Willian crouched near the palisade, reaching out with his right hand to touch the wood. It was cold and damp—like almost everything in the North. It was impossible not to hate the cold. Even after all those years, it remained a torment. In his previous life, he had lived in a tropical country, where cold weather was rare and brief. Now, the damn cold was his only reality.
Standing up and looking around, he saw Jon approaching. Willian turned his gaze back to the guards inspecting the palisade and others removing what was no longer needed.
"When will the training for the new soldiers end?" Willian asked.
"Two more weeks and the defense drills are over," Jon replied. "I think starting next week, we'll join some of the sessions."
Willian looked eastward and saw riders approaching, led by Ser Rodrik and Ned Stark.
"Where's Robb?" he asked.
"Well... he's getting ready," Jon replied, his expression distant, as if his soul were being drained.
"Getting ready?" Willian repeated.
"The house is going to receive some lords of the North. Lady Catelyn ordered everyone to get dressed up, and that includes cutting your hair. Lord Wyman Manderly, from White Harbor, is one of them. He wants to meet with you to negotiate the construction of an important branch of his merchant company in his port."
Oh, right, the lords' meeting... I can't believe I forgot.
Willian looked at Jon in shock, instinctively raising his hands to his long black hair.
"Everyone?" he asked, his voice slightly dazed.
Jon simply nodded and cast his gaze toward Ned Stark, who was now approaching.
Coming back to his senses, Willian followed Jon's eyes and greeted his uncle with a subtle nod.
Ned returned the gesture.
"In the next few days, you will stop your personal training and accompany Ser Rodrik to observe the soldiers, Willian leave your duties to your trusted men, your presence is required" Ned said.
Without waiting for a response, Ned turned with long, purposeful strides, continuing toward the stables. His vassals followed him with their eyes, a silent respect evident on their faces as the lord of Winterfell went about his duties.
Ned's cloak rippled slightly with the movement, a symbol of his authority and urgency.
Ser Rodrik watched his lord's back for a moment, understanding the seriousness of the situation without words. He knew that Ned, always a man of honor, was preparing for a meeting that was both political and personal.
With a brief and firm nod to the boys, a gesture that was more a silent command than a permission, he turned and, with the other knights, returned to the training grounds, resuming the instruction routine that was the foundation of Winterfell's strength.
Willian looked at Jon, who responded with a knowing glance. Together, they began to walk toward their fate.
"You mean... short? Like, really short?" Willian asked.
"I hope it's not that short," Jon replied.
Over the years, their bond had strengthened. Training side by side had broken down barriers, and they had become inseparable. Despite Jon suffering under Catelyn's cold treatment—unable to bear the presence of a bastard—things had softened, in part thanks to Willian.
One day, Willian had spoken with Lady Catelyn, who had raised him as one of her own. She had no problem with a nephew, after all.
Willian couldn't stand the tension between Jon and Catelyn. At age eight, he devised a plan to calm things down. He asked about the day Ned had brought them home. Catelyn, frowning, recalled how Ned had arrived with two children—one introduced as her nephew, the other as his bastard.
Willian already knew the story.
What he wanted was to plant a seed of doubt.
"So Uncle fought battles to find his sisters... and when he did, there was a baby. That's surprising. But how did he find Jon?" Willian had asked something to that effect; he couldn't remember the precise words.
His argument was simple, but the seed was planted. Catelyn knew some things, but not everything. When Ned had left for war, it was to avenge his father and rescue his sisters. Eventually, she tried to talk to Ned. Willian never knew what was said, but something changed. Catelyn stopped treating Jon with raw hostility—only with quiet doubt.
Jon still carried deep scars, but going from mistreatment to mere indifference was a huge improvement.
A few hours later, three boys emerged from the Stark stronghold, freshly shorn and with renewed expressions. It turned out it wasn't so bad.
"Shall we ride?" Robb asked.
"Eddard won't like it," Willian replied.
"Lady Catelyn will be furious," Jon added.
The boys exchanged glances, and mischievous smiles spread across their faces.
"Go, go, go!" Jon shouted, urging his horse forward.
Willian followed him closely, trying to push his horse to overtake Jon.
Damn, I'm the slowest. I can't even see Robb anymore. Damn horses, why do you fear me?
After a few laps, they found Robb already dismounted, smiling with satisfaction.
"You're too slow. I won again," Robb said smugly.
"If you're so good, grab your sword. Let's see who really wins," Jon challenged.
Jon was undeniably the most skilled with a sword, even if it wasn't enough to beat me.
Robb averted his gaze from Jon and turned to Willian.
"What's your excuse?" he asked.
Willian stretched his leg and dismounted from the horse. The leather saddle creaked under the weight of the movement. He released the reins, allowing the horse to lower its head to the stream. The clear water ran around his legs as he walked away.
"Do I really need to say who the intelligent, strongest, most handsome, most..." Willian replied.
Robb rolled his eyes and interrupted him, laughing. "Okay, okay, that's enough. I surrender. You're the coolest."
The boys burst into laughter.
"The best knight, the best swordsman, and the best show-off? Is that what we are now?" Jon said with a smile.
As the years went by, Willian's advantage in intellect, an enviable capacity for study, remained unshakable.
But the boys' natural growth and talent began to bridge the gaps, diminishing the advantage of the reincarnated soul.
However, a new and strange transformation began to manifest.
His stature and strength began to grow unexpectedly.
During sword and spear training, his physical strength, which was once only comparable to Jon's or Robb's, began to surpass them remarkably.
He lifted weights with an ease that surprised Ser Rodrik and the master-at-arms.
His stamina also seemed unlimited; he ran and fought longer than any other boy his age, without showing signs of fatigue.
This new and rapid physical evolution added a layer of power to his intellectual advantage, making him an even more complete opponent in training.
