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Two weeks on the Kingsroad teaches you many things.
Mostly that the Kingsroad is long.
We made good time, but I kept the pace steady. No galloping ourselves into exhaustion. Robb would not march the instant he heard of Father's arrest. He'd call the banners first. Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys, Glovers. That took time.
Time I needed.
I already knew that it was to late to save my fath-, no my uncle. Even if I rode straight for Kingslanding, he would already have been executed, besides even if I did reach in time how could I possibly save him.
The thought gripped my heart coldly but I thought ahead. I can't save my uncle but I can damn well try to save his children, my cousins, my brother's and sisters.
Sam had stopped riding like the horse might explode beneath him. Now he rode stiff-backed but functional.
Ghost hunted daily.
A rabbit. A hare. Once something that might have been a very unlucky fox.
Sam tried not to look when I skinned them.
"I do not enjoy this part," he muttered one evening, as I worked the knife.
"You enjoy the eating part."
"That's different."
Ghost sat beside us, watching with quiet approval.
We kept conversation light most days. Weather. Roads. How much Sam hated saddle sores. I didn't tell him everything I knew. No need to unspool the whole doomed tapestry at once.
On the fourteenth night, snow threatened but didn't fall.
On the fifteenth day, we found banners.
Flame red on the winds.
The roaring giant of House Umber.
Sam squinted ahead. "That's… quite a lot of tents."
It was.
They spread across a low rise like a small city of canvas and smoke. Fires burning. Horses tethered. Men moving in clusters. Spears stacked in bundles.
I felt something in my chest loosen.
Good. Robb had at least one strong lord already marching.
Four riders broke off from the camp and approached at a brisk trot.
Spears upright. Shields slung. Hard faces.
They slowed when they saw Ghost.
One of them swore.
"Seven hells—"
Ghost didn't growl. Didn't bare teeth. He simply walked ahead of our horses, silent and deliberate.
"Easy," I called. "He listens."
The riders did not look convinced.
They reined in a few lengths away.
"State your business," the foremost demanded.
"I am Jon Snow," I said. "Son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell."
That earned me a long look.
"And I'm Robert the Userper" another muttered.
I held their gaze evenly.
"I travel to Winterfell. My father has been imprisoned in King's Landing."
They exchanged glances.
One leaned forward in his saddle, studying my face.
"You do look like him," he admitted grudgingly.
"I've been told."
"And the wolf?"
"My companion."
Ghost's red eyes flicked to him.
The man shifted uncomfortably.
"Where'd you get it?"
"Where all my siblings got one from."
After a moment, the leader jerked his chin toward camp.
"You'll come with us."
I nodded.
We rode in.
As we entered, heads turned.
Men stopped sharpening blades. Stopped arguing. Stopped chewing.
They stared at Ghost openly. Some made warding signs. Some grinned like they'd just spotted a good omen.
It helped.
The Stark sigil walking beside me in flesh and blood did not hurt my claim.
We dismounted our horses with the others and walked to the center of the camp where stood a larger pavilion.
A roar of laughter burst from within before the flap was thrown aside.
He came out like a storm given legs.
Tall as a small tree. Beard thick as a fur pelt. Shoulders broad enough to block the sun.
The Greatjon.
Beside him walked another mountain of a man, younger but nearly as large.
Smalljon, I assumed.
The Greatjon's eyes locked on me.
Then on Ghost.
Then back on me.
"Well I'll be fucked," he boomed.
Sam flinched.
"You've grown, boy."
He strode closer, boots thudding against frozen ground.
Up close he was even larger. He looked me over like a horse trader judging stock.
"Jon Snow," I said. "My lord." bowing a little
He barked a laugh.
"I know who you are. I've seen you at Winterfell. Brooding in corners. Looking like someone stole your dinner."
"That does happen occasionally."
That earned another booming laugh.
Smalljon grinned faintly behind him.
"And you're riding south," Greatjon said. Not a question.
"To Winterfell," I corrected. "My father is imprisoned. My brother has called the banners."
"Aye," Greatjon said, face darkening slightly. "We march for him."
"I intend to stand with my house."
He studied me again.
"You've the look," he said finally. "Same long face as your father. Same stubborn eyes."
