyes off the yard. "It's not just any smallfolk. They are his."
Catelyn watched more closely. She noticed Maera in the line, steady, without hesitation. And other women too—marching, obeying, sweating like the men. She laughed, softly. "I confess that when he asked for women, I thought it was for another reason."
Ned turned his face, curious. "Another reason?"
Catelyn raised an eyebrow, amused. "I thought he wanted to sheathe swords, not use them."
Ned let out a sigh, almost a laugh. "Willian has never been one to waste time."
She looked at her son, down below, correcting Robb's posture with a dry gesture. Jon maintained the rhythm beside him, as if he already knew the beat. "He is different," Catelyn said. "Not like Robb. Nor like Jon. Sometimes I think he's building something even he doesn't understand."
Ned watched in silence for a moment. "Perhaps. But the North understands."
Catelyn leaned against the cold stone of the balcony. "And you? Will you say anything?"
Ned shook his head. "No. He doesn't need words. He needs space to grow."
She looked at Willian with affection once more. "He's creating a company... the Seven know what that means. But it seems he's creating a wall, too."
Ned smiled, discreetly. "Perhaps both."
The snow continued to fall.