Chapter 4: The Pack Gathers
POV: Jon Stark
Two weeks had passed since the Lannisters departed, and Winterfell felt like a castle holding its breath. Bran lingered between life and death, muttering strange words about crows with three eyes and cold ones coming from the North. Mother—still strange to think of Catelyn that way—rarely left his bedside, while Maester Luwin documented every fever dream and whispered prophecy.
Jon stood in the great hall watching ravens arrive from across the North, each bearing responses to Father's carefully worded summons. The messages spoke of "strategic winter preparations" and "defensive coordination," but every lord reading them understood the true meaning: House Stark was preparing for war.
And I'm part of it now. Not watching from the shadows, but standing at Father's right hand as a true son.
The thought still felt surreal. Three weeks ago, he'd been Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, dreaming of joining the Night's Watch to find purpose and belonging. Now he was Jon Stark, legitimized son, helping to plan the North's response to whatever storm was gathering in the south.
Ghost padded up beside him, the white direwolf's massive head reaching nearly to Jon's chest. Since Bran's fall, all the direwolves had grown restless, pacing the castle halls and howling at strange hours. They sensed something the humans couldn't—a wrongness in the air, a disturbance in the natural order.
"The lords are arriving," Robb announced, entering the hall with mud on his boots and excitement in his voice. "The Greatjon's party just crossed the outer walls. You should see his banners—he's brought enough men for a small war."
"Perhaps that's the point," Jon replied. "Father wants to show strength without officially calling the banners. Lords arriving with large personal guards sends a message without crossing any legal lines."
Robb grinned at his brother's political insight. "Think like a maester, fight like a wolf—you'll make a dangerous advisor."
Advisor. Another new role Jon was still learning to inhabit. Bastards offered suggestions; legitimized sons gave counsel. The distinction mattered in ways he was only beginning to understand.
"My lords!" The Greatjon's voice boomed across the courtyard before he'd even dismounted. Umber of Last Hearth, the largest and loudest of the Northern lords, strode through Winterfell's doors like a force of nature. His wild grey beard was braided with leather cords, and his massive frame filled the doorway.
"Ned Stark, you son of a wolf! When your raven spoke of 'strategic preparations,' I knew there was blood in the water. Who are we preparing to fight?"
Jon watched his father emerge from his solar, moving with the measured pace of a man who'd spent hours crafting the perfect words for this gathering. Behind him came Maester Luwin, arms full of maps and correspondence.
"Greatjon. Thank you for coming so quickly."
"Quickly? I brought five hundred men and rode for four days straight! My wife thinks I've lost my mind, rushing off to Winterfell with winter coming." The Greatjon's laugh echoed off the stone walls. "Course, she's probably right. But when Lord Stark calls, the North answers."
Other lords filtered in throughout the day. Roose Bolton arrived with his typical quiet efficiency, his men appearing like pale shadows in their pink-cloaked ranks. Lord Karstark came with his weathered face and tragic eyes, still mourning sons lost in Robert's Rebellion. Maege Mormont brought her bear-banner warriors, fierce women who fought beside their men with equal skill.
The most impressive arrival was Lord Wyman Manderly, whose considerable bulk required a reinforced chair and whose merchant ships had brought supplies enough to feed an army. White Harbor's gold could finance a war, and everyone knew it.
By evening, Winterfell's great hall housed more Northern power than had gathered since Robert's Rebellion. Jon stood beside his father and brother, acutely aware that this was the first time he'd participated in such a gathering as anything more than a servant filling wine cups.
These lords are looking to me as well as Father and Robb. Measuring me, judging whether I'm worthy of my new status.
The weight of their attention was both thrilling and terrifying.
"My lords," Ned began, his voice carrying easily through the packed hall. "I've called you here to discuss the realm's changing situation and how it affects the North's security."
The Greatjon leaned forward in his seat. "Changing how? Last I heard, fat Robert was still drinking wine and hunting boar."
"Lord Jon Arryn is dead. Murdered, I believe, though I cannot yet prove it."
