The settlement at Winterfell's gates was not just a scattering of huts. It had a name—Wintertown. For generations, smallfolk had lived under the shadow of the Stark stronghold, their lives bound to its fortunes. But now, Wintertown was no longer the quiet community it had been.
With Robb Stark summoning his bannermen, the little town swelled overnight into a chaotic camp. Soldiers poured in from every corner of the North—hard men from the mountains, rough spearmen from the coast, ambitious knights from forgotten houses. Streets once filled with merchants and farmers now teemed with soldiers drinking, gambling, and strutting as if they owned the place.
In times of feudal war, no one expected discipline. Soldiers did not see themselves as servants of the people. To them, commoners existed to be used, pressed for food, coin, or worse. Even lords were guilty—Roose Bolton himself had casually claimed a villager's house for his lodging, as though it were his right. If a great lord behaved so, how much worse would common foot soldiers act?
It was not so long ago that the right of the first night had been abolished in the North—barely two centuries past, and only because the Starks demanded it. Without such restraint, it would not be uncommon to see soldiers commit every crime imaginable—murder, theft, even rape—without consequence.
Robb had little time to curb such lawlessness. He was already stretched thin, trying to keep his ambitious bannermen from tearing each other apart. Discipline among the rank-and-file was left largely unchecked.
Jon, however, saw opportunity. His first act of authority would not be against a great lord but against the rabble who tarnished the Stark name.
---
That very afternoon, Jon and his small band of twenty-four guards approached an inn at the edge of Wintertown. A crowd of soldiers loitered outside, their voices carrying down the street.
"Son of a bitch!" one of them shouted at the innkeeper. "We're marching to war against the Lannisters, and you still dare demand coin? We fight for your freedom, and you want us to pay for our lodging?"
"Yeah!" another chimed in. "What money do you need? You should be thanking us!"
The innkeeper, a weary man with graying hair, tried to smile through his fear. "My lords, it has been two months. I've fed you, given you ale, beds, and fire. If you don't pay, my family will starve. This inn will fall into ruin."
The leader sneered, hands on his hips, his eyes sliding toward the innkeeper's daughter. "Then let it fall. But your girl… she's fine. Why not give her to me as dowry? Then I'll forgive your debt." His companions erupted in laughter, jeering and making crude suggestions.
The innkeeper's face blanched. He pulled his daughter behind him, shielding her like a hen protecting its chick.
Jon's jaw tightened. He had seen such scenes in another world—armies trampling common folk beneath their boots. To see it here, in the North, under Stark banners, filled him with disgust.
Theon stood beside him, watching uneasily. "These men belong to the Rosser and Shuta families," he whispered. "Their soldiers clash often, drinking and brawling. Robb can hardly keep up with their squabbles, and meanwhile they torment the townsfolk."
Jon had never heard of either house. Likely low-ranking knightly families, insignificant in history, yet arrogant in practice. Such small men were perfect for what he needed.
He hefted the long staff in his hands—blackwood polished smooth, its five-colored lacquer gleaming faintly in the light. He turned to the young men Robb had assigned him.
"Remember what I taught you," Jon said quietly. "First strike to the mouth—silence their cries. Second strike to the legs—stop their escape. Once they fall, beat them until they cannot rise."
The youths grinned, their blood racing. They were Robb's chosen—hot-blooded sons of the North, eager for their first taste of action. Though this was no battle against Lannisters, it was battle enough for them. Even Theon, despite his usual cynicism, felt a thrill stir in his chest.
Jon's gaze shifted back to the innkeeper's trembling daughter. This inn was nothing more than a family home, larger than most, passed down through generations. To see it threatened with ruin because of arrogant soldiers—Jon's anger sharpened into resolve.
He glanced at his golden finger's display.
[Swordsmanship: Red — Sword Saint]
The crimson glow pulsed like a living flame. His upgrade had elevated him beyond mere skill. He no longer needed a sword to wield swordsmanship—any weapon, even a stick, was an extension of his will.
"Move out," Jon ordered.
---
The young men advanced in a crouch, sticks clutched tightly. They moved like a pack of hunters, silent until the moment they struck.
At the inn's door, the leader of the ruffians grabbed for the girl again, his hand clawing past her father's arm.
"Don't hide, bitch," he jeered. "You'll come to like me. Men, inside! Let's drink!"
"Go! Go!" his companions roared, surging toward the door.
Then shadows fell across them.
The innkeeper looked up in shock as a blur of movement erupted from the street. A black staff swung like a bolt of lightning. The first soldier barely had time to gasp before wood cracked against his jaw—teeth and blood spraying as he collapsed.
Jon moved like a storm. His staff whirled, striking mouths, shattering knees, smashing ribs. In the blink of an eye, seven men fell writhing to the ground.
Theon froze. He had seen Jon fight before, but never like this. His speed was inhuman, his strikes too precise, too brutal.
"Seven hells," Theon muttered. "What did he learn at the Wall?"
The remaining soldiers panicked. They tried to draw steel, but Jon was already among them, his staff breaking arms before swords left their scabbards. The young guards following Jon barely had time to join the fray; most of the work was done before they reached the door.
The innkeeper's daughter clutched her father's sleeve, her eyes wide with awe and terror. She had never seen such ferocity—nor anyone fight on behalf of common folk.
At last, Jon brought the staff down across the leader's back, sending him sprawling. The man groaned, then spat blood. "Who dares strike me? My father is Baron Shuta!"
Jon loomed over him, staff raised high. "Then it is Baron Shuta's son I beat!" The staff whistled down again and again, each blow punctuated by Jon's voice.
"Do you remember you are Northmen?!" Thud!
"Do you remember the people you swore to protect?!" Thud!
"Do you think common folk deserve your cruelty?!" Thud!
The baron's son screamed for mercy. "Stop! Stop! Sir, I am a Northman!"
Jon's voice thundered. "Now you remember. But were they not Northmen too? The innkeeper, his daughter—are they not of the North?!"
His words carried down the street. Townsfolk peeked from windows and doorways, stunned. For the first time, someone of rank was defending them, punishing soldiers who had preyed upon them.
At last, Jon lowered his staff. The ruffians lay groaning, broken and humiliated.
He turned to the innkeeper, his expression softening. "My name is Jon. If such men trouble you again, come to Winterfell. Find me."
The innkeeper's mouth worked soundlessly, then he bowed low, tears brimming in his eyes.
Jon motioned to his men. They tied the beaten soldiers to their horses' tails, dragging them through Wintertown's streets. Jon mounted his own horse and raised his voice, so all could hear.
"Any man who robs or bullies common folk, who eats and drinks without paying, will share this fate!"
His words cut like ice. Soldiers loitering in the alleys froze, shame and fear warring in their faces. Some turned away, others cursed under their breath, but all understood the message.
Jon Snow had drawn a line.
---
That night, however, the beaten noble's father stormed into Robb's hall, dragging his son with him. The boy's face was swollen, his pride shattered, but his father's fury burned bright.
Robb sat stiffly in his chair, Grey Wind growling at his feet. Jon stood at his side, calm, unrepentant.
Baron Shuta's voice rang out. "This bastard has dishonored my house!"
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