The corridors of Winterfell were colder in the morning, the frigid air making Willian's breath condense into small white clouds. But the stone still held the warmth from the hearths below, a smell of smoke and dark bread lingering in the air.
Willian walked with Robb and Jon, their steps firm and synchronized, wool cloaks dragging behind them. His polished leather boot crushed a piece of fallen ice, and the sound made him remember the tip of a breaking bone.
He looked up, noticing how the guards nodded as they passed. Some servants, however, hesitated, unsure whether to greet him or simply move away. Willian saw them, of course. He saw every gesture, every averted gaze. It wasn't contempt. It was a new caution.
Perhaps that was what bothered him most: not the coldness of the stone, nor the silence of the mornings, but the way this world was beginning to reveal its harsh side. The fantasy, so alive in books and stories, was now showing its reality. Life in a medieval world tended to disappoint you. When you left the fantastical behind and started to live, things got complicated.
There were no fire-breathing dragons in every corner, nor bards singing eternal glories.
There was mud.
There was silence.
There was the absence of things common to modern people.
The world wasn't a foul mass of dirt and stench, not as modern satire painted the period. But even so, the harsh and cruel reality of small acts—the weight of a look, the sound of a bone breaking, the smell of sweat in the air—became a continuous discomfort for the mind of a child from modernity.
Robb noticed Willian's distant gaze, lost in thoughts that seemed heavier than the morning cold. With a familiar gesture, he nudged his shoulder with his elbow, like someone calling back a person who had lost themselves in thought.
"You've changed the way people look at you."
Willian didn't slow his pace. He hadn't changed, he thought. He had just stopped hiding. It was the people who had started to really look.
"They're looking at what they think I'm building."
Jon Snow, to his right, adjusted his hood, his face somber. He cast a look at a servant who passed quickly, averting their face.
"And what are you building?"
Willian didn't answer.
Not yet. First, the foundation. After that, the structure.
They turned the corner, the sound of steel against steel echoing from the old armory. Robb kicked a loose stone on the path, the sound echoing in the corridor.
"Who was that old man yesterday? The one with the cane."
"Ser Garran Vex," Willian said. "He fought in three campaigns. He lost his leg in the last one. He didn't lose his gaze."
Jon looked into the armory. "He observes as if he's still in combat."
"He is. Just without a sword. And with a knowledge of the terrain that isn't in any book."
"And the merchant?" Robb asked, his voice suddenly serious. "The one you met near the warehouse. Halric something."
"Halric Mollen. A peerless merchant, he knows very well what needs to be done. He knows how to move things without unnecessary attention. And how to make obstacles disappear."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "A useful skill."
"Essential," Willian replied. "He knows what to do and when to do it, perfect for leading a trading company."
They passed by the training yard. Some boys, their faces red from the cold, were training with wooden swords. One of them stopped to look at Willian, then quickly returned to position.
Robb smiled sideways. "You have more and more admirers."
"I have problems. Admiration just makes problems more visible," Willian replied.
Robb shrugged, the smile still on his face. "Don't pretend you don't like it."
Willian raised his hands in mock surrender. "It's not time to enjoy life yet. There's a time for everything, and now isn't the moment."
Robb shook his head, a frustrated expression on his face. "You're missing opportunities. But I understand."
Jon laughed softly. "Even so. You got stronger. Faster. Rodrik said you move like someone who has been fighting for years."
Robb nudged Willian with his elbow. "Seriously. What's the secret? Do you drink something? Eat raw meat? Pray some secret ritual to the Old Gods?"
Willian rotated his wrist, testing the weight. "Maybe I just sleep better than you."
Robb laughed. "Or maybe you eat better. Maybe there's bear meat on your plate."
Jon frowned, half-joking, half-curious. "You never get tired. Never complain about the cold. Never get hurt. That's strange."
Willian shrugged. "Luck. Strong bones. And maybe less idle talk."
Robb pointed to his neck. "Luck doesn't thicken your neck like that. Nor does it make the smell of sweat disappear so quickly."
Willian smiled, but didn't reply. Jon looked away, as if saving the question for later.
Willian felt it. He felt the cold less and less. He felt stronger and stronger. And he had the impression that it wasn't just puberty. There was something more, something hidden, and he had a small suspicion.