The hall erupted in murmurs and curses. Jon Arryn had been respected throughout the realm, known for his honor and wisdom. His death marked the end of an era.
Roose Bolton's whisper somehow cut through the noise. "Who benefits from the Hand's death?"
Always asking the right questions, Jon thought, studying Bolton's pale eyes. But there's something unsettling about how coldly he calculates these things.
"That's what we're investigating," Ned replied. "But consider this: Lord Arryn died while researching questions about royal legitimacy. Questions that might destabilize the crown itself."
"You think the queen's children are bastards?" Maege Mormont asked bluntly.
Jon felt the temperature in the hall drop several degrees. Speaking such suspicions aloud was dangerous—accusations of bastardy against royal children constituted treason.
"I think," Ned said carefully, "that we should prepare for the possibility of significant political upheaval in the south. Civil war, succession disputes, the breakdown of royal authority."
Lord Manderly shifted his bulk, the reinforced chair creaking ominously. "If the crown falls into chaos, the North needs to protect its own interests. My ships can secure our sea routes, but we'll need coordination with the other kingdoms."
"Which kingdoms can we trust?" Rickard Karstark asked grimly. "The Lannisters have their claws in everything. The Tyrells change sides with the wind. Dorne holds ancient grudges."
Jon found himself speaking before he'd consciously decided to offer counsel. "We should reach out to Lord Stannis Baratheon. If King Robert dies without legitimate heirs, Stannis becomes the rightful king. An alliance with him now could position us advantageously."
The lords turned to study him with new attention. Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks but forced himself to continue.
"Stannis is rigid, humorless, and unpopular at court. But he's also honest, capable, and has legitimate claim to the throne. If we're facing a succession crisis, backing the rightful heir serves both honor and pragmatism."
The Greatjon slammed his fist on the table approvingly. "The boy thinks like his father! Stannis it is—better a stern king than a bastard pretender."
Roose Bolton's pale eyes fixed on Jon with calculating interest. "And if Stannis proves... unreliable? Kings have been known to forget their allies once they achieve power."
"Then we reassess," Jon replied, meeting Bolton's stare directly. "But for now, he's our best option for legitimate royal authority."
Ned nodded approvingly at his son's reasoning. "Jon speaks truly. I've already sent ravens to Dragonstone. Whether Stannis responds favorably remains to be seen."
The council continued for hours, covering supply lines, defensive positions, communication networks, and the delicate balance between preparation and provocation. As they spoke, Jon watched the interplay of personalities—the Greatjon's boisterous loyalty, Bolton's cold pragmatism, Manderly's merchant's calculations, Mormont's fierce dedication.
These people will follow Father into war if necessary. But will they follow Robb? And when the time comes, will they follow me?
When the formal session ended, the lords clustered in smaller groups, continuing discussions over ale and wine. Jon noticed several of them glancing his way, clearly curious about Ned Stark's newly legitimized son.
Lord Manderly approached with surprising grace for his size. "Young Stark, a moment of your time?"
"Of course, my lord."
"I knew your lord father during the rebellion. Good man, but sometimes too honorable for his own good. You seem to have inherited his strategic mind while gaining a practical edge he sometimes lacks." Manderly's eyes twinkled with merchant's cunning. "That could serve the North well in difficult times."
"Thank you, my lord. I hope to prove worthy of your confidence."
"Oh, I think you will. Question is, will you be content serving as advisor, or do you have greater ambitions?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. Jon chose his words carefully.
"I want to serve my family and the North. How that service manifests depends on what's needed."
Manderly chuckled. "Diplomatic answer. We'll see what you choose when the time comes to choose."
As the lord of White Harbor moved away, Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the northern cold. The legitimization had given him opportunities he'd never dreamed of, but it had also made him a player in games where the stakes were life, death, and the fate of kingdoms.
Be careful what you wish for, bastard. You wanted to matter. Now you matter more than you ever imagined possible.
The next morning brought training sessions in Winterfell's yards. With war potentially coming, every man needed to be ready, from the lowest servant to the highest lord. Jon and Robb took responsibility for organizing the expanded training, their different styles becoming immediately apparent.
