After Jon turned the tables on him, Theon was rattled. He'd lost any appetite for picking a fight.
Now he just wanted to ask Robb for permission to return to the Iron Islands—raise a fleet to prove himself, and make sure his "inheritance" was still real.
Before long, Jon and the others passed the small settlements lining both sides of the Kingsroad.
Winterfell wasn't a lonely castle sitting by itself the way it looked in the show.
Around it were four or five small towns and dozens of market villages.
After all, this was Stark land directly under Winterfell's rule. Order was enforced, roads were safer, and people naturally gathered where they could live without fear.
When they reached Winterfell, Robb was already outside to greet him, a direwolf at his side—Grey Wind, watchful and imposing.
Grey Wind and Ghost sized each other up, then moved in to sniff and trade scents.
And the moment Jon and Robb met, Robb stepped forward and wrapped him in a crushing, full-bodied hug.
Jon's face stayed serious. "We have to get Father back. And the girls too."
Robb nodded, just as grim. "We will."
Watching how close they were made Theon's mood sour all over again.
At the same time, he felt restless and on edge. He was almost twenty. Maybe it really was time to go back to the Iron Islands and claim his land and title.
Maester Luwin came as well, welcoming the bastard who'd returned from the Wall.
For reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on, Jon felt… different.
The Jon Luwin remembered had always seemed wrapped in ice—keeping people away and refusing to let anyone get close.
But this Jon felt more like fire.
More confident. More certain of himself.
Jon bowed respectfully to Luwin, and the group continued inside.
As Jon and Robb walked, Robb laid out the plan for what came next.
"I've called all our bannermen," Robb said. "In two months—three at most—the entire North will be gathered at Winterfell."
"Then we march south together. We bring Sansa and Arya home. We bring Father home."
"Good." Jon nodded. He agreed—and he had his own plans as well.
Over the next couple months, he wanted to see if he could push his sword skill up to purple-tier.
And while the Northern host gathered, he'd gain three more upgrade points.
Whether he spent them on command and tactics or on raw fighting power, they'd make a real difference.
Soon they reached Robb's room. A map hung right beside his bed.
"Jon," Robb said, "I think the Lannisters will move to surround Riverrun next."
"When our army gathers, I want to pull most of our cavalry and strike fast—hard. It's the only way to relieve Riverrun quickly."
Whenever Robb talked war, you could see him brighten.
Jon knew exactly what he was describing—the early outline of the Battle of the Whispering Wood.
But there was still one critical piece Robb hadn't thought through: how to get past the Twins, the crossing held by House Frey—the very place that would later become the setting for the Red Wedding.
While they were deep in discussion, a shadow more than two meters tall passed the window.
"Jon!"
Hodor carried Bran into Robb's study.
Jon turned and saw Hodor holding a small boy with chestnut-brown hair in his arms.
Behind them padded a gray direwolf Bran called Summer.
"Bran." Jon walked up and gently touched Bran's legs. "Does it still hurt?"
Bran shook his head. "I can't feel anything."
Jon's stomach tightened.
It sounded like the fall had severed the nerves outright. And in a world like this, unless a miracle happened, Bran would be like this forever.
Seeing Bran also reminded Jon of the greenseer.
Jon still didn't know whether that mysterious presence was friend or enemy.
And if Jon killed him… would Jon gain that ability to slip into other people's dreams?
He pushed the thought aside—for now.
Not long after, Rickon came too, trailing his own wolf, Shaggydog.
Jon's return didn't cause much of an uproar in Winterfell.
Robb personally made it clear that Jon had never formally sworn his vows to the Night's Watch.
And Jon's reason—wanting to help save Eddard—was something most people accepted.
Westerosi weren't completely rigid about these things.
The Wall was full of criminals now. One more man didn't change much, one less man didn't either.
And besides—what was a year or two, really? The Wall wasn't going to crumble overnight.
So in the time that followed, Jon put most of his energy into training—building his combat skill and practicing Skinchanging.
He borrowed two untrained ravens from Maester Luwin.
He claimed he'd learned a special way of handling ravens at the Wall, and that with time he might be able to use them to keep in contact with Robb more reliably.
More than two months passed in a blink.
Then troops from across the North gathered around Winterfell like storm clouds rolling in.
A hard frost had fallen over the last two days, making the black sprawl of the camps stand out sharply against the pale, whitish ground.
Banners snapped in the wind—sigils from every house.
Not just great lords.
Lesser nobles—minor lords, landed knights—many of them flew their own standards too.
Everywhere you looked, color and cloth.
Bran and Maester Luwin stood atop the walls, watching the host swell below.
"How many knights came?" Bran asked.
"Over three hundred," Luwin said.
"That's not many."
"Becoming a knight isn't easy," Luwin said. "But we should have three to four thousand mounted men."
Even as he watched the army gather, Luwin didn't feel relieved.
A host didn't bring only strength. It brought trouble.
Every lord arrived with his own agenda.
Some tried to buy favor with gifts, hoping to secure extra privileges. Some tried to meddle in Robb's marriage prospects, pushing daughters at him.
And then there were the endless disputes between houses.
They fought over the best ground for their camps, all of them trying to pitch closer to Winterfell.
Luwin knew what it was, really.
They were testing Robb—seeing whether this young commander could be forceful enough to keep them in line, whether he was worth bending the knee to.
And the worst headache of all was Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort.
He'd actually demanded command of the entire Northern army.
Robb managed to refuse each request one by one, but refusal didn't magically make them obedient.
More provocation and more testing still brewed under the surface.
Luwin's eyes drifted toward Jon's quarters.
Last night Robb had suggested Jon help mediate the lords' disputes—but in Luwin's view, a bastard simply didn't carry enough weight for that.
Jon didn't know Robb's thinking. But over these weeks, Jon had achieved results he was satisfied with.
He studied his perk panel.
His Swordsmanship perk had fully turned a deep purple.
```text
[Swordsmanship — Chop, thrust, and slash are only the basics,
but gathered force can punch through solid stone.
True power lies in that focus.]
```
Jon had expected it would take at least three months to push Swordsmanship fully into purple.
But as the bannermen arrived, he'd had far more chances to spar and test himself. Somehow, just two months had been enough.
That meant he could be called a first-rate swordsman anywhere in Westeros.
And now Jon still held three upgrade points in reserve.
At any moment, he could jump from "first-rate" to elite—maybe even into the realm of the legendary.
Jon was eager to see what the next color would be.
But he held back.
He still didn't know what his role in the coming war would be.
Would he command troops? If so, what kind—infantry, cavalry, archers?
Or would Robb keep him close as a guard?
Thinking that, Jon laughed quietly to himself.
His starting line was low. Even setting aside the bastard label, he didn't have a single soldier under his command.
Without troops, all his "plans" were just talk.
Still, war created opportunities. If he performed well, chances would come. He wasn't in a hurry.
Just then, someone knocked at his door.
It was Theon.
---