He crouched slightly, peering at Ghost.
"And you've brought a bloody legend with you."
Ghost held his stare without blinking.
Greatjon barked another laugh.
Smalljon finally spoke, voice deep and even. "You've left the nights watch?"
"Yes."
Both the son and father raised an eyebrow.
"Before swearing our oaths."
That seemed to satisfy them.
Greatjon slapped a hand onto my shoulder hard enough to test my balance.
"Good. The Watch can spare one lad. The North cannot."
Sam exhaled quietly beside me.
"And this one?" Greatjon jerked his chin at him.
"Samwell Tarly," I said. "He rides with me."
Sam attempted an awkward bow.
Greatjon squinted.
"You don't look like a fighter."
"I am… adaptable," Sam said weakly.
"He's more academically inclined." I chipped for him.
Greatjon laughed so loudly half the camp turned again.
"Fine! We've enough swords. Maybe we need a brain or two."
He straightened.
"You'll ride with us. Safer in numbers."
I inclined my head.
"Gladly, My lord."
He turned, already shouting orders at someone about ale and meat.
Men approached us cautiously, curious about Ghost. One reached out as if to touch him.
Ghost bared his teeth just enough.
The man withdrew his hand.
"Smart beast," he muttered.
"Smarter than most," I agreed.
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We saw Winterfell's towers three days before we reached them.
The walls rose from the earth like they had grown there—grey stone, solid, stubborn. Smoke curled from the chimneys. The banners of House Stark snapped above the battlements.
I hadn't been gone long.
A couple of months at most.
But riding back now, with two lifetimes in my head, it felt like returning to a childhood home after years away.
Ghost trotted ahead as if he'd never left.
The Greatjon rode at the head of his column, bellowing orders and insults in equal measure. Smalljon kept the men in line with a look and the promise of broken teeth.
As we approached the gate, horns sounded from the walls.
The portcullis rose.
We rode through.
The courtyard was already lined with men—Winterfell guards, servants, boys running messages. At the center stood Robb.
He looked older.
Or maybe I did.
He wore mail and a fur-lined cloak, Grey Wind at his side. Taller than I remembered. Leaner. Harder around the eyes.
He stepped forward as Greatjon dismounted.
"Lord Umber," Robb called.
"Lord Stark," Greatjon boomed.
Robb moved to clasp his forearm in greeting.
And then his eyes found me.
He froze.
For a moment he just stared.
"Jon?"
I swung down from my horse.
"Lord Stark" I smiled at him in greeting.
He crossed the space between us in three strides and pulled me into a rough embrace.
"You're supposed to be at the Wall," he said into my shoulder.
"I changed my mind."
He pulled back, gripping my arms, scanning my face like he expected me to vanish.
"What happened?"
"My sword belongs to you," I said simply. "Not to frozen stones."
His jaw tightened.
"You left?"
"Before the vows."
He searched my face.
"Father—"
"I know," I said quietly.
That was enough.
He nodded once.
"Then you're home."
It was a small word.
Home.
Behind him, Grey Wind padded forward and sniffed Ghost. The two wolves circled once, silent as snowfall, then settled as if the matter had been decided.
Sam dismounted awkwardly nearby.
Robb blinked at him.
"Samwell Tarly," I said. "He rides with me."
Robb's mouth twitched faintly.
"Winterfell seems to be collecting unusual men."
"You've always had poor taste," I said.
That earned the ghost of a grin.
The Greatjon was already recounting something loudly to anyone who would listen, gesturing at me and Ghost like we were part of the spectacle.
Men stared openly at the direwolves.
It didn't hurt.
A Stark bastard returning with the sigil of his house walking beside him felt like a sign. The North liked signs.
I also spotted Theon Greyjoy in the crowd. My heart flaring in anger at his sight.
I will not let history repeat.
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Winterfell without Lady Stark felt… different.
Lighter.
The air inside the walls wasn't tight anymore. No careful glances. No polite distance.
Servants nodded to me without hesitation. No one looked as if they were waiting to be corrected for acknowledging my existence.
It felt wrong to notice.
And yet I did.
I showed Sam to Maester Luwin that same afternoon.