Robb worked with the main courtyard, leading cavalry drills that emphasized speed, courage, and overwhelming force. He sat his horse like he'd been born to it, Greywind running alongside as he demonstrated charges and wheeling maneuvers. The men responded to his natural charisma, following him through increasingly complex formations with enthusiasm and pride.
Jon preferred the smaller side yard, working with infantry on defensive formations and unconventional tactics. Ghost's presence made every lesson memorable—the massive direwolf would circle the combat area like a predator, his red eyes fixed on whoever Jon was training. The psychological effect was remarkable; men who might have dismissed a young lord's instructions paid careful attention when a wolf the size of a pony watched their every move.
"Shield wall!" Jon commanded. "Remember, the moment you break formation, you're dead. Your shield protects not just you, but the man beside you. His shield protects you."
The household guards locked their shields with satisfying precision. Jon had drilled them repeatedly on the importance of discipline over individual heroics—lessons learned from conversations with veterans of Robert's Rebellion.
"Good. Now wheel left, maintain formation. Pretend cavalry is coming from your flank."
The formation pivoted smoothly, spears leveled toward the imaginary threat. These weren't glamorous tactics like Robb's thunderous charges, but they were effective. Jon had studied every military manual in Winterfell's library, learning from masters like Aegon the Conqueror and Daemon Blackfyre.
"My lord!"
Jon turned to see Arya approaching from the shadows where she'd been watching. His sister—still hard to think of her as sister rather than half-sister—had developed a fascination with weapons training that horrified Septa Mordane and amused Father.
"You shouldn't be here, Arya. If Mother sees—"
"She's with Bran. She won't leave his room." Arya's face darkened with worry and frustration. "Jon, I want to learn to fight properly. Not dancing lessons with that stupid sword master Father hired, but real fighting."
Jon glanced around the yard, confirming that the other men were occupied with their own training. Then he made a decision that would have profound consequences.
"After the evening meal, meet me in the godswood. Tell no one. And Arya?" He fixed her with a serious stare. "If you're going to learn, you're going to learn properly. No games, no quit when it gets difficult. This is about life and death."
Arya's grin could have lit the castle. "I promise!"
As she scampered away, Jon wondered what he was setting in motion. Training a highborn girl in weapons was scandalous enough to create serious problems. But something in her fierce spirit reminded him of the aunt whose blood he carried—Lyanna Stark, who'd been beautiful, willful, and deadly when necessary.
Besides, if war comes, everyone may need to know how to fight. Better to prepare her now than watch her die helpless later.
While the Stark brothers trained their respective forces, Theon Greyjoy found himself increasingly isolated. Jon watched him from across the courtyard, noting the forced smile and compensatory swagger that poorly disguised his pain.
Theon excelled at archery—his skills with a bow exceeded even Jon's considerable ability. But archery was an individual sport, and what Theon craved was the acceptance and brotherhood that came from group activities. Watching Jon receive respect and deference from men who'd previously treated them as equals was clearly eating at him.
During a break in training, Jon approached the targets where Theon was systematically destroying straw men with pinpoint accuracy.
"Impressive shooting."
Theon's next arrow split the previous one down the middle—a show-off move that demonstrated both skill and frustration.
"Got to stay useful somehow. Can't all be legitimized into relevance."
The bitterness in his voice cut deeper than any blade. Jon felt a stab of guilt mixed with frustration. How could he explain that legitimization had brought its own burdens, that with acceptance came expectations and responsibilities that sometimes felt overwhelming?
"Theon, nothing has to change between us."
"Doesn't it?" Theon turned to face him, and Jon was startled by the pain in his friend's eyes. "Yesterday you were Jon Snow, bastard like me in everything but name. Today you're Jon Stark, legitimate son, heir to ancient bloodlines, advisor to lords. Tomorrow you'll be married to some highborn lady to cement political alliances. Tell me how nothing has changed."
"Because I'm still the same person—"
"No, you're not!" The words came out louder than intended, drawing glances from nearby guardsmen. Theon lowered his voice but his intensity remained. "You stand at your father's right hand now. Lords seek your counsel. Men who treated us as equals now call you 'my lord' and step aside when you pass. You've gotten everything I've wanted since I was ten years old."
