Theon Greyjoy's swagger had vanished. Jon's sharp words had cut straight to the root of his insecurity, leaving him shaken. Once, Theon had thought himself clever and untouchable, but Jon had exposed truths he could not deny. For the first time, Theon found himself questioning the future he had taken for granted.
His pride wounded, Theon resolved on a new course. He must speak to Robb. He must find a way to return to the Iron Islands, to raise a fleet of his own, to prove his worth to his father and to himself. Only then would he know whether his inheritance remained intact—or whether his sister had already surpassed him.
As these thoughts plagued Theon, the company rode on. Soon the scenery shifted from empty fields to signs of civilization. Market towns lined both sides of the King's Road, bustling with life despite the chill of autumn.
Contrary to the lonely image painted in stories, Winterfell was not an isolated fortress in the wilderness. The Stark stronghold was surrounded by several thriving settlements—four or five small towns, and countless markets where farmers, craftsmen, and merchants gathered under the protection of Stark law.
Here, order was secure. The banners of direwolves inspired trust, and crime was rare compared to the chaos of the south. Markets had formed naturally, feeding the great castle and reinforcing its wealth.
As Jon approached the familiar silhouette of Winterfell's walls, a figure waited at the gates, tall and resolute. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, stood ready, Grey Wind at his side. The direwolf growled low as Ghost trotted near, the two predators circling one another warily. After a moment's silent tension, they lowered their heads and sniffed one another, acknowledging kinship.
Jon dismounted, and Robb strode forward without hesitation. He wrapped his foster-brother in a firm embrace, relief and determination mingling in his eyes.
"Jon," Robb said, his voice thick with emotion.
Jon returned the hug, his expression solemn. "We must rescue Father—and our sisters."
Robb's jaw tightened, and he nodded. "We will."
The two locked eyes, a silent pact forged between them.
Watching from the side, Theon felt jealousy burn in his chest. The bond between the bastard and the heir was strong, stronger than the shallow camaraderie he had built with Robb. For the first time, Theon realized that he was drifting further from both Winterfell and the Iron Islands. He was nearly twenty now—too old to play the ward, too weak to command respect. The realization gnawed at him.
Maester Luwin arrived soon after, his gray robes fluttering in the wind. His sharp eyes studied Jon carefully. Something about him was different.
Once, Jon had been a boy wrapped in ice—aloof, distant, unwilling to let anyone close. Now he burned like a quiet fire, radiating confidence and warmth. His presence had changed, commanding attention without effort. Luwin wondered what had happened beyond the Wall to cause such a transformation.
Jon bowed respectfully. "Maester."
"Jon Snow," Luwin replied, inclining his head. "Welcome home."
The group returned to the heart of Winterfell, where Robb wasted no time pulling Jon aside to discuss strategy. In his chambers, a map stretched across the wall above his bed, lines and markers scattered across the Riverlands and the North.
"I've already summoned all our bannermen," Robb said, pointing to the map. "Within two to three months, the full strength of the North will be gathered here. Then we march south together—to rescue Father, Sansa, and Arya."
Jon studied the map, nodding slowly. "Good. We will need every sword."
Three months. That was time enough to prepare. In that span, he would gain three more upgrade points. If he used them wisely, his swordsmanship could ascend beyond its current limits, and his strength would stand among the greatest in Westeros. He resolved to spend these days in relentless training, pushing himself to a level no one could ignore.
Robb's hand clenched into a fist as he spoke again, his eyes alight with determination. "I believe the Lannisters will lay siege to Riverrun next. When the Northern host gathers, I'll dispatch our cavalry on a lightning strike. A direct attack will relieve the Tullys quickly, before their defenses break."
His excitement was palpable. Jon recognized the glimmer of the commander Robb would become—the same man who, in another timeline, would earn the name Young Wolf. Yet he also noticed a flaw.
"You'll need to cross the Twins," Jon said quietly, his mind flashing to the grim memory of the Red Wedding. "Lord Walder Frey controls that crossing. Without his leave, your plan will falter."