Luwin peered at him over folded hands.
"A Tarly," he said thoughtfully. "From Horn Hill."
"Yes, maester," Sam said, already sweating.
"He reads," I added. "Well."
Luwin's brows lifted slightly.
"Does he now?"
Sam swallowed. "I— yes."
"Good," I said. "He'll assist you while we're here."
Luwin looked at me carefully.
"You do not intend to remain long."
"No."
He nodded once, as if that confirmed something he'd already suspected.
"Very well. I can always use another pair of hands."
Sam shot me a look of mingled terror and gratitude as Luwin began asking him questions about history and ravenry.
Good.
He'd be useful here.
0000
A week after we arrived, Winterfell no longer felt like a castle.
It felt like a war camp wearing stone.
Men filled the yards. Smiths hammered through the night. Ravens came and went like nervous thoughts. Every corridor carried whispers — Lannisters, hostages, Riverlands burning.
Robb had taken Father's solar, but he didn't sit in Father's chair.
He stood by the map table instead.
When I entered that evening, he didn't look up immediately.
"Karstark sent word," he said. "They're a day out. Tallharts will join them."
I shut the door behind me.
"And the Glovers?"
"Two days."
He finally glanced at me.
"You've been speaking to the men."
"I have."
"And?"
"They're angry."
A humorless breath escaped him. "That's one word."
I stepped closer to the map.
Pins marked the North. Others dotted the Riverlands.
"They'll follow you," I said. "But anger makes men reckless."
His jaw flexed. "They took Father. They hold our sisters. What should they feel?"
"Cold," I said. "They should feel cold."
That got his attention.
"You sound like a maester."
"Gods forbid."
He almost smiled, then didn't.
For a moment we stood in silence.
The chair behind the desk — Father's chair — remained empty.
Robb noticed me looking at it.
"I won't sit there," he said.
"Good."
His eyes flicked to mine.
"Good?"
"If you sit there, you start thinking like you've already replaced him."
Something in his shoulders eased.
"He's alive," Robb said firmly. "They wouldn't dare kill him."
It broke my heart to lie to my brother but moral needed to be kept high.
"They need him," I agreed carefully. "For leverage."
"Sansa writes that he confessed," Robb said bitterly. "But it doesn't sound like her. The words feel… wrong."
"They would have forced it."
Robb nodded, grateful for the certainty.
"And Arya…" His voice tightened. "They say she's with Sansa. That they're both safe."
A lie I knew, but no way to prove it.
I chose my words carefully.
"Safe is a relative term."
He looked at me sharply.
"You think they'd hurt them?"
"I hope they will not."
That was safer than saying what I knew of Joffrey.
He turned back to the map.
"This didn't have to happen."
"No," I said quietly. "It didn't."
His expression hardened.
"Mother believed the Imp tried to kill Bran."
"And maybe he did," I replied. "But seizing a Lannister in the Riverlands without proof? That was striking flint beside dry hay."
His head snapped toward me.
"She acted to protect Bran."
"I know she did."
The words came out harder than I meant them to but I didn't take them back.
"I'm not saying she meant to start a war. I'm saying the Lannisters were waiting for an excuse and she was reckless."
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, Robb said, "You've thought about this."
"I've thought about a lot of things."
He studied me again — that look he'd given me in the yard when he first saw me.
"You're different."
"So you've said."
"You left the Wall before taking the vows." His eyes narrowed slightly. "That's not a small thing."
"No."
"Why?"
There it was.
The real question.
I could hardly tell him I'd watched his wolf's head sewn to his body in another life.
"I had dreams," I said instead.
He frowned faintly.
"Dreams?"
"Bad ones."
He waited.
"Of you," I continued. "Of Father. Of Sansa and Arya. Of all of us."
I kept my voice steady.
"I saw our banners torn down. I saw Theon betraying you. I saw Winterfell burning. I saw you riding south and not riding back."
His expression went very still.
"Just dreams?"
"Yes."
And no.
"I couldn't shake them," I said. "Every time I thought of swearing vows and staying at the Wall while you marched south… it felt wrong."
Robb moved around the table slowly.
"You think I shouldn't march."
