In Winterfell's great hall, Robb sat high in the lord's seat, listening to Baron Shutta complain—though his mind clearly wasn't all the way there.
Just half a year ago, the banners on the walls still bore House Baratheon's crowned stag. Hundreds of candles lit the hall, harps played without pause, and hundreds of people ate together at long tables.
Robert had walked in first, arm-in-arm with Robb's mother, Catelyn. Ned had followed right behind, escorting Cersei.
It all felt like it happened yesterday.
Little by little Robb came back to himself, and the whining in his ears sharpened into words.
"Lord Robb… your brother went way too far. He practically broke my son's bones. My boy only forgot to pay—he didn't deserve a punishment like that."
"My lord, I'm begging you. Give me justice."
Robb looked down at Baron Shutta.
The man looked to be in his early forties—sharp-eyed, calculating. He wore a red velvet vest that clearly wasn't cheap.
It's a good color on him, Robb thought absently. Same shade as Mother's hair… where is she right now?
Then Robb turned to Jon.
"Jon. What happened?"
The moment Robb spoke, the baron swung around and glared at Jon, furious.
He knew what his son was like. He expected a long argument and a lot of excuses.
Instead, Jon didn't debate the details at all—did the thug "forget" to pay or not?
Jon simply said, "Maybe he did. But a group of them cornered the innkeeper and his daughter, and they were about to hurt them."
"Maybe I did go too far. If so, punish me."
"You're lying—wait, what?"
Baron Shutta choked on his own words. He hadn't expected Jon to admit fault so quickly.
Before he could recover, Robb spoke.
"Fine. Since you admit your mistake and that you exceeded your authority, I should sentence you to twenty lashes."
"But, Ser Shutta, we march soon. Jon and I both carry the responsibility of saving my father and my family."
"So I'm postponing his punishment until after the war."
"But… my lord—"
"What?" Robb's voice cooled. "Do you think my decision is inappropriate?"
The baron's eyes flicked, catching on a new angle.
"My son is a noble," he snapped. "And he—he's just a bastard. He had no right to raise a weapon against a noble!"
He shouted at Jon like he'd found the killing blow.
Jon didn't even blink. "I used a stick."
"You still attacked my son. That's a crime!"
"After the war, I'll go back to the Wall," Jon said evenly.
"You—"
Watching the back-and-forth, Theon grinned to himself.
Jon had somehow become a kind of "untouchable problem" in practice—like a man who'd already accepted a life sentence. Adding another hundred years didn't change much.
"Enough," Robb said, clearly irritated now.
He thought: if Father were here, the moment I said 'fifty lashes,' this fool would've shut his mouth.
"If you think something's wrong," Robb continued, "then we'll bring in the innkeeper and his daughter, and you can all face each other."
Only then did Baron Shutta remember there were witnesses.
After a lot of stammering and evasive half-sentences, he finally forced out a very sincere speech about Robb's wisdom and fairness, and how he accepted the ruling completely.
His only request—suddenly—was permission to go back and discipline his men so they wouldn't cause trouble again.
Realizing he'd pressured a noble into backing down this cleanly—even if it was only a baron—Robb felt a surge of confidence.
In his earlier clashes with the older, craftier lords, he'd managed to send them away, but it still felt like he'd been pushed around.
Robb glanced at Jon, who stood there stone-faced, and felt a rush of gratitude. He didn't even want to imagine what kind of chaos he'd be drowning in without him.
In the corner, Theon fought the urge to laugh.
It really had been that simple.
Everything was unfolding exactly the way Jon said it would.
Once the baron left, the three of them talked through what had happened. Theon eagerly took over the storytelling, embellishing it as he went.
But when Robb heard that Jon had dropped ten men in the blink of an eye, he couldn't quite believe it.
He knew Jon was better than him with a blade, but not that much better.
Competitive instinct flared—and with Winterfell's mood so heavy these days, Robb abruptly suggested a sparring match with Jon.
Even if they were half-brothers, Jon knew Robb was the leader right now.
If Jon won, it looked bad. If Jon lost, it also looked bad.
So Jon said, "Robb, the whole North is on your shoulders. No need for a match."
"I need your trust. And we'll have those hardcases outside under control soon enough."
"All right," Robb said, letting it go. "I honestly don't know how I'd handle them without you."
Jon just smiled.
The Young Wolf was still very young, still too quick to doubt himself. His political instincts might be rough, but his outsize gift for war more than covered it.
Victories bought legitimacy fast.
After the Battle of the Whispering Wood, even the Northern lords who'd looked down on him would be shouting to crown this not-even-sixteen-year-old as their King in the North.
Over the next few days, Jon kept going out with his crew to do what was basically "military police duty"—the hands-on kind.
The men following him got better and better with the sticks.
And the number of times Jon had been "sentenced" for later punishment had already climbed past what you could count on two hands.
The number of soldiers Jon had turned into early "casualties"—bruised, limping, too injured to swagger—was creeping toward three digits.
Men started watching for Jon's group, trying to avoid them.
It didn't help.
Jon's crew always appeared in places nobody expected—alleys, behind walls, even on rooftops.
Winter Town's order was cleaned up fast.
Among the Northern host, Jon earned his first real nickname: the Cruel Painted Staff.
The minor lords began keeping their soldiers on a tighter leash, too wary to provoke him.
But these small fry stopped satisfying Jon.
He wanted a bigger fish—someone worth using as proof.
And his little campaign had already drawn attention.
"This is our young lord establishing his authority," Roose Bolton said—the first to see it clearly.
In a bright, quiet room, the Leech Lord heard the reports and gave a soft chuckle, unimpressed.
His goal hadn't changed.
He still intended to seize command of the entire Northern army.
He wanted enough prestige from this war to secure a higher position that couldn't be challenged.
He hadn't started out planning to side with Tywin, either.
As things stood, Ned Stark had exposed the truth: the boy on the Iron Throne was Cersei's child by Jaime Lannister—the Kingslayer—a royal bastard.
To much of Westeros, it was a humiliating outrage.
A lot of people believed the Lannisters were about to face the combined wrath of the realm.
And one house against six didn't exactly look like winning odds.
This wasn't "we have the advantage."
This was "the win is basically locked in."
A cautious man like the Lord of the Dreadfort wasn't going to let an opportunity like that pass.
"So what should we do?" asked a man named Mekki Sevin—over fifty, and still trying to marry his thirty-year-old, heavyset daughter to Robb. "Teach that bastard a lesson?"
Bolton shook his head. An earl stepping in personally would look ridiculous.
If Jon was hiding behind "enforcing discipline," then Bolton needed to drag him off the moral high ground first.
"Ramsay," Bolton said. "You're a Snow too. Interested in matching yourself against that Snow?"
Bastard against bastard—perfect.
"Father?" Ramsay looked surprised, then licked his lips with sudden excitement.
He burned with the need to prove he was worthy to inherit the Dreadfort.
"Yes, Father," he said. "I am."
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