As the day of departure drew nearer, the last pieces of Robb Stark's preparations began to fall into place. Messengers rode in with updates, blacksmiths hammered out the final suits of mail, and the steady rhythm of drums reminded the camp that war waited just beyond the horizon.
Reinforcements, Robb had promised, would soon arrive. Yet when Jon went to meet him that morning, it was not Robb he found at the door of the study but Maester Luwin.
The maester's usually calm, studious face carried a trace of unease. When he saw Jon approach, he managed a polite smile, but it was the smile of a man who bore unpleasant news.
"Jon," he began softly, "there's something I must tell you."
Jon tilted his head, wary. In all his years at Winterfell, he could hardly remember a time when Maester Luwin looked so flustered. That alone was enough to set him on edge.
It did not take long for the truth to come out.
Jon's efforts to enforce discipline these past weeks had cut deep. He had rooted out laziness, punished cruelty, stripped away indulgence. The soldiers respected it, but the knights—ah, the knights were another matter. They had grown used to privilege, and Jon's sharp hand had earned him their resentment.
The agreement between Jon and Robb had been simple: Jon would help consolidate Robb's command, and in return, Robb would grant him an independent force of five hundred men. Enough to make his own mark, enough to stand as a counterweight to Roose Bolton's influence.
But an army of five hundred was no small thing. It required at least a dozen knights as its spine, men to lead companies of cavalry and infantry, men whose names carried weight. And now, when Robb's call went out for knights to serve under Jon, the answer had been silence.
Or worse than silence.
They had said openly they would rather die than serve a bastard.
Even Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell, could not compel them. Westeros was built on a cruel principle: my vassal's vassal is not my vassal. A lord might bend the knee to House Stark, but his sworn knight need not follow a bastard son.
Maester Luwin explained all this with care, but Jon already knew. He had expected resistance. He had just not expected it to be so absolute.
Out of more than four hundred knights gathered beneath the direwolf banner, not even a handful would ride for him.
Jon listened in silence, then gave a faint shrug. "When I made the suggestion to Robb, I knew this might happen. It's a little worse than I thought, but it changes nothing. So long as I march to rescue Father, that is enough."
The maester studied him with a look that was half pity, half admiration. He saw the sacrifice in Jon's words—the quiet acceptance of scorn for the sake of his brother's cause.
At that moment Robb himself emerged from the study, his eyes lighting when he saw Jon. "Good, you're here. I've news. I can give you three hundred men from Winterfell's own ranks. Add in others we can scrape together, and you'll have near five hundred still."
The soldiers of Winterfell were Stark men, bound directly to the lord's command. They could not refuse. They were disciplined, hardened, and loyal—the best Robb had to offer. It was, in truth, a gift.
"Robb," Jon said quietly, "you need not blame yourself. I told you from the start—so long as I march beside you, I need nothing more."
Yet the more Jon dismissed the matter, the heavier the weight grew on Robb's heart. He could see it in his brother's eyes—the strain, the loneliness. He resolved then and there that Jon would have the finest gear, the best supplies, whatever compensation he could give.
To steer the mood away from pity, Jon changed the subject. "When do we ride?"
Robb's expression brightened as he drew a letter from his belt. "Soon. This is Old Walder's reply. He agrees to the alliance. He promises two thousand men."
Excitement sparked in his voice, and for a moment Jon saw not the Lord of Winterfell, but the boy he had grown up with. Robb's victories were still ahead, but already he could taste them.
Jon nodded. He knew the truth behind the letter—knew that in another life, Catelyn had gone herself to secure Frey support. This time, they had moved faster. Earlier, smoother, perhaps better.
After a little more talk, Robb hesitated, then added, "Jon… there are two knights who've agreed to ride with you."
Jon raised a brow. "Oh? That's good news. What do you make of them?"
Robb grimaced, and for a heartbeat Jon wondered if he should have preferred silence.
The first knight stepped forward. He was gray-haired, his face lined, his back bowed with years. His armor, though polished, fit him loosely, as if the strength to carry it had fled with his youth.
"My lord," he said in a flat voice. "My name is York. My family holds land by the White Knife. You may call me York."
He gave no flourish, no bow of pride. He looked as though he had been cast out rather than chosen. And indeed, Jon soon learned the truth. York had dozed off during one of his lord's councils, and his absent-mindedness had made him unwelcome. Old, slow, and alone save for a dozen retainers, he was more a burden than a boon.
Jon did not flinch. He inclined his head with grave courtesy. "It is an honor to fight at your side, Ser York."
The old knight's face remained as rigid as stone. He had no desire to follow a bastard boy. But orders were orders. On the battlefield, he would obey. If without joy, then so be it.
The second knight appeared far more promising at first glance. He was young, perhaps five-and-twenty, his build sound, his armor shining. He looked every inch the gallant warrior. Jon waited for him to speak.
But the man only stared blankly.
Awkward silence stretched. Jon glanced at Maester Luwin in puzzlement. The maester leaned close and whispered: "That is Ser Tommen Lecky of Long Lake. Forgive him. He is… a little slow of wit."
Jon blinked. A noble knight, strong of arm but dull of mind. A man his lord had been all too eager to push from his household.
Still, Luwin added gently, "He is competent enough in battle. His skills are sound, even if his thoughts are not."
Jon sighed inwardly. A sleeping old man and a simple-minded youth—so these were the champions who had agreed to his banner. His own "Sleeping Dragon and Phoenix Chick," as the sayings went, but combined into one sad bundle of old, weak, sick, and broken.
Still, he could not refuse them.
He turned to them both, masking his frustration with courtesy. "Sers, this is my first time commanding in war. We are few, but I will value your counsel. If you have advice, I ask you speak it plainly."
To his surprise, the younger knight suddenly stirred, as if his mind had only just caught up with the moment.
"My lord," he blurted out, "my name is Tommen Lecky, of the Leckys of Long Lake. I have brought thirty-two retainers—two light horsemen, seven footmen, three archers…" He rattled off the list in earnest detail.
Jon stared, momentarily speechless at the delay. Was this man truly fit for battle? Could such slowness lead men when the clash of steel came?
Old York's face twisted like wrinkled parchment. His lips pressed thin, his brow furrowed. To him, this was no honor. He had little hope left of glory or spoils under such leadership.
Jon looked at them both, feeling the weight settle in his chest. So this was his army's backbone—an unwanted relic and a fool.
But he only nodded, forcing a smile. "Then let us fight together, and prove them wrong."
The words sounded braver than he felt.
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