The little town outside Winterfell actually had a name: Winter Town.
But once Robb called the banners, it filled up fast with soldiers from all over the North.
In a feudal age, you couldn't expect much in the way of morals from an army camp. Even a noble like Roose Bolton would see a commoner's house he liked and simply move in. So what did you think the rank-and-file would do?
And remember—this was a land where the "right of the first night" had only been outlawed a couple centuries ago. Without the Stark name keeping a lid on things, rapes and murders wouldn't have been surprising at all.
Robb didn't have the time to police every mess. Managing the lords' scheming and petty demands already took everything he had.
Jon's first move was meant to make an example—using the worst of these camp thugs as a warning.
Up ahead, a handful of swaggering soldiers had a roadside inn pinned down. They crowded the doorway, shouting at a middle-aged man who kept forcing a desperate smile.
"Bastard-born," one of them yelled, "we're about to march out and fight the Lannisters! And you want coin for letting us stay a few days?!"
"Yeah!" another chimed in. "What coin?!"
The loudest one stood with a hand on his hip, jabbing a finger at the innkeeper while the others hooted and egged him on.
"My lords," the innkeeper said carefully, "it hasn't been a few days. It's been two months. And I've given you the best I have—food, drink, everything. If you don't pay, I can't keep the place open."
"Then don't," the soldier laughed. "Your daughter's not bad, though. How about she marries me? Let this little inn be her dowry. Ha!"
Jon frowned at the scene.
He knew "soldiers and civilians" was rarely clean or noble in any era, but seeing this kind of ugliness up close still made his stomach turn.
The game of thrones wasn't only lords trading alliances. It was also endless blood and tears from people who never had a say.
The Lannister armies were already tearing through the Riverlands. Tywin had ordered Gregor Clegane to burn fields, butcher and rob smallfolk, and spread fear like a plague.
And Gregor—following orders the way a monster followed instinct—did whatever he pleased to anyone too weak to stop him.
To men like that, commoners were weeds.
Gregor was just the torch. Burn the weeds today; they'd grow back tomorrow.
With "almost-human" lords like these running around, it was hard to imagine where ordinary people would stand when the White Walkers finally came.
Theon stood beside Jon, giving him the quick rundown. "This is where House Rysay and House Shutta have their camps. Their men are always fighting with each other—Robb keeps getting dragged into it. And they've been harassing the townsfolk too."
Jon had never even heard of those families.
They were probably tiny, low-ranking knightly houses—too small to even earn a seat in Robb's council.
Below a great lord you had banner lords, then lesser lords, then landed knights. These sounded like the kind nobody important remembered.
No long history, no powerful patron—exactly the kind of "soft target" Jon was looking for.
Jon nodded, leaning on a long, striped staff in his hand, then turned to the men behind him.
"Hold your sticks," he said. "Remember what I told you."
"First hit goes to the mouth—so they can't beg their way out. Second hit goes to the legs—so they can't run. Once they're on the ground, you don't stop."
"Yes, my lord!" the young men answered.
Robb had given Jon a crew of seventeen-, eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds—hot-blooded and eager.
This wasn't a real battle, but it was more than enough to get them excited.
Even Theon looked into it.
They had numbers, they had surprise—if they still managed to lose, they might as well go home and plow fields.
Jon looked at the thugs, then at the innkeeper and his daughter—fearful, trapped, with nowhere to go.
The inn wasn't even big. It was just a normal family house made a bit larger, a place they'd probably built up over decades.
Maybe the father had inherited it from his parents, and his children had grown up thinking they'd pass it on someday.
Then the army arrived—and two or three generations of work started collapsing in front of their eyes.
"Red."
Jon checked his red-tier Swordsmanship perk one more time.
It glowed like a ruby.
The jump in his physical ability was obvious, but what really changed was harder to describe—his understanding of weapons, leverage, timing.
He wasn't limited to swords anymore. In his hands, almost anything could become a weapon.
Still, it was something you only really proved in a fight.
And it seemed red was the top tier, which meant Jon had saved himself an upgrade point.
Once he was satisfied everything was set, Jon barked, "Move!"
More than twenty men bent low and rushed forward.
At the doorway, the soldier who'd joked about marrying the innkeeper's daughter got bolder and bolder, reaching past the father to grab at her.
The innkeeper tried to shield her like a hen protecting a chick, shoving his daughter behind him with trembling hands.
"Aww, don't hide," the soldier taunted. "What—don't you want your coin?"
"You little bitch—what's that look for?" he snapped. "Fine. We're not leaving. All of you—get in there with me!"
"Move! Move!"
They started to push into the inn.
That was when the innkeeper—at the right angle—finally saw a group of young men charging in, each holding a painted short staff.
Before he could even understand what was happening, the boy in front—only about sixteen—started swinging his stick.
He hit like a whirlwind.
Those arrogant thugs went flying like dead leaves caught in a gale.
The black staff snapped through the air with a heavy, vicious sound—one strike was enough to send a man sprawling.
One thug finally realized something was wrong. He turned—
And a blur cracked across his face. Spit and teeth sprayed out.
Behind Jon, Theon stared, stunned.
Jon was too fast. He didn't just run fast—his hands were faster.
There were only around ten thugs, and Jon alone dropped seven or eight of them.
By the time the rest of the twenty-plus men reached the doorway, all they could do was start clubbing the ones already down, still twitching and trying to crawl away.
"Seven hells," Theon thought, shaken. "What did he learn at the Wall?"
For the first time, Theon felt genuinely curious about the Wall.
His hands didn't stop moving, though.
And he couldn't deny it—there was a grim satisfaction in feeling wood smack into flesh.
The innkeeper and his daughter stood frozen.
What kind of lord's men were these?
So brutal—and on their side?
Then fear crept in anyway. What if this new group decided to eat and drink for free too?
Especially that boy leading them. The innkeeper hadn't even seen the strikes clearly—he only saw the result: bodies on the ground.
Jon knocked the loudest thug down. Instead of shutting up, the man snarled, "Who are you?! You know who I am?! My father is Baron Shutta!"
Jon didn't stop swinging. "Good," he said. "Then you're exactly the one I'm here to beat."
The black staff came down again and again—thud, thud, thud.
"Ow! Ow! Stop!"
"Baron Shutta! Baron Shutta! Ser—I'm from the North!"
Now you remember you're from the North?" Jon snapped. "What about them? Are they not Northerners? Do they deserve to be robbed just because you can?"
The innkeeper's jaw hung open.
What was happening?
Someone was standing up for a nobody like him?
After another twenty-some blows, the thugs' screams were loud enough to make people fifty yards away flinch.
Jon turned to the innkeeper and said, "My name is Jon. If this happens again—anyone eats and drinks here without paying—you come to Winterfell and you come find me."
Then Jon and the others tied the battered thugs to the tails of their horses and dragged them through the streets in full view of everyone.
From the saddle, Jon shouted at the soldiers loitering around the town, "Anyone who steals from the smallfolk, or eats their food and drinks their ale without paying—this is what you get!"
Seeing Jon's hard, merciless expression, the men who'd been bullying townsfolk without thinking suddenly felt like someone dumped ice water over their heads.
But the "Baron Shutta's son" didn't stay helpless for long.
That very night, his father had him carried—half-broken—straight to Robb.
And of course, Jon had to show up too.