The Northern army stretched across the land like a tide of steel and leather. Twenty thousand strong, they moved in long, dark columns, their banners snapping in the cold wind. Behind them, the earth was scarred with footprints and hoofprints, a blackened trail across the light dusting of snow.
Winter had not yet come in full, but the chill already bit. The men's breath steamed, the wheels of supply carts creaked, and the distant baying of direwolves echoed faintly across the plain.
With Roose Bolton subdued beneath Robb Stark's authority, none dared rise against him. For the first time, the camp moved as one. Orders were obeyed without open dispute, provisions were distributed without quarrel, and the army marched with the appearance—if not yet the reality—of unity.
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On the walls of Winterfell, Bran Stark clung to Hodor's broad back, staring south. From his high perch, he watched the host march away, banners receding into the distance.
"May the gods protect Robb," Bran whispered, his small hands tightening on Hodor's tunic. "May Jon return safely, may Theon return safely… may everyone come back alive."
"Hodor," Hodor echoed solemnly.
Maester Luwin stood beside them, his gray robes stirring in the wind. He smiled gently at Bran's prayer, though in his heart he knew better. War was never merciful. No matter how many prayers rose to gods old or new, some of those banners would not return.
He thought of the children—Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya—all too young to be caught in this storm. He had delivered each of them into the world, had guided their first steps. And now they marched toward steel and fire. He felt the weight of age and helplessness pressing on his shoulders.
But there was no stopping it. This was the duty of Starks.
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At the head of the army prowled two wolves. Grey Wind and Ghost cut through the snow like shadows of the Old Gods. The difference between them was stark—Grey Wind gray as stone, Ghost once white as snow.
But Ghost no longer shone so brightly. Jon, wary of the attention that snowy coat would draw in the green south, had dyed the direwolf's fur a dark brown. It was practical, but to Grey Wind it was puzzling. The beast circled his brother often, sniffing, nosing, confused by this strange disguise. Ghost, never patient with such fussing, growled and snapped until Grey Wind backed away.
So they marched—wolf beside wolf, Stark beside Stark.
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The road south would take at least half a month before the host reached the Twins. For the men, it was a long, grueling trek. Yet for Jon, it was also an opportunity.
At the first camp, when the army made fires and set pots to boil, the clamor of shouting broke out from one corner.
"Thrust!"
"Ha!"
"Thrust!"
"Ha!"
The voices rang in steady rhythm. Men turned their heads, frowning. There, under Jon Snow's command, his five hundred were drilling with long spears.
The sight was unusual. In place of dice games and idle chatter, his men marched in circles, practiced turning left and right, drilled in unison with their weapons. Their steps pounded the earth in sync, their movements crisp and uniform.
To some it looked comical.
"Gods, look at that," a knight muttered, laughing to his comrade. "The bastard's training them to walk!"
Another scoffed. "We're going to war, not a harvest dance. What use is this nonsense?"
"If I were one of his soldiers," a third sneered, "the first man I'd cut down in battle would be him!"
The jeers spread quickly. From one fire to another, from tent to tent, men laughed at the bastard's foolishness. Even the lords heard. And where soldiers laughed, knights grumbled.
But Jon ignored them.
He knew what they did not. Most of his soldiers were farmers, men who had never held a spear outside of harvest fairs. They spoke in different accents, reacted at different speeds, stumbled over shouted orders. On the battlefield, such chaos would scatter them like frightened sheep.
So he drilled them relentlessly. Muscle memory, conditioned reflexes—things no knight understood, but which Jon knew from another life mattered far more than swagger.
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Roose Bolton dismissed it all with indifference. "Let him be," he murmured when complaints reached his ears. He had no interest in the bastard's antics. He had already measured the war and found little profit for himself. Why waste effort resisting, when silence cost him nothing?
The other lords cast glances, but few cared to involve themselves. Only one strode boldly into Jon's camp, his booming laugh carrying before him.
"Edd's bastard!" Greatjon Umber bellowed, his voice loud enough to shake the tents. "What in the seven hells are you doing with these poor sods?"
Jon turned, staff in hand, and inclined his head respectfully. "Training them, my lord."
"Training? For what? Walking in straight lines?"
Jon hesitated. How could he explain conditioned reflexes and battlefield cohesion to a man raised on brute strength and bold charges? Instead, he gave the simplest truth.
"They are farmers, my lord. Their accents are thick, their ears untrained. I am teaching them to know my voice, to obey without confusion. When the field turns to chaos, I would rather they know where to stand than run like frightened sheep."
Greatjon's laughter boomed again. He clapped Jon on the shoulder with a hand the size of a warhammer. "Ha! Very good! A clever lad! I see why Robb keeps you close."
Then his eyes narrowed. "Tell me true—did you really run from the Wall?"
Jon met his gaze without flinching. "Aye. I will return once my father is freed."
Greatjon's brows rose. "But desertion—your father will have your head for it."
Jon's expression softened, almost wistful. "He gave me life. If he wishes to take it, it is only right."
The Greatjon studied him for a long moment, surprise flickering across his weathered face. Then he laughed again, louder than before. "Good lad! A fine lad! But I asked Robb, and he said you never swore your vows. When Edd is free, I'll speak for you myself. A wolf like you belongs in the field, not at the Wall."
Jon said nothing, only bowed his head. In his heart he knew what none of them did—that Lord Eddard's days were already counted. When the raven came bearing news of his death, war would truly begin. Blood would flood the land, crowns would fall, and the game of thrones would devour the realm.
Until then, Jon could only prepare.
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Not all of his men were pleased. Drilling left them weary and sore, and more than once Jon caught grumbles in the ranks. But when supper was served, the complaints vanished.
For while other soldiers ate thin stews, Jon's men found chunks of meat in their bowls, pastries in their hands.
"Favoritism!" cried men from other camps, especially the soldiers of the Dreadfort. "He's quartermaster! He feeds his own better than the rest!"
They carried their grievances to Robb, who raised the matter at council. Jon only smiled and answered: "It is their own coin, my lord."
Then he revealed the truth.
Before departure, Bran had dragged forward a chest heavy with copper stars and silver stags. Winnings from the duel, when the entire camp had bet against Jon. The odds had been so one-sided that the payout was staggering. Bran, with childish pride, had given it all to Jon.
And Jon had spent it—every last coin—on food and supplies for his five hundred.
The complaints died quickly after that. None could accuse him of corruption when the money came from the men's own pockets. If anything, the lesson stung more: they had laughed, they had bet against him, and now their coin bought the very discipline they mocked.
Jon thought of it often. He had not expected the odds to be so absurdly high. A pity he had not wagered himself—he could have doubled his men's comfort.
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The march dragged on. Twenty thousand men, even in order, were no swift host. Delays mounted at every crossing, every river ford, every field too narrow for carts. By the time they reached the Twins, they were three days later than Robb had hoped.
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Still, Jon had made use of every hour. His five hundred no longer shuffled like farmers. Their steps struck the earth in unison, their silence heavy, their posture grim. They looked like a blade honed sharp, even if it had not yet been blooded.
Old Ser York, once dismissive, began to watch with new eyes. The bastard lad might know a trick or two after all.
And when the banners of the Twins finally appeared on the horizon, gray stone towers looming above the river, Jon's small army marched beneath its black banner with white wolf, standing straighter than the rest.
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