Robb frowned, clearly unsettled but not yet willing to face the problem head-on.
Before Jon could press the matter, movement outside the window caught his eye. A giant of a man, over two meters tall, passed by carrying a boy in a specially made saddle.
"Hodor!"
The door opened, and the massive stablehand entered with Bran cradled gently in his arms. Summer padded behind them, his fur gleaming silver-gray.
"Jon!" Bran called, his face breaking into a smile.
Jon's heart softened as he stepped forward. He crouched, gently touching his younger brother's legs. "Does it still hurt?"
Bran shook his head. "I don't feel anything."
The words were like a blade through Jon's chest. If he felt nothing, it meant the nerves had been severed. In this world, without magic or miracles, such an injury was final. His brother would never walk again.
Jon forced a smile, masking his grief. "You're strong, Bran."
But his mind churned. He thought of the Green Seer, of whispered powers hidden in the depths of the earth. Could those powers heal Bran—or would they twist him into something unnatural? He did not yet know if the Three-Eyed Raven was an ally or an enemy. For now, he buried the thought.
Later, Rickon arrived with Shaggydog in tow, the youngest Stark bounding with wild energy. The courtyard filled with the sounds of direwolves, their howls echoing against the stone. Jon's return brought no scandal, for Robb declared publicly that he had never truly taken the oath of the Night's Watch. Most accepted this without protest.
After all, the Wall had changed. It was no longer a brotherhood of noblemen—it was a prison for criminals. What difference would one more or less make? The people of the North cared more about loyalty to House Stark than to a crumbling order at the edge of the world.
In the days that followed, Jon threw himself into training. He sparred with Robb, with Theon, with any bannerman willing to test his blade. He also practiced his warging, borrowing untrained ravens from Maester Luwin under the guise of experimenting with new communication methods. Slowly, his control sharpened.
Two months slipped by like sand through fingers. Winter's breath grew sharper. Frost blanketed the fields, and the Northern host gathered in blackened camps around Winterfell.
From the city walls, banners stretched as far as the eye could see. The direwolf of Stark flew high, joined by a hundred others—sigils of ancient houses, from mountain clans to coastal lords. Knights polished their armor, squires sharpened blades, and the rumble of thousands of voices filled the air like a storm.
Bran leaned against the parapet beside Maester Luwin, his young face solemn as he watched the spectacle below.
"How many knights?" Bran asked.
"Perhaps three hundred," Luwin answered.
"So few?"
"Knighthood is rare in the North. But we have three to four thousand cavalry, and many more men on foot."
Bran nodded slowly, but Luwin's expression remained troubled. The gathering of lords was strength, yes—but also peril. Each lord brought his own ambitions. Some sought to marry their daughters into House Stark, others jockeyed for better camp positions. More dangerous still, Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort had dared to demand command of the entire host.
Robb had refused them all with firm words, but Luwin sensed the tests were far from over. These lords were measuring Robb, weighing whether the boy who called himself King in the North was worthy of their allegiance.
Jon, meanwhile, had spent the two months sharpening his blade until his skill gleamed like tempered steel. When at last he checked his golden finger, the result stunned even him.
[Swordsmanship — Purple]
The description glowed with power:
"Slicing, thrusting, and hacking are the basics. But true swordsmanship lies in channeling concentrated force, enough to pierce stone and shatter iron."
Jon had thought it would take three months to reach this level. Yet sparring with lords and their men had accelerated his growth. He was no longer merely competent—he was a master. A first-rate swordsman who could stand among the best of Westeros.
And still, he held three upgrade counts in reserve. At any moment, he could push beyond mastery, into the realm of legends. The thought thrilled him..
But Jon restrained himself. It was not yet time. He had no soldiers under his command, no official rank beyond that of Robb's bastard brother. To reveal his full strength too soon would waste the advantage. Better to wait, to let the right moment come, when his blade could change the course of war.
A knock sounded at his door, breaking his thoughts.
It was Theon.
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