"Jon won! Jon won! That's great!"
Bran's excited voice broke through the stunned silence, his small fists pumping in triumph. His joy was infectious, his eyes shining brighter than they had since the day he lost the use of his legs. For a moment, he forgot the ache of his broken body. For the first time in moons, he felt free.
Greatjon Umber, booming and broad, was the first to declare it formally. "The bastard won the duel! Gods be good, he won it clean!" His shout carried, echoing across the crowd of bannermen.
The outcome could no longer be denied.
Jon Snow had defeated Bolton's armored champion.
But instead of basking in cheers, Jon walked straight past the fallen man. His staff was still slick with sweat from the fight, his eyes burning with a cold determination. He did not look to the crowd, nor to Robb, nor even to the lords whispering among themselves. His gaze fixed on one man alone.
Ramsay Bolton.
The bastard of the Dreadfort felt that stare pierce him like an arrow. His legs weakened, his breath caught in his throat. A moment ago, he had sneered at Jon's stick, certain the boy would be butchered. Now Jon's silent march toward him made him want to shrink into the earth.
Roose Bolton's patience frayed. He was not a man prone to shows of temper, but in his mind calculations shifted rapidly, dangerously. He was over forty, his health ever fragile. Ramsay was not only his heir but his only child—his only legacy.
And now that legacy was about to be destroyed.
He realized too late the truth. He had set a trap, hoping to bait a Stark wolf into humiliation and disgrace. But instead of a wolf, a dragon had come. A dragon cloaked in wolf's skin. His trap had not merely failed—it had enraged the beast.
Jon Snow advanced step by step. Ramsay, pale as milk, swayed as if he might collapse.
"My lord—" Roose began, but another voice cut across the field before he could act.
"Jon! Stop!"
Robb Stark's voice rang like a blade drawn from its sheath. His command snapped through the crowd. Guards immediately surged forward, steel flashing as they moved to bar Jon's way.
Jon froze, his chest heaving from battle, staff still gripped tight. His dark eyes flicked to Robb.
"Jon," Robb continued, anger sharpening every word, "you said you returned to rescue Father. Is this how you honor him? With more blood?"
The words struck not only Jon but the entire gathering. Robb turned then, sweeping his gaze across the assembled lords, his voice rising.
"You are my father's bannermen!" he thundered. "I summoned you here to fulfill your duty—to ride at my side, to free your liege lord from captivity! Yet what have you brought me? Bribes! Petty schemes! Daughters you'd sell like horses at market!"
His voice cracked like a whip. Though he named no names, the meaning was plain. Several lords shifted uneasily, shame staining their faces. They had whispered of marriage alliances, of opportunities to gain favor while Eddard Stark languished in chains.
This was Jon's plan—force Robb to seize the moment, to remind them all who bore the name Stark.
Robb did not falter. His voice roared louder:
"My father was betrayed by a false king and by villains! And I, Robb Stark, his son and heir, will not tolerate treachery in my own camp! Any man who thinks to play games with me will answer for it!"
As if summoned by the fury in his tone, Grey Wind burst from the shadows. The direwolf padded forward, lips curled, green eyes glowing. The massive beast growled low, his rumble rolling through the earth.
Few in the crowd had ever seen such a creature. A wolf that stood taller than a man's waist, jaws strong enough to snap bone. One bite at the throat and a man would fall dead. The sight silenced even the boldest whisper.
Robb turned, his eyes now burning on Ramsay.
"Ramsay," he said, voice hard as ice, "you know Jon is my brother. Though he may be my father's bastard, he is still of my blood. What crime is it to insult your liege's family? Tell me, bastard of Bolton—what crime is it?"
Ramsay's lips trembled. His legs quivered so violently that the retainer holding him upright had to grip tighter. He wanted to answer, to defend himself, but words would not come.
Greatjon's eyes gleamed as he watched Robb in his fury. The massive lord, who valued strength above all, whispered with reverence: "Old gods and new, this is Ned's true son."
Robb drew himself taller. "Ramsay Snow. Jon Snow. Both of you have erred. Each of you shall be fined one hundred lashes. But the army marches soon, and we cannot afford delay. The sentence will be carried out after the war. Does anyone disagree?"
