The great hall of Winterfell was ablaze with light. Hundreds of candles burned in iron sconces and upon long tables, their flames flickering against the carved stone walls and chasing away the chill of the northern night. The music of harps and lutes drifted in the background, weaving through the steady murmur of conversation. Once, not so long ago, these halls had carried the banners of King Robert Baratheon, their black stags upon gold swaying proudly in the torchlight. Robb Stark, seated upon the high seat of the Starks, could still remember that day clearly.
It had been half a year at most. Robert had marched in arm-in-arm with Lady Catelyn, booming with laughter, his voice as loud as the feast that followed. Behind him had come Lord Eddard with Queen Cersei, their faces stiff with forced politeness. The memories felt as if they had happened only yesterday.
Now, the hall was filled not with royal splendor but with the squabbles of lords, barons, and petty knights. Robb blinked, dragging himself out of his reverie as the droning complaint of Baron Shuta finally pierced through his thoughts.
"My Lord," the Baron whined, his voice sharp with feigned outrage, "your brother's hand was far too heavy. He nearly broke my son's bones. A young man may forget a payment, aye, but to be beaten so savagely? That is no justice. I beg you, grant me fairness."
Robb studied the man before him. Baron Shuta was in his early forties, dressed in a red velvet vest that suggested wealth, though his shrewd, calculating eyes betrayed a mind always measuring profit. Robb wondered, fleetingly, what his mother might have said to such a man, before his gaze slid toward Jon Snow, who stood silent at the other end of the hall.
"Jon," Robb said at last, his voice steady, "what happened?"
The Baron turned immediately, eyes narrowing with open hostility. He knew well enough the kind of son he had raised, but if Jon dared to argue, a scene would follow.
To his surprise, Jon did not argue. He did not protest or list excuses. Instead, he spoke calmly, his voice low but carrying across the hall.
"Perhaps your son did forget," Jon admitted. "But he and his friends blocked the shopkeeper and his daughter, and there was violence in their intent. Perhaps my hand was too heavy. If so, punish me."
The Baron choked, caught off guard. He had expected bluster or denial, not such a direct admission. For a moment his tongue stilled.
Robb leaned forward. "Very well. Since you admit overstepping, I will judge you guilty of excess. Twenty lashes, military discipline. But Baron, the army marches soon, and Jon—like myself—bears the duty of rescuing our father and kin. His punishment will be postponed until the war is ended."
The Baron's mouth fell open. "But—my Lord—"
Robb's tone sharpened. "What? Do you find my judgment unfit?"
A flicker of panic crossed Shuta's face, but desperation pushed him onward. "My son is nobleborn! He should not be struck by… by a bastard. Jon Snow has no right to bear arms before a trueborn son of the North!"
Jon's face remained calm. "I fought with a wooden staff."
"And still you struck him down! That is crime enough!" the Baron sputtered.
Jon's answer was simple, almost indifferent. "After the war, I will return to the Wall."
The words silenced Shuta more effectively than any curse.
Theon Greyjoy, watching from the side, snorted with laughter. "Gods," he muttered, "it's as if Jon's already condemned to a life sentence. Add a hundred more years, and it changes nothing."
"Enough," Robb cut in, voice stern. He remembered his father's justice. Lord Eddard Stark would have silenced this kind of man after fifty lashes were mentioned, not twenty. He would have made him kneel in gratitude for the mercy shown. Robb straightened in his seat, his blue eyes cold. "If you doubt me, Baron, summon the shopkeeper and his daughter. Let them stand here before us all and speak the truth."
The Baron blanched. He remembered their frightened faces, their gratitude toward Jon Snow, and realized the danger of pressing further. His bluster collapsed into stammered praise. "Wise, most wise, young Lord. Truly, your judgment is beyond dispute. I am convinced."
He bowed, muttered more empty compliments, and withdrew, already scheming how best to restrain his troublesome son and household.
Robb exhaled, a flicker of pride warming him. He had cowed a noble—though only a minor baron—through firm judgment. It was a small triumph, but in the great hall, every show of strength mattered. He cast a glance at Jon, whose expression was unreadable, and felt a surge of gratitude. Without Jon's restraint, the matter might have spun into open conflict.
From the shadows, Theon smirked. He had not expected the affair to resolve so neatly, and certainly not with Jon of all people standing firm like a rock.
Later, as the hall emptied and only the three of them remained, Theon eagerly recounted the fight with his usual flair. "I swear, Robb, he knocked down a dozen men in the blink of an eye! They scattered like geese before a wolf!"
Robb frowned, skeptical. "A dozen? That's… exaggerated, surely. Jon is skilled, but no man is so quick."
Jon said nothing, but the faintest curve touched his lips. Robb's pride prickled. His half-brother's silence was more provoking than boast. On impulse, sharpened by the weight of Winterfell pressing on his young shoulders, Robb blurted:
"Then fight me. A duel."
Jon looked at him steadily. The challenge hung in the air like a drawn blade. But instead of acceptance, Jon shook his head.
"Robb, the North rests on your shoulders now. Whether I win or lose, it would be ill for you. What I need is your trust. Soon we'll need to tame those wild soldiers out there."
Robb's anger faltered, replaced by a weary smile. "You're right. Gods, Jon, I don't know how I'd manage without you."
Jon did not answer, only smiled faintly again. To him, Robb was still too young, too untested. Yet there was fire in him, and military triumph would forge it into steel. Victory on the battlefield granted a ruler more prestige than a dozen councils ever could. Jon knew it. After the Whispering Wood, it would be that fire which drove Northern lords to name a boy of sixteen their King in the North.
In the days that followed, Jon continued his rounds through Winter Town. With a band of men armed only with staves, he struck wherever soldiers grew unruly—alleys, markets, rooftops, even behind taverns. Trouble was met with swift justice. Bruises and broken pride followed Jon's path, and soon his tally of "punishments" had grown past counting.
Among the men, a nickname spread: "The Brutal Stick."
The lesser lords began tightening discipline, unwilling to risk their men shamed or beaten. Winter Town, once restless with petty violence, grew quiet. But Jon was not satisfied. Small fry no longer filled his hunger. He was waiting—for a bigger fish.
And others had begun to notice.
"This is no bastard's rebellion," Roose Bolton remarked in a chamber lit with fire and candle. His pale eyes gleamed as he listened to reports. "This is our young Lord asserting his authority."
The Lord of the Dreadfort leaned back, lips curling in a humorless smile. His goals remained unchanged: to rise higher, to gather enough prestige to claim command of the Northern host. He had no wish to kneel to Tywin Lannister, not yet. The game was still in play. Eddard Stark's accusations against Cersei and Jaime had shattered the throne's legitimacy. Six kingdoms against one—it was a storm the Lannisters could not weather. Victory seemed inevitable, and Roose Bolton intended to ride that tide.
"So," asked Micky Seaworth, an aging knight who dreamed of wedding his plump daughter to Robb, "shall we cut this bastard down to size? Teach him his place?"
Roose's smile did not falter, but he shook his head. "Too undignified for lords to soil their hands. Jon Snow wears the cloak of law. To strike him outright would only make him stronger. No, he must be pulled from his moral perch, dragged into the mud."
His eyes shifted toward the shadows where another figure lurked. "Ramsay. You are also a Snow. Would you like to test yourself against him?"
For a heartbeat, Ramsay hesitated. Then he licked his lips, his eyes glittering with hunger. The thought of proving himself before his father filled him with savage glee.
"Yes, Father," Ramsay said. "I would."
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