"Jon, Robb sent me to find you. He has something he wants to discuss with us."
Theon's words were flat, his expression stiff, almost like a punching bag resigned to its fate. Once, he would have taken every opportunity to needle Jon with sharp jests and petty provocations. But things had changed.
After Jon had called him out on being "too Westerosi," Theon had gone to Robb full of determination. He had offered to sail to the Iron Islands and raise a fleet in his name, convinced that such a feat would prove his worth. Yet his idea had been quickly crushed.
Maester Luwin had vetoed the proposal with calm logic. Theon was no ally but a hostage, a living safeguard against his father's rebellion. To let him return would be to hand Balon Greyjoy his freedom. And who could predict what madness the Ironborn might unleash if they sensed weakness?
Without his grand scheme, Theon's mood soured. He sulked, torn between the feeling of being caged in Winterfell and the shame of being dismissed as irrelevant. Now, being summoned to Robb's side filled him with excitement. Perhaps this was his chance to prove himself useful.
Together, Jon and Theon made their way to Robb's study. The door was ajar, and voices drifted through. Robb stood by the map table, his brow furrowed, speaking with Maester Luwin. Impatience flickered in his tone, a sign of the heavy weight pressing on his young shoulders.
Robb had become, in practice, the Lord of Winterfell. But lordship was proving no easy mantle to bear.
"Robb," Luwin was saying, "do not let this trouble your spirit. These vassals are loyal still—to Winterfell, to House Stark. But they are men, and men… test their leaders."
Jon and Theon stepped inside. Robb straightened, smoothing the tension from his features as he greeted them.
"Jon, Theon," he said. "I need your counsel."
The words carried a mix of weariness and hope. Robb was no fool; he knew the loyalty of the North was not absolute. The lords had come, yes, but with conditions, demands, and ambitions of their own.
Luwin explained further. As Jon had already suspected, the proud lords of the North did not fully respect their young liege. Some murmured that Robb was too young to command men hardened by decades of war. Others sought to press advantage—one even dared suggest that Robb marry his granddaughter, a blatant intrusion into his lord's rights.
Robb had deflected their demands, but he could not be harsh. He needed their armies, and so he dismissed their requests with patience that left him quietly seething.
Others played subtler games. Gifts arrived for Robb and Bran, tokens of goodwill hiding selfish intent. One lord, who showered Bran with fine furs, expected exclusive hunting rights in return.
And then there was Roose Bolton, cold-eyed and soft-spoken, whose ambition chilled the room whenever he entered. He had dared approach Robb directly, asking to be named commander of the entire Northern host.
Though Robb had refused him, Jon knew this was not the end. Bolton was a serpent who would test the cracks in the wall again and again.
Robb sighed, his frustration clear. "They do not trust me. They see only a boy. I need to show them otherwise—but how?"
Before Jon could answer, Theon stepped forward, seizing the opportunity to speak.
"In the Iron Islands," he declared proudly, "we deal with disobedience simply. We fight. We duel. Kill a few who defy you, and the rest will fall in line."
Theon's words carried the weight of his recent obsession. After Jon had mocked him for thinking like a mainlander, Theon had thrown himself into proving his Ironborn nature. He had even begged Luwin for books on the Iron Islands, trying to reclaim an identity he had nearly lost in Winterfell's halls.
But Luwin shook his head, disapproving. "Violence alone wins no loyalty, Theon. It may cow men, but it will also make them resentful. The North is not the Iron Islands. Its lords are more subtle, and its politics far more complex."
Theon faltered under the Maester's cool logic. His pride bristled, and he glanced sidelong at Jon, waiting for him to fail.
Jon, however, only smiled faintly. His calm was unnerving. "This," Jon said, his voice steady, "is a good thing."
"What?" Robb, Theon, and even Luwin turned to stare at him.
A good thing? Surely the constant challenges from vassals were anything but good. Theon nearly scoffed aloud.
But Jon repeated it firmly. "This is a good thing. Strong horses buck when first ridden. But once tamed, they are unmatched on the battlefield. These lords test you because they are strong-willed. But if you tame them, their strength will be yours. And with them, you'll have all the force you need to rescue Father and our sisters."
His words hung in the air. Luwin's eyes brightened with approval, the metaphor striking deep. Robb leaned forward, hope flickering across his face.
"And how," the Maester asked, "do you suggest we tame them?"
Jon folded his arms, gathering his thoughts. "Violence has its place, but it must be tempered with fairness. Alone, it breeds rebellion. Combined with justice, it breeds respect."
Theon frowned, clearly unconvinced, but Jon pressed on. "Robb should grant me a small contingent. I'll patrol the camps of each lord. When rules are broken, punishment will be swift. Soldiers who err will be flogged. Nobles who break order… flogged as well."
Theon blinked, stunned at Jon's boldness.
"Strike first at one or two of the loudest offenders," Jon continued. "Make an example. They'll come to you complaining of my harshness. That's when you punish me alongside them. To their eyes, you'll appear both strong and merciful. They'll learn that discipline is unavoidable, yet their loyalty will remain to you."
A clever smile ghosted Jon's lips. "I'll carry the bad name. You'll carry the authority."
Luwin's admiration deepened. This was not the cold, insecure boy he once knew. This Jon Snow was cunning, measured, willing to play the villain if it served a greater cause.
Robb, however, hesitated. "Jon, that's… that's unfair to you. To be the one they hate, to be whipped beside them…" His voice cracked, the weight of brotherly love pressing against the demands of leadership.
Jon cut him off gently. "None of that matters. What matters is rescuing Father and my sisters. If my name is tarnished for their sake, so be it."
Robb swallowed hard, his eyes glistening. For a moment, the mask of the Young Wolf slipped, revealing the boy beneath. Then he straightened, firm once more.
"Very well," he said. "But when we march south, I'll do more than that. I'll give you men of your own. You'll lead a company, Jon—your own soldiers."
Jon's chest tightened with quiet satisfaction. This was what he needed. A command, no matter how small, was the foundation upon which greater things could be built. Even eight hundred men, wielded at the right time, could turn the tide of battle against armies a hundred times their size.
It was a beginning.
Theon, standing to the side, stiffened. His stomach twisted with envy. Winterfell's strength numbered barely six thousand. To give some of that to Jon meant there was less to offer him. He could see his chance slipping away, his value diminishing with each passing moment...
Panic flared, and he blurted out, "But what if you lose? What if the nobles' sworn swords best you? Then your plan backfires. Instead of earning their respect, you'll humiliate Robb!"
The words rang sharp, cutting into the fragile air of hope that Jon had built.
Robb turned to Jon, waiting for his answer.
And Jon only smiled again.
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