Old Walder Frey had dangled marriage like bait before both Stark brothers. For Robb, he promised a daughter of his legitimate line—a union meant to elevate the Freys in rank and prestige. For Jon, the offer had been far murkier. A bastard might be palmed off with any Frey girl, one with uncertain parentage or diminished value.
The implication was clear: Robb was a prize, Jon an afterthought.
Jon bore it with bowed head and soft words, but in his heart burned the quiet desire that had haunted him since boyhood: One day, I will stand on my own. I will be beholden to no lord's whims, nor bent beneath any name but my own.
He could accept being a bastard. He could live with the sneers and slights, the reminders that he was less. But a man who spent his whole life stooping would break inside. In his other life, Jon had seen this clearly: those who licked boots above them often kicked those beneath them. Emotional energy was finite, and the "kicking the cat effect" was the release of that poison.
No. He would not live that way. Better to carry the burden in silence until he could cast it aside entirely.
His humble reply pleased Old Walder well enough. The old man preened, his face saved in front of his sons and grandsons. A strong fighter like Jon, deferential and even promising to serve him in future—that was enough for the moment. To press harder would have risked making himself appear petty.
In truth, Walder had been probing. The letter that had lured him into alliance had struck so precisely at his vanity that he suspected some hidden "mastermind" behind the Starks. His sharp eyes had scoured the hall, looking for the subtle hand at work. Jon's words had amused him, but they did not yet confirm the mystery.
So Walder raised his cup high, his thin lips stretched in a grin. "Interesting little fellow! Look at him—scared half to death, and he still tries to wriggle free! Since our pact is made, it shall hold. The Freys will not withdraw. Our alliance is unbreakable!"
The Freys echoed him, and the Northerners lifted their cups more slowly, some still marveling at what they had witnessed.
---
Among the lords, whispers spread like brushfire.
They had believed Jon nothing more than Robb's mailed fist: a brute, useful for discipline, intimidating for trial by combat, but little else. The brain, they assumed, belonged to Robb, or perhaps to Maester Luwin whispering from the shadows. Jon Snow was muscle, not mind.
But tonight, that assumption cracked. He had answered Walder Frey's trap not with fists but with words, and done so in a way that turned humiliation into honor. He had shielded Robb without grasping for himself, declined insult without sparking anger.
Even Roose Bolton's pale eyes lingered longer than usual. His mind ticked like a silent clock. Not just eyes and ears beside Robb. Something deeper. If this boy truly shapes events, I will need to tread carefully.
Greatjon Umber, by contrast, roared with laughter, his fondness growing. A namesake, a warrior, and a wolf with fire in his belly—what more could he want? Rickard Karstark studied Jon with a different kind of nostalgia, seeing shades of Brandon Stark in him—brave, eloquent, reckless. The North had once loved Brandon as it now looked to Robb.
Jon himself noticed none of this. He only sat quietly, lips curved in a faint smile, the weight of other men's shifting opinions lost on him.
In this world, no alliance was truly unbreakable. Walder Frey's words were wind. Jon knew that better than most.
---
The council turned to war. Robb spoke with clarity and confidence: Riverrun must be relieved. Tywin Lannister loomed on the Green Fork with a great host, and Jaime pressed the siege from the west. Robb proposed a bold plan—divide the Northern host, use one half to distract Tywin while he led the cavalry in a lightning strike to smash Jaime's camp.
"Lord Bolton," Robb commanded, "you and Jon will hold Tywin's attention. Draw him to you while I ride for Riverrun."
"As you command, my lord," Roose replied evenly. His face revealed nothing, but in his mind he marked Jon once more. If this boy stood beside him on the Green Fork, he would measure him as one measures a rival blade—its edge, its temper, its flaw.
The lords murmured approval. Even Old Walder, seated high and smug, nodded faintly. The Young Wolf had shown daring and calculation both.
Then, as the talk wound down, a servant bent low to whisper in Walder's ear. The old man's expression sharpened. "Robb," he croaked, "your mother has arrived."
---
Catelyn Stark had ridden hard from the Vale when news reached her that her son had already marched south. She had left Lysa sulking in her airy perch, taken Rodrik Cassel and a small escort, and hastened to the Twins.
Rodrik had gone ahead to scout, then returned to her carriage brimming with pride. "My lady, your son has done splendidly. He has bent the Northern lords to his will, forged alliance with the Freys, and readies the host to march. Both firm and fair, he is every inch a Stark."
Catelyn's heart swelled. She had feared the burden might crush Robb, that her rash seizure of Tyrion, her husband's imprisonment, Bran's fall—her mistakes—might unravel the family. Guilt weighed heavy on her. She had been running from one fire to the next, always too late, always with ashes in her hands.
But now… to hear that Robb stood tall, commanding men older and harder than himself, gave her strength she thought gone. Perhaps she had not failed utterly. Perhaps her son could yet save his father—and the North.
When she entered the hall, every Northern lord rose in respect. Catelyn's eyes went first to Robb, her boy grown into a young lord, tall and proud. Her lips curved into a smile she could not hide.
Then her gaze slid to Jon. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. Aunt Cat, Jon thought silently.
She had aged little, auburn hair gleaming, green eyes bright. At thirty-four she carried herself with the poise of a lady born, still striking in a way that made Jon remember half-heard whispers about Petyr Baelish's undying infatuation. To men, Catelyn was memory and desire twined.
Jon bowed deeply in respect. Catelyn's eyes lingered on him only a moment before she looked away, her expression cool. She had never warmed to the boy Eddard had brought into her home. Bastardy was a wound to a wife's pride, no matter how dutiful. That he fought for Ned now softened nothing. She said nothing against him, but nothing for him either.
Old Walder's gaze flickered over her as well, a spark of interest quickly veiled. A Tully lady, still handsome, still proud—he had sampled much in life, but even in his dotage he still noticed beauty.
Catelyn spoke with smooth diplomacy, her voice carrying grace. "Marquis Frey, on behalf of House Stark, I thank you. With your support, we will bring justice swifter, and order will return to the realm."
Jon watched her words with a flash of admiration. She could be fierce, impulsive, even reckless where her children were concerned. But when her reason ruled, she was a diplomat as sharp as any blade. Had the Red Woman not stolen Renly's life with shadow and sorcery, perhaps a Stark–Baratheon alliance would have risen indeed.
Flattery soothed Walder Frey, just as Jon had predicted earlier. The old man chuckled, mollified. Plans were confirmed: the host would march within two nights. No raven, no whisper of it, would slip past Frey guards.
---
Later, in the Northern camp, Catelyn convened with Robb's bannermen. The great lords filled the tent: Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth, Rickard Karstark of Karhold, grim Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, Ser Wylis Manderly from White Harbor, Lord Seagard's envoy, and Stevron Frey himself to represent his father.
Jon stood at the edge, silent, unbidden to speak. Ceremony gave him no voice among lords. Yet his mind raced, memory of another life whispering what was to come.
The plan Robb outlined would lead to the Battle of the Whispering Wood, where Jaime Lannister would fall captive. A glorious victory, one that would crown Robb as a true war leader. But alongside it would come the Battle of the Green Fork, where Bolton would bleed eighteen thousand men to hold Tywin—yet keep his own household curiously unscathed.
A defeat dressed as sacrifice, and one that would swell the Dreadfort's power in proportion to Winterfell's loss.
Jon clenched his fists behind his back. He could not stand idle. Etiquette be damned, if silence meant Bolton grew fat while the North bled, then he would break the silence. He would find his chance to speak, and make himself heard.
The war was only beginning.
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