Willian entered the supply room. The echo of Arya's laughter had just disappeared in the air. The smell of oil, wood, and cold meat was present. The room was almost empty, with only a makeshift brazier casting shadows on the stone walls. The stacked barrels looked like large shapes.
Garran Vex sat down with effort, adjusting his bad leg with a grunt. Willian poured two glasses of the spirit—the "white fire"—and handed one over without a word.
They drank. Silence settled in.
Garran broke the silence first. "They moved better today, they're progressing, they don't look like those fools from the first day."
Willian nodded. "They just need time to mature, even the smallfolk have potential and they'll move faster tomorrow."
Garran took another sip, the strong liquid burning his throat. "You don't yell. That's rare. I yelled my whole life. They listen to you even if you don't shout or punish them physically."
Willian looked at the fire, remembering Rodrik's lessons. "If they need a yell, they aren't ready. It's not strength, it's desperation. To create what I want, I need people, not traumatized garbage."
Garran laughed, a dry sound. "You sound like Rodrik. But you deal with them more directly. The fear you inspire comes from your calm, not the sound of your voice, I suppose."
Willian didn't answer. He just watched the flames.
Garran leaned his cane against the table. "You've trained before. You have that vision that you get with experience, even being a brat."
"I haven't trained like this, but I've studied, I've read many books, so much that I was almost forced to go to the Citadel."
"Haha. But you've seen. Discipline. Fear. The line between control and collapse," Garran said, his voice serious. "You've seen what happens when they think they're ready. I have that feeling, you know?"
"And when they aren't ready, what happens?" Willian asked, his voice low.
"They die. Or worse—they take others with them. It's a complete disaster to have men in the hands of fools."
The fire crackled. Garran watched Willian for a moment, trying to understand his motivations.
After a long pause, Willian spoke: "You know, I don't want mere banners. I want a different rhythm. I want men who move because they have purpose—not just because they were ordered to."
Garran shook his head. "That's harder to build, Willian. A man with a sword follows an order. Ten men with spears follow a specific rhythm."
"That's why it's important. If I go down the same path as everyone else, it won't matter."
Garran looked at him intensely. "Maybe you shouldn't limit yourself to just one option. There's value in having those who obey only what they are told. They follow without needing to think. You don't have to be a hero who creates fables."
Willian turned his gaze away from the flames.
"Well... you're right," he murmured.
Garran laughed, a dry sound, but with a gleam in his eyes. "Boy, you don't need to reinvent the wheel. You can just improve it. Or... you know, give it a push. A slap."
Willian remained silent. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting crooked shadows on the stone wall. He stared at the flames for too long, his face still, his eyes fixed.
His hand rose to his chin, lightly scraped his jaw, then fell back onto his knee. A sigh escaped, short, almost imperceptible.
Garran said nothing. He just watched.
Willian looked away from the fire, staring at the wall in front of him. His jaw was clenched. Then he slowly stood. "I'll think about that more."
Willian looked at him and gave a tired half-smile. "But I suppose you're right. I was hasty in focusing on just one aspect. Looking at what already works would be easier and more practical."
Garran smiled more broadly. "You listen, boy. That's good. Different from thousands of fools I've had the displeasure of knowing. Don't forget you have a lot of time to learn."
Willian nodded, but looked down at the floor. Inside, he felt tense.
Time is everything I don't have. Not for what really matters.
Garran finished his cup. "You're not just forming an army. You're forming an idea. And that can be stronger than faith. Or it can completely screw you over."
"I think that ideas survive time," Willian said. "Orders disappear without a head. At least that's what I thought."
Garran slowly got up, leaning on his cane. "They will follow you. Just make sure you know where you're going."
"I do."
"Good. Because when they start to march, they won't stop until something breaks. And I hope it's not them, good job, boy." He left without saying goodbye, the sound of his cane echoing on the stone.
Willian stayed, watching the fire die.
The stone steps descended. Willian walked slowly, each step echoing against the cold walls. The torches flickered, casting long shadows.
The air here was colder. Not the biting chill of the morning wind, but the still, ancient cold.
He passed the statues one by one—Lords of Winterfell, with faces carved in stone with serious expressions, giant wolves at their feet. He knew the names. He had read them. But they had no meaning for him.
Until he came to her.
Lynnda Stark.
The statue was identical to Lyanna's—the same delicate features, the same proud posture. But there were no songs about her. No rebellion was born from her name. Just silence.
Willian stopped before her, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady.
"Mother, you were the quiet one, weren't you?" he thought. "The one who didn't run. The one who stayed. And died without making a fuss in the world."
He knelt slowly, feeling the cold stone against his knees. His eyes followed the lines of the carved face, the curve of the wolf at her feet.