Willian stopped, turned to them, and flexed his arms in an exaggerated pose—elbows bent, fists clenched, chest puffed out.
Muscles bulged under his wool shirt, very firm for a twelve-year-old. His thick neck, broad shoulders, and constantly attentive gaze gave the impression that he had been molded by something beyond training. His jaw already showed strength, and his dark hair, simply tied back, fell over his eyes. He looked like a boy trying to act like an adult—but his body wasn't cooperating with the game.
His youthful appearance was being replaced by more mature characteristics, gradually.
"Jealousy," Willian said mockingly.
Jon blinked. Robb burst into laughter, the sound loud and contagious.
"You look like a shapeless bear," Robb said, between laughs.
Willian relaxed the pose. "But a strong one," he replied, with a half-smile.
"You're ridiculous," Jon shook his head, still smiling.
"That's how you survive here. Ridiculous enough to be underestimated. And strong enough to surprise."
"Then you're doing it wrong," Jon replied with a look that understood him.
Robb recovered from his laughter, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.
"One day you're going to knock down a door just to make a dramatic entrance."
Willian looked at the nearest door. For a moment, the idea didn't seem absurd.
They continued walking. The wind was picking up outside, but inside the stone walls, the laughter remained.
Arya's laughter still echoed in the yard when Willian, Robb, and Jon stopped near the staircase that led to the main wing. The yard was busy. Soldiers were training in the background, the sound of their leather boots squashing in the mud. The smell of sweat and earth mixed with the cold air.
Jeyne Poole appeared, coming from the hall, with Sansa at her side. Willian saw her before she could feign surprise. She was trying to look like a mature maiden, he thought. A performance. Every step so perfect it seemed rehearsed.
She had arranged her hair flawlessly and walked slowly, as if the cold didn't touch her. He remembered a time when she stumbled and fell to the ground, laughing, not caring about the dirt on her clothes. That Jeyne no longer existed.
Jeyne was beautiful, but the problem was never her appearance. She just needed to wait a few good years.
Robb was the first to notice. "Look who's coming with a lovesick maiden's pose."
Jon played along. "I think I know which prince she's aiming for."
Willian kept walking, but felt their eyes on him. Jeyne passed by them, pretending to be surprised to see them. "Oh, Willian. I didn't see you there."
Willian replied with a brief nod, his face neutral, without stopping. His left hand, which hung loose at his side, closed into a slight fist.
"Jeyne. Sansa. Good morning."
His gaze, however, was longer than expected. He saw the stiffness in her shoulders, her hands clenched on the hem of her dress, the rosy blush on her cheeks, and the slight swallow. The smile was thin—chaste, shy.
Sansa tried to help her friend, smiling kindly. "We were going to the kitchens. Lady Lysa sent lemon cakes. They came from Dorne."
Robb smiled, as if watching the play repeat itself. Jon nodded, but there was a certain weariness in his gesture.
"I hope they're warm," Willian said, his voice monotonous. She seemed kind. But he didn't know what to do with that. "It's not a day for a cold dessert."
Jeyne laughed, a brief sound, more nervous than happy. "They are. Do you want one?"
Willian hesitated. Then, he just nodded. "Maybe later."
She hesitated. Her eyes searched for something on his face, but found nothing. She continued with Sansa. Shoulders slumped. Short steps.
Arya appeared from the opposite side, boots stained with snow and a mischievous smile. "She walks in a affected way."
Jeyne blushed immediately. Sansa's eyes widened.
"Arya!"
Robb laughed loudly. Jon tried to hide his smile.
Arya raised her chin. "Am I lying?"
Willian looked at Arya, who crossed her arms with false superiority. "You shouldn't mock your sister's friends."
Arya raised her chin. "They mock themselves."
Willian approached without warning and easily lifted her into his arms. "Then today you will be the standard of honesty."
Arya struggled, feigning indignation. "Put me down! I'm not a sack of flour!"
Robb roared with laughter. Jon shook his head, smiling.
Willian spun her around once before putting her down.
Arya tried to keep a serious pose, but couldn't. A laugh escaped. "You're lucky I didn't bite."
Willian replied, already walking away. "You're lucky I didn't drop you."
Arya ran after him, still laughing.