"I think marching south with the whole strength of the North leaves the North exposed."
"To who? The snows?"
"To anyone bold enough, like the Iron islands."
He absorbed that.
"The Riverlords are already bleeding," he said. "Uncle Edmure calls for aid."
"I know."
His eyes searched mine.
"So what would you have me do?"
There it was again.
Not king.
Not yet.
Just a young lord trying not to drown.
"Move," I said. "But not blindly. Leave behind enough men to guard our eastern shores. Enough men to keep winterfell safe."
"You believe the Greyjoy's will attack the north, that Theon will betray me." he murmured.
"Theon is the only son of Balon Greyjoy, father treated him well but that doesn't change the fact that he is a prisoner here. Balon has stewed for over a decade, he was stupid enough to attack the westerlands before, now I believe he holds a grudge against the north for taking his last son."
He rubbed his jaw. Still not ready to believe that Theon would betray him.
"And leave the Riverlands to burn?"
"No, just leave behind enough men to protect our home."
He watched me carefully.
"You sound very certain."
"I am."
He held my gaze for a long moment.
"Those dreams of yours," he said slowly. "Did I die in them?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
He exhaled softly through his nose.
"And you believe changing your path changes the end."
"I believe doing nothing guarantees it."
The fire crackled behind us.
Outside, somewhere in the yard, men laughed.
Life went on.
Robb stepped closer and gripped my forearm.
"I'm glad you came back," he said quietly.
"So am I."
He hesitated, then added, almost reluctantly:
"I don't know what I'd do without you."
I smirked faintly.
"You'd probably listen to Theon."
He barked a short laugh despite himself.
"Gods help us."
For a moment, the weight lifted.
Just two brothers in a warm room.
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The days before the march passed quickly.
Too quickly.
Winterfell's yard became my refuge. If I stayed moving, I didn't have to think.
I trained with the household guard first. Then the men-at-arms. Then whoever was foolish enough to step forward after watching the first few bouts.
Smalljon Umber grinned like he'd found a new sport.
"You've grown teeth, Snow," he said, rolling his shoulders as we faced each other in the yard.
"You're just slow," I smiled back.
He roared with laughter and came at me like an avalanche.
He was strong. Gods, he was strong. Every strike rattled my arms to the bone. But he was predictable — big swings, full commitment.
I let him press me, let him think he had me on the defensive.
Then I stepped inside his guard, twisted, and knocked his blade aside. My practice sword thumped against his ribs.
He blinked.
The yard went quiet.
"Dead," I said.
He stared at me for a heartbeat — then barked out a laugh and clapped my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Again."
We went again. And again. I won each time. Not easily. But consistently. That hadn't been true before. I'd always been good. Better than most boys my age. Quick. Focused but this was different.
My body moved before I thought. My balance felt sharper. My reactions cleaner. I saw openings sooner — like the world had slowed half a breath.
It wasn't strength.
It was… instinct.
Like I'd done this all before.
Which, in a way, I had.
Still, I trained until my arms ached and my hands blistered. If something had changed in me, I meant to master it.
The men noticed.
So did Robb.
"You'll shame us all before we even reach the Neck," he muttered one afternoon after I'd disarmed a Cerwyn man in front of half the yard.
"Then don't let me," I shot back.
He smirked.
But there was approval in his eyes.
When I wasn't in the yard, I was with Bran and Rickon.
Bran spent long hours by the window in his chamber, staring at the courtyard below. His legs lay still beneath the blankets.
He hated when people looked at them.
So I didn't.
Instead, I told him about the Wall. About Castle Black. About the men there — leaving out the worst parts.
"Did you see giants?" Rickon demanded, climbing onto the bench beside Bran.
"No."
"Did you fight wildlings?"
"Not yet."
Rickon looked disappointed.
Bran studied me quietly.
"You came back," he said one afternoon, as if testing the words.
"Yes."
"You were going to leave forever."
"I changed my mind."
"Because of Father?"
"Because of all of you."
He nodded slowly, accepting that.
Children were often better at that than grown men.
Sometimes, when Bran drifted off to sleep, I caught him whispering.
Not words I understood.
Just… something.
I didn't like it.
But that was a worry for another day.
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