Silence fell like a heavy cloak. Not one lord dared challenge him. In that moment, Robb Stark stood not as boy, but as Lord of Winterfell, heir of the North.
Satisfied, Robb turned his gaze on Roose Bolton.
"Lord Bolton."
The pale man inclined his head. "Yes… Lord Robb."
"You desire command of the entire Northern host. That will not happen."
The words struck like a hammer. Roose's lips tightened, though he betrayed little else.
"Yet," Robb continued, "I know you only sought to serve me better. For that, I shall grant you command of a portion of the army when the time comes."
Roose's eyes flickered. It was less than he wanted, but not the outright dismissal he feared.
Robb pressed the advantage. "And I appoint Jon as your second-in-command. You will hold the army's command, but he will oversee supplies and intelligence. Together, you will work for one purpose—my father's freedom."
The crowd stirred. They understood the meaning. Logistics and supplies were the lifeblood of any army. By granting that authority to Jon, Robb had chained Bolton with invisible iron.
"Thank you, my lord," Roose murmured. His tone was smooth, but bitterness lingered. With Jon watching, every victory would be shared, and every failure would fall heavier on him.
Robb did not pause. "And Ramsay—your son. Do you mean to name him heir?"
Roose's composure faltered. He had no other son, but the question was a trap. If he said yes, it bound him. If he said no, it humiliated him.
Robb gave no time to think. "He will serve in my personal guard. He shall march with me, as befits a true heir of House Bolton."
Roose swallowed his pride. "As you command, my lord."
The matter was settled. Bolton was leashed.
---
That evening, in Robb's study, the mood was lighter. Jon, Theon, Bran, Maester Luwin, and Robb gathered around a heavy oak table. A fire crackled, warming the chamber.
Theon raised his cup. "Seven hells, Jon. You had me sweating in that fight. I thought that giant of a man would crush you like a flea."
Jon only smiled faintly. "He fought like an ox. Strong, but slow."
Maester Luwin leaned forward, eyes curious. "First conquer the weak, then the strong. And those neither weak nor strong will fall in line. Where did you learn such wisdom, Jon?"
Jon shrugged. "A man I knew at the Wall. He trained animals—monkeys, mostly. He said if you want to tame a troop, you kill a chicken in front of them first. Most will obey. A few won't. Then you tame the fiercest one. Once he bows, the rest follow."
Luwin stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Hmm. Remarkable. A crude example, perhaps, but wise nonetheless."
Theon barked a laugh. "So you're saying the lords of the North are monkeys?"
Jon's lips twitched. "More or less. Men and monkeys aren't so different when fear and pride guide them."
Robb chuckled but quickly grew serious. "Jon, the army is assembled. We must march soon. But Old Walder Frey stands in our path. Have you thought on how to make him yield?"
He glanced at his wine cup, reluctant to meet their eyes. "I've decided. After the war, I will wed a Frey daughter. In exchange, the Freys will grant us passage and join our cause."
Jon studied him. He saw the shadow in Robb's expression, the reluctance. Robb Stark, heir to the North, did not relish wedding into Walder Frey's brood. The Freys were new blood—parvenus compared to the Starks' ancient line. Their daughters were neither renowned for beauty nor grace.
But war left little room for pride.
Jon spoke quietly. "Then sweeten the deal. Old Walder is greedy. Offer more than one marriage. Add Arya or Rickon to the bargain. Two matches may sway him."
Robb's eyes widened. "My siblings? You'd give them away so lightly?"
Jon's voice was steady. "If it wins the war, it's a small price. Better marriage than graves."
Robb's jaw tightened. As eldest, he bore the duty of protecting his family. The thought twisted in his gut.
Jon gave a faint smile, dry as winter air. "Or if you'd prefer, I'll go myself. Perhaps the Freys will treat me better than the Lannisters would."
The others laughed, though uneasily. The truth hung between them—Jon had already sacrificed much, playing the role of Stark's sword and shield.
Robb reached across the table, his voice low. "Jon. After the war is won… don't return to the Wall. Stay. I need you."
The firelight flickered, shadows dancing across their faces. For a moment, the boy who would be the Young Wolf spoke not as a commander, but as a brother.
And Jon Snow said nothing, though in his silence was an answer.
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