The snow in Winter Town did not fall—it accumulated, as if the sky had grown tired of warning them. Willian walked with his hood low, beside Ser Rodrik Cassel, who kept his pace steady and his gaze sharp. The old warrior did not care for idle talk, and Willian knew it.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—it was functional. Like steel that doesn't need to shine to cut.
Behind them, Jon Snow followed in silence. He hadn't been invited—but he hadn't been sent away either. And that, to Willian, said a great deal. Jon asked no questions. He simply observed.
Like one who seeks to understand before judging.
The town stretched ahead like a living scar—discreet, resilient, functional. The smell of smoke hung in the air, mixed with leather, iron, dark bread, and... soap. A clean, almost unexpected scent that came from a side street, where a family used one of Ned's recipes to make and sell the product.
It was a sign, a small glimpse of the life that was beginning to stir.
Further on, a loud laugh echoed from a barrel. A group of men, their faces red from the cold and the drink, raised a toast. The smell of whiskey was strong, and Willian knew the still used to make it was the same one he had suggested to his uncle.
He had given an idea, and the snow, once barren, was now producing warmth.
Between the markets, Willian caught sight of her. Ros, with her flaming red hair, the curls bouncing as they framed her smiling face. She held a basket of eggs, chatting with an elderly woman, her hands delicate. There was an innocence about her, a lightness that contrasted with the gray world around her.
A future that seemed so normal and so distant at the same time. He knew, with a pang of sadness, that she wouldn't have that life for long.
Rodrik stopped for a moment, observing the toasting men, the soap being sold, the smell of dark bread in the air. The old warrior was not one for praise, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes. He looked at the town for a moment, then faced Willian, his voice low and grave. "It's working. My lord says it's because of you."
Willian replied without rambling, but without arrogance. "A bit of luck. And a bit of a knack for business."
Rodrik snorted, but a wry smile formed on his face. "It's working. The ideas are good. Not every day you see this coming from someone so young." He looked at the town again, as if seeing something others did not.
Willian just nodded, without boasting. His eyes were fixed on a distant point, as if already thinking about the next step. "I'm just trying to make it work."
Rodrik held his steady gaze. "And it is. But be careful. The North doesn't like fast change. Nor people who seem to have too much." The warning was disguised as advice, which was Rodrik's way of showing he cared.
Willian looked at him, firm. "I know." He didn't need more words. Just a serious nod. And Rodrik understood.
Willian looked at him for a moment. Then he walked on without another word.
The smell of smoke, bread, and soap mixed with the somber air of the warehouse eaves. A smell of old wood, lamp oil, and business that needed no advertisement.
Rodrik stopped abruptly before the warehouse door, his hand on the sword's pommel, an expression of stony distrust. The wood looked old, worm-eaten. He looked at Willian, his voice a grave and unshakable grunt. "Even if Lord Stark trusts this merchant... I still don't like him."
Willian kept walking without breaking his stride, his hood still low. "Calm down. He's just a different kind."
Rodrik crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture of impatience and firmness. "Exactly. You don't trust those who weigh everything in coin. Merchants are only loyal to profits."
Willian stopped before the door. His gaze was fixed on the old wood, as if he could see through it. He pushed the door calmly, without looking back. "Just don't fool yourself. Then everything works." The sound of the wood opening made a grave creak, like an old bear waking from sleep.
Halric Mollen was already expecting him.
The merchant was standing before a makeshift table, making notes on a parchment with a charcoal-smudged fingertip. His eyes were small, but sharp. The kind of man who has seen more than he'd like—and remembers everything.
When he saw Willian, he didn't stop writing. "Time is passing, boy," Halric said, without raising his eyes. "And time is gold that doesn't accumulate on its own."
Willian stopped a few paces from the table. The smell of oil and old wood was strong, overpowering the cold air from outside. His eyes scanned the warehouse, noting the stacked barrels, the folded maps, and the chaotic efficiency of the place.
"It's busy," Willian said, without any tone of praise. "That's good. I'm not here to talk, Halric. I'm here to close a deal."
Halric finally raised his eyes, the trace of a malicious smile at the corner of his mouth. "Right to the point. I like that. Most boys with your name prefer to tell me what to do instead of telling me what they need."
Willian nodded. "That's exactly why I'm here."
Halric leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. "I know, I know. The candles you gave me made the ships fly, and the liquor earned me more dragons than a mine. Now, tell me. What's the next move?"
Willian didn't hesitate. "I have the gold. You have the contacts. I want to build. Stores. Fortify the port. I want ships, and I want patrols to protect the caravans."
Halric was silent for a moment, adjusting his sleeves. His smile wasn't one of approval, but of pure recognition. "You don't just want a piece of the pie. You want the whole thing. But it's not that simple. Building, moving... that requires more than coin. It requires men who know how to keep their mouths shut. And how to clear a path."
He pulled out a battered map, marked with red lines and charcoal dots. "Torrin knows the shortcuts. Maera knows where not to step. If you trust them, I'll take care of the rest."
Willian looked at the map. Then at Halric. "And if someone gets bothered?"