Jon felt helpless. How could he argue with truth? His legitimization had fundamentally altered his position in ways that affected everyone around him.
"What do you want me to do? Renounce the legitimization? Go back to being a bastard?"
"I want you to admit that it matters!" Theon's mask of indifference finally cracked completely. "I want you to acknowledge that your new status changes things, that it puts distance between us whether you intend it or not."
"Fine. It matters. It changes things. But Theon, you're still my friend. You're still family to me."
"Family." Theon laughed bitterly. "I'm a hostage, Jon. A well-treated prisoner whose good behavior ensures my father doesn't rebel again. Your father's kindness doesn't change the fundamental reality of my position."
Before Jon could respond, Theon turned and stalked away, leaving his bow behind. Jon stared after him, feeling the weight of unintended consequences. His legitimization had been a gift beyond imagining, but every gift carried a price. In this case, the price seemed to be measured in damaged friendships and altered relationships.
Nothing is ever simple. Every choice creates ripples, affects other people in ways you can't anticipate.
Ghost padded up beside him, the direwolf's red eyes fixed on Theon's retreating figure. The wolf whined softly—a sound of distress that perfectly captured Jon's own feelings.
"I know, boy. I know."
That evening brought strange developments. As Jon prepared to leave for his secret training session with Arya, screaming echoed from Bran's chamber. Not the usual murmurs and fever dreams, but full-throated cries of terror that brought half the castle running.
Jon raced through corridors with Ghost at his heels, arriving to find Catelyn and Maester Luwin struggling to hold Bran down. The boy's eyes were wide open but unseeing, fixed on something only he could perceive.
"The cold ones are coming!" Bran shrieked, his voice raw. "Ice and death from the far north! The wolf must remember who he is! The dragon must wake! Three-eyed crow, help me see!"
"Bran, you're safe," Catelyn said desperately. "You're in Winterfell, you're safe."
But Bran's cries only intensified. "Winter is coming! Not just seasonal winter, but the long night! The dead things in the woods! They're marching, marching, always marching!"
Jon felt ice form in his veins. Summer, Bran's direwolf, pressed against the bed and howled—a sound of pure anguish that seemed to echo from the depths of the earth itself.
The howl was answered. First by Lady from Sansa's chamber, then Grey Wind from wherever Robb was training, then Shaggydog from Rickon's nursery, then Nymeria from... somewhere in the castle where Arya had hidden her.
But Ghost's howl was different from the others. Deeper, older, with harmonics that seemed to resonate in Jon's bones. The white direwolf threw back his massive head and sang a song of ice and prophecy that raised every hair on every neck in Winterfell.
"Gods preserve us," Maester Luwin breathed, making notes with shaking hands. "All the wolves howling in unison. I've never seen anything like it."
Bran's screaming finally subsided, but his muttering continued. "The prince that was promised... ice and fire together... the wolf-dragon must learn to fly..."
Jon's blood chilled. Wolf-dragon. Could Bran somehow know about his true parentage? Was this fevered rambling, or prophecy?
"What does it mean?" Catelyn asked desperately.
"I don't know," Luwin admitted. "But I'll record every word. In the Citadel, we're taught that madness and prophecy often wear the same face. The challenge is determining which we're witnessing."
As the household gradually dispersed and quiet returned to Bran's chamber, Jon remained behind. He studied his broken brother—this boy who'd somehow survived a fall that should have killed him, who now spoke of ancient threats and mystical destinies.
If Bran's visions are true, if something is coming from the far north, then all our political preparations may be meaningless. What good are alliance negotiations and supply calculations if we're facing supernatural threats?
Ghost pressed against his leg, the direwolf's warmth a comfort against the growing cold. Outside, wind howled around Winterfell's towers like the voice of winter itself, and Jon wondered if the game of thrones was about to become far more complex than anyone imagined.
The pack had gathered, but something told him they'd need to be stronger than wolves to face what was coming.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0