"They remember Lyanna. But it's you I carry. Nobody speaks your name, nobody tells your stories..."
He closed his eyes for a moment. Fragments came to him—a phrase from Maester Luwin, a look from Ned, a name whispered in a corridor.
He didn't know what kind of woman she had been. Only fragments. But he knew she had been strong. Strong enough to give birth in a world that didn't want her.
Willian took a deep breath. The air here felt heavier, as if each breath required effort. He stretched out his hand and rested it on the base of the statue. The stone was cold, but firm. As she must have been.
"I don't know if I'm becoming what you expected. But I'm becoming something. I'm chasing after something that can withstand the storm, something that will stop the wheels of destiny from crushing our family."
He stood in silence. A draft of wind passed through the corridor, making the torches flicker. The shadows moved. For a moment, the silence was palpable.
Willian lowered his gaze. His fingers curled into a fist, then slowly opened. He looked at the palm of his hand, as if expecting to see something engraved there.
"I have doubts," he said, his voice softer. "You, my father, and I... we shouldn't exist. I came from another world and there... You know, I know things, things that shouldn't be known."
He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the weight of the name he carried. Willian Corvinus. A name that seemed to echo inside him, like a constant whisper. Sometimes, like a delusion. Sometimes, like a promise.
"The name I carry... brings me confused thoughts that I don't know what to do with. Am I really something related to those beings? Or..."
He opened his eyes. Looked at his hand again. He clenched it more tightly, tendons straining beneath the skin. Then he released it, letting it fall to his side.
He slowly raised his face, looking at the statue one more time. The stone eyes didn't answer, but they seemed to listen.
"What am I...?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
The sound of footsteps broke his reflection.
Willian didn't turn around immediately. He recognized the light, almost bouncing rhythm. Arya.
She appeared at his side, her face partially lit by the torch she carried. She didn't speak. She just stood there, looking at the statue. Willian slowly stood up, his knees cracking with a slight sigh.
"She looks like Aunt Lyanna," Arya said in a low voice.
Willian nodded. "She was her twin sister."
Arya tilted her head, frowning. "Was she a fighter too?"
Willian gave a faint smile. "Of course. Just like all the daughters of the North."
Arya looked at him, with a touch of frustration. "Mom won't let me, she says it's not something a lady should learn. But I'm not from the south, I'm from the north, why doesn't she understand?"
Willian lightly touched her forehead. "You'll have your time, Arya. You don't need to wrinkle your brow."
She let out a small laugh, averting her gaze to the statue. "Tell me more about her. About Aunt Lynnda. Tell me her story."
Willian sat down next to the base of the statue, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked at the floor for a moment, as if he was looking for words.
"You know Lyanna. The winter rose. But there was another. One who didn't sing, didn't run, didn't defy kings. She was silence. And her name was Lynnda."
Arya sat beside him, hugging her knees, curious.
"While Lyanna faced princes and prophecies, Lynnda chose another path. She married a nobleman from distant lands. Marcus Corvinus. A man who didn't belong to the wars here, but who knew how to survive them."
"They loved each other. No songs, no rebellions. Just love. Simple. Silent."
Arya frowned. "Like in the stories?"
Willian shook his head. "No. In the stories, love saves. In life, it just happens."
"Lynnda died in childbirth. Just like... Marcus... my father, Marcus was burned alive by the Mad King. He was trying to deliver a message. No one knows what it said. Maybe it was a plea for peace. Maybe it was just love."
Arya looked at the statue. "And Father?"
Willian took a deep breath. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, as if he was under a great weight.
"He arrived late. He found Lynnda. And two babies. One... Snow. The other... the other was me."
She stared at him, surprised. Willian didn't look away.
"Uncle Eddard didn't know my mother had died. But he saw the name my mother left. Willian Corvinus. And he decided that was enough."
He knew that Lynnda and Marcus had married without fanfare. He never told anyone. He protected her memory with fury. He wouldn't tolerate gossip. And when they spoke of her, he made the castle tremble.
Perhaps that's why few dared to speak.
And even fewer seemed to remember.
Willian ran his hand over the base of the statue once more, as if he wanted to engrave the name there with his fingers.
He protected me. And Jon. But not in the same way. Jon's name was too dangerous. The king couldn't know. So Jon became a bastard. And I... I was what was left of a love no one cared to see.
Arya was silent. Willian continued:
"Lynnda had no songs. No rebellions. But she had courage. And she had silence. And sometimes, Arya... silence is louder than any scream."
Arya looked at the statue. "She looks sad."
Willian smiled, without joy. "She's not sad. She's forgotten. But not by me."
Arya looked at Willian. "I'll remember too. I swear," raising her pinky finger.
Willian allows himself to laugh a little louder and crosses his pinky with hers.