Halric went back to writing, as if the conversation was over. "Tell them it's winter supplies. Nobody questions food. Or firewood."
He paused for a moment, without looking up. "Lord Eddard Stark thinks of honor. I think of profit. Do you want me to show you how the game is really played?"
Willian was silent. Then he held out his hand. Halric grasped it, his grip firm, calloused.
"You are not Ned. But you have the same look when you want something. Just don't forget: the North doesn't forgive haste. Nor weakness."
Willian released his hand and looked him in the eye. "I am not weak."
Halric returned to his work.
Willian left the warehouse without another word.
He just walked.
They walked past the market stalls, where the cold bit harder and the crowd grew thinner.
Willian adjusted the strap of his cloak, watching the snow settle over the courtyard like ash. Jon approached from the training yard, his breath visible in the cold air.
"How many finished the drills today?" Willian asked.
"Nine. Two collapsed. One cried," Jon replied, brushing frost from his sleeve. "Rodrik says that means progress."
Willian gave a faint nod. "Pain is the North's way of saying you're learning."
Jon smirked. "Then we're all scholars."
They walked side by side toward the stables. A few guards passed, nodding respectfully. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of iron and pine.
"Did you speak to Maera?" Jon asked.
"She's mapping the eastern ridge. Said it feels like a trap waiting to be sprung."
Jon glanced at him. "She's not wrong."
Willian stopped beside Jon, the cold wind from the ridge cutting like a blade. The white snow, a sheet that hid the stones, covered the distant hills. The two stood still, accustomed to the cold that settled in their bones.
"Bandits and wildlings..." Willian let out, his voice low, almost hoarse from the cold. "Do you think they mix, because of hunger?"
Jon didn't look at him. He kicked a piece of ice, watching it shatter on the ground. "Hunger makes a man sleep with a wolf. I don't doubt it. Bandit and wildling aren't so different in the cold."
Willian nodded, without words, his gaze fixed on the snowy horizon.
"In the end, it's just us in the middle," Jon completed, the tone almost a lament, but without self-pity.
They reached the stable doors. Robb's horse was already saddled, restless. He stood beside it, adjusting the reins with practiced ease. Two guards lingered a few paces behind, their cloaks marked with the direwolf sigil. They didn't speak — they didn't need to. Their presence was quiet, but deliberate.
"Is he riding out again?" Willian asked.
Jon nodded. "He said he needed to feel the wind."
He glanced at the guards nearby. "He says he wants space. But even space in Winterfell comes with steel behind it."
Willian chuckled softly.
Jon leaned against the wooden frame. "You've been talking to a lot of people. And fast."
Willian raised an eyebrow. "Is that bad?"
Jon looked at him, eyes steady. "No. It just draws attention. And attention here comes with a headache."
Willian didn't reply. He simply opened the stable door.
Jon followed.
The snow thickened in Winter Town, covering the low roofs and stacked barrels with an uneven layer. Jon Snow walked ahead, swerving to avoid a cart when he bumped into a woman coming in the opposite direction.
She stumbled, and Jon caught her arm. "My apologies," he said, firm yet gentle.
The woman coughed, the sound dry and deep. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken, and the cloak that covered her seemed more like a rag than protection.
Willian approached, his gaze already assessing. It wasn't just illness—it was exhaustion. The woman was at the edge between winter and the end.
Ros appeared moments later, in a hurry. Her red hair was pulled back carelessly, her face marked by the wind. She knelt beside the woman. "Mother, I told you not to go out. The cold is bad today."
Willian looked at Ros. She raised her eyes to him, and for a moment, said nothing. Her gaze lingered a bit longer than necessary. There were no words—just a pause. He noticed. And moved on.
Jon stepped away, giving them space.
Willian took a small leather pouch from his belt and handed it to Ros. "There's enough copper for medicine and firewood. Buy what you need. No talk."
Ros hesitated, but took it.
Why not give her a hand and pull her out of that miserable fate? If I can change her path, why not do it?
She didn't thank him. She didn't need to. The way her fingers closed around the pouch — firm, but not greedy — said enough. She wasn't used to help. And he wasn't used to offering it.
Jon stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze steady — always watching, never intruding. He watched Ros attentively, then looked at Willian.
"She's sharp," he said, in a low voice. "She'll catch on quick."
Willian didn't reply. But his look said he already knew. He looked around. The market was crowded, and he didn't have time to come back here every time.
"You know this place. I need you to carry messages. Nothing complicated. Just go and come back."
Ros frowned. "Messages?"
"Names. Directions. Sometimes a coin. Sometimes a letter. I can't be coming and going."
She looked at her mother, then at him. "Alright... I can do that."
Willian gave a short nod. "First, go to Halric's warehouse. Tell him you're from me. He'll know what to do."
Willian turned and walked. Jon followed him.
Ros stood there, holding the pouch, her gaze still fixed in the direction he had gone. She didn't say anything. But her face was different.
Her mother coughed again. Ros held her more firmly.
And there, between the cold and the barrels, she began to walk in another direction.