"The three most troublesome boys, I must say," came a voice.
Startled, the boys looked around and saw Ser Rodrik approaching with a few knights.
Ser Rodrik's smile widened, a low, dry sound escaping him.
"Or perhaps the three luckiest boys," he added, his tone shifting to something more serious.
"A deserter from the Night's Watch has been found. Your punishment will be postponed—Lord Stark has summoned you. You must witness the execution," Ser Rodrik said.
Jon looked at Ser Rodrik, then at Robb. "Another one?" he asked in a low voice.
Robb just shook his head. "These scums always do the same thing. They break their oaths and run."
"Unfortunately, many fools join the Watch without understanding," Willian said. He watched a knight in the distance, changing his gaze to Jon. "Besides all the garbage that is piled on those walls of ice."
The Wall was the Alcatraz of this world, a place where criminals and the unlucky were sent.
The boys mounted their horses and followed Ser Rodrik quickly.
Death leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.
Watching someone beheaded for the first time is a horror difficult to describe.
Even knowing it was coming, even mentally preparing for the scene, Willian had to fight the urge to vomit the first time he witnessed it.
Waves of nausea had invaded his mind.
The shock was inevitable. He knew death was part of his path—he would have to face it, overcome it, and be better prepared.
But, now... death was something commonplace.
The crowd fell silent. The snow crunched under boots. A torch crackled on a wooden post. Ned Stark stood in front, his face serious, the sword Ice in his hand.
The kneeling man was trembling, his nose running, his mouth babbling words that the wind carried away. Willian remained still, his eyes fixed on the scene. Ned placed his hand on the hilt of Ice.
"Please, my Lord. Forgive me! I'm a coward, I know. I made the vows out of foolishness! I was just a boy. I didn't know the weight of my choice!"
Ned looked at the man, his expression severe and imposing.
"The weight of words is like the weight of a sword. And a promise is a weapon. Once brandished, it cannot be withdrawn. An oath to the Night's Watch is for life. For your life. Not for as long as you can endure," Ned said, his voice firm and full of authority.
The man lowered his head, defeated.
Ned raised the sword "Ice" and the Valyrian steel gleamed under the gray sky. In a single motion, the blade descended. The thud was clean and dry.
The man's head rolled in the snow and the body slumped. The expression on his face was one of shock and relief, his mouth open in a final breath that the wind carried away.
As they returned to Winterfell after the execution, Willian's thoughts turned to the events he knew were coming. He remembered the wolves.
When would they find them? Would he have one? According to the story, he wouldn't. But had things changed? Had fate included him?
It was years before the canonical events would truly begin, but.
The answer came quickly.
"Lord Stark, a soldier spotted a dead direwolf near the river," Ser Rodrik reported.
Eddard Stark seemed intrigued and approached the soldiers gathered around the wolf's corpse. As he drew closer, he saw five pups clinging to their mother's lifeless body, trying to survive.
Willian and the boys approached. Robb picked one up and looked at his father.
"Kill them all," Eddard said, his voice heavy with anguish, his eyes betraying his discomfort.
"Lord Stark, the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark. There are five pups—one for each of your children," Ser Rodrik replied.
Eddard hesitated. The words struck a chord with his beliefs and superstitions.
"So be it, then," he said.
Ser Rodrik ordered the soldiers to carry the pups—except for one. Robb insisted on carrying his personally, of course.
A smile replaced the worry in Robb's eyes. But to Willian's misfortune, there were only five. There should have been six. He looked at Jon, who seemed saddened. He wanted a wolf too.
"Sir, there's one more," said one of the soldiers. "He's the smallest. He was trapped beneath his mother's body. He might not survive."
Eddard looked at the white pup in the soldier's hands, then turned his gaze to Willian and Jon.
"Jon is much better at raising things than I am," Willian said, trying to justify why Jon should receive the smallest pup.
I can't steal Jon's Ghost. That would be too cruel, Willian thought, trying to console himself.
Ned nodded, and the decision was made. Jon approached the soldier, took the small wolf into his arms, and looked at Willian.
"Are you sure?" Jon asked, concern in his eyes.
"Of course. I'm not a Stark, after all," Willian replied emphatically, trying to mask his disappointment.
"Don't say that," Jon said gently. "But still... thank you."
Laughing, Willian replied, "Don't get me wrong—I love this family. But I am a Corvinus. I can't steal the fate that is meant for a Stark, right?"
He wasn't lying. He was happy to be part of the family. They all meant something to him.
Jon didn't respond, but his grateful expression said enough.
Ned, who had overheard the entire conversation, couldn't help but smile with quiet satisfaction.
Willian was, without a doubt, sad not to have a wolf, but that's how things were. In his plans, a wolf could be useful—but it could also be a hindrance.
"So be it, then," Willian thought, more convinced of his choice.
He slowly approached the direwolf's corpse, reached out, and touched the creature's head. Its mouth was still open—terrifying.
The creature was immense. He approached the animal's head, the jaw still fallen in a silent snarl. The mass of fur and muscle that lay there was a chilling reminder of how dangerous it would be to encounter such a beast, alive, in the darkness of the forest.
Willian observed the teeth, sharp and threatening, even in death. The fur, dense and thick, seemed capable of withstanding a blade. A curious hand touched the hairy snout.
Tracing the contours of the creature's face, his hand inevitably reached the monstrous teeth—sharp as daggers, truly terrifying.
I would like to have a direwolf too.
In the future, when I am prepared, I will go beyond the Wall and look for one.
Somewhere in the vastness of the forest, a long, high howl broke the silence. The sound, guttural and powerful, vibrated in the cold air, filled with a mix of sadness and fury, and made Willian's hairs stand on end.
He and the other boys turned their heads simultaneously toward the sound.