The Northern host packed around Winterfell slowly began to spread out, like storm clouds finally breaking apart.
A thin layer of snow still covered the ground, so the marching columns left long black trails behind them.
With Bolton forced to back down, no one dared openly challenge Robb anymore.
The marching order ran smoothly, one piece after another falling into place.
Greatjon Umber didn't lose two fingers for threatening to pull his men out, either. Instead, he kept showing up to pester Jon, trying to pry out where Jon's fighting skill had really come from.
Up on the walls, Hodor carried Bran as they watched the army disappear into the distance.
"Gods protect them," Bran whispered, staring at the banners as they grew smaller. "Let Robb come home safe. Let Jon come home safe. Let Theon come home safe. Let everyone come back alive."
"Hodor," Hodor rumbled.
Maester Luwin smiled faintly beside them.
War didn't work that way. People died.
Hell, Jon had killed someone before the army even marched.
Sansa, Arya, Robb…
Watching children he'd delivered with his own hands ride south one after another left a hollow ache in Luwin's chest.
But there was no avoiding it. This was Robb's duty—his duty as a Northerner, and as a Stark.
At the very front of the host ran two direwolves: Jon's Ghost and Robb's Grey Wind.
The difference was, Jon had disguised Ghost.
That pure white coat was too noticeable. At the Wall, in endless snow, it was perfect camouflage. Heading south, it became a bright target.
Before leaving, Jon had dyed Ghost's fur a dusty brown. When Grey Wind saw him again, he kept circling and sniffing like he couldn't believe it.
Ghost finally got so irritated with his brother's obsession that he started snapping his head away like, enough already.
From Winterfell to the Twins took at least half a month on the road.
It was a long march, but it also gave the men time to "warm up" as an army.
By afternoon, most of the host stopped to light cookfires.
One smaller unit didn't.
Instead, from that part of the line came rhythmic shouts—training calls, the sound of bodies moving in unison.
"Thrust!"
"Hah!"
"Thrust!"
"Hah!"
…
"Left turn!"
"Right turn!"
"About—"
At Jon's commands, several hundred men drilled with spears. Mixed in were formation exercises that looked useless and even a little ridiculous.
Anyone who'd ever been through basic training knew exactly what this was: early drills were awkward, and the first few days usually looked like a comedy.
Soldiers from other camps started drifting over with their dinner bowls, coming to watch for fun.
Jon's behavior also drew attention from the nobles.
"A bastard always has to make a spectacle," one knight complained to a friend. "We're about to fight a war and he's still playing games."
"I don't get what this is supposed to do," another said, pointing. "Look at that—he's literally training them how to walk. What's wrong with him?"
"If I were one of those men, the first person I'd kill on the battlefield is him."
The comments kept coming.
The major lords heard about it too. Even before the march, Jon had already become a figure people talked about.
Now he was doing something this strange—of course it drew eyes.
"Let him," Roose Bolton said, showing no interest at all.
Bolton knew he wasn't going to profit from this southern campaign anymore.
So his mindset shifted into a kind of grim minimalism: do what he had to do, and make sure nobody could accuse him of dragging his feet.
The other lords mostly just watched from a distance.
Only Greatjon came in person, stomping right into Jon's section like he owned it.
"Hey!" he bellowed, waving at Jon. "Ned Stark's bastard! What in the seven hells are you doing?"
"I'm training them, my lord," Jon answered respectfully.
Jon didn't dislike Greatjon. The man had a strange taste for getting humbled, sure—but underneath it, he wasn't bad.
"Training?" Greatjon snorted. "You have to train a man to walk?"
Jon wasn't sure a medieval lord would understand ideas like conditioned reflexes and muscle memory, so he gave a simple explanation.
"My lord—most of them are farmers. A lot of them even have thick accents."
"What I'm really doing is getting them used to my voice and my commands ahead of time, so when fighting starts, they don't panic and scatter."
"Oh!" Greatjon nodded. "That's good. That's smart."
Then he slapped Jon's shoulder with a hand the size of a dinner plate.
"I heard you ran from the Wall," Greatjon said bluntly. "That true?"
"Yes," Jon said just as bluntly. "Once we save my father, I'll go back."
"But you left without permission," Greatjon said. "Even if you save Ned, he'll probably still take your head for it."
The moment Ned's name came up, Greatjon's shoulders twitched, like the memory of strict discipline made his back sting. Ned's standards had clearly cost Greatjon a punishment or two.
"He gave me life," Jon said. "If he wants to take it, that's his right."
Greatjon looked Jon up and down, surprised.
"Good boy," he said. "But I already asked Robb. You never actually swore the Watch vows."
"When we get Ned back, I'll speak up for you."
"A strong lad like you rotting at the Wall would be a damn shame."
Greatjon liked Jon's fighting skill too much not to.
Jon didn't accept or refuse. He just said they'd talk about it after the war.
Right now, Jon was one of the only people in the world—maybe one of three—who knew what fate had waiting for Ned.
After the Northern host won its first battle in the south, word would arrive: Ned had been executed.
After that, the war would explode fully. Westeros would drown in blood, and heads would roll.
Jon could only do what he could to keep the North intact—or… find a way to drag the coming chaos back onto a better path.
As for Jon's own drilling, the marching and formation work naturally annoyed some of the men.
But when supper came and they saw chunks of meat in their bowls—or little cakes and treats—every complaint vanished.
Other nobles, especially Dreadfort men, decided Jon was favoring his own unit because he handled supplies. They went to Robb to complain.
Jon's answer shut them up immediately.
He said he'd bought it with the money those soldiers had thrown down on the betting.
After all, it was their money.
To be fair, when Bran had dumped that whole chest of copper stars and silver stags in front of Jon before the march, even Jon had been shocked.
The odds had been so lopsided that Jon almost wished he'd bet on himself too.
The host kept moving.
They reached the Twins three days later than expected.
An army of more than twenty thousand didn't "just" march. It had to learn how to move together.
Even something as simple as traveling down a road caused constant headaches.
And along the way, a few lords from farther south joined the host as well, adding more moving parts.
Jon used that time to whip his own men into a rough, functioning whole.
Even old Ser Yorck—who'd never thought much of Jon—started noticing.
He saw it in small things: the farmers-turned-soldiers began to carry themselves with a faint, disciplined edge.
No talking on the march. Keep the same pace. Keep the line.
Whether it would help in battle was a separate question, but it looked sharp.
Compared to the other units, Jon's men stood out like a heron among chickens.
It made Yorck feel a grudging flicker of expectation.
Maybe the boy really does have something to him.
While Yorck was still weighing that thought, he looked ahead—and saw the Twins rising in the distance.