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The night before the march, Winterfell held a feast.
It felt wrong.
Too loud. Too bright.
But the North had its ways. Men who might die tomorrow drank deeply tonight.
The Great Hall blazed with torchlight. Meat turned on spits. Ale flowed like a small river.
This time, I did not sit at the lower tables. Robb gestured to the bench beside him. I took it.
A few lords noticed. Some raised brows. None objected. The north is a lot more lenient to bastards than the south I had found out. It was probably my bad luck that my uncle had married a southern lady and I was forced to grow up in a castle with Catelyn Tully.
Ghost lay at my feet, white fur bright in the firelight. Grey Wind rested near Robb's chair, golden eyes watchful.
Two wolves beneath the Stark banner. The symbolism was not lost on anyone.
Theon sat further down the table. Not banished. Not shunned.
But not pressed close at Robb's right hand either. Progress. He laughed loudly at something one of the men said, too loudly. Robb didn't look over. Good.
The Greatjon was already deep in his cups by the time the second course arrived. He slammed his tankard down hard enough to slosh ale across the table.
"Boy!" he bellowed at Robb.
The hall quieted slightly.
Robb straightened but did not rise.
"Lord Umber."
"You've called us to war!" Greatjon roared, pushing himself to his feet. "Good! The North remembers!"
A cheer rose.
He pointed a thick finger at Robb.
"But I have seen more winters than you, boy. I have fought more battles. When we march south, I will lead the van."
Murmurs rippled through the hall. All the lords watched on like it was a circus. Especially Roose Bolton, his pale face looking unconcerned but I spied a shadow of a smirk. I couldn't wait to one day gut the traitor. Smalljon shifted in his seat, watching closely. Robb held his ground.
"With respect, my lord," Robb said evenly, "you will have command of your own men, as will every lord here."
The Greatjon's eyes narrowed.
"Not good enough."
He stepped forward, looming.
"If you are to lead us, prove it. Or step aside for someone who can."
The air tightened. Grey Wind rose first.
A low growl rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
Ghost stood beside me, silent — but the fur along his spine lifted.
The Greatjon glanced down at Grey Wind — and then at Ghost.
Two direwolves. Two sets of teeth. He snorted.
"Dogs," he said.
That was a mistake. Grey Wind moved in a blur.
He hit the Greatjon square in the chest, knocking him backward. The huge man crashed onto the floor, benches scraping as men leapt aside.
Gasps. Shouts. Ghost didn't attack. He moved to the side, cutting off retreat. Silent. Calculating.
The Greatjon roared and swung a fist.
Grey Wind's jaws snapped shut around two of his fingers. Blood sprayed across the rushes. The hall froze.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Robb stood.
"Grey Wind," he said sharply.
The wolf released Greatjons fingers and stepped back at once.
Lord Umber stared at his mangled fingers. Then, slowly, he began to laugh.A deep, booming sound that filled the hall.
"Heh! Heh!" He pushed himself up with his good hand. Blood dripped freely. "The boy has teeth!"
He dropped to one knee before Robb.
"The North will follow you."
The tension shattered into cheers.Men pounded tables. Tankards slammed. Robb stood very still for a moment. Then he nodded once.
"Then rise, Lord Umber."
The Greatjon climbed to his feet, still grinning wildly despite the blood. As the noise swelled again, Robb glanced sideways at me.
"You brought yours as well," he murmured.
"I thought it wise."
Ghost's red eyes glinted in the firelight.
Two wolves.
The North liked its signs.
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The morning we marched, Winterfell felt quieter than it had any right to.
Fifteen thousand men gathering in the yard and beyond the walls, and still — quiet.
Bran waited for me in his chamber. Rickon refused to. He stood in the corridor instead, arms crossed like a tiny lord trying to look unbothered.
I crouched in front of him first.
"You're not staying," he said flatly.
"No."
"You should."
"I would, if I could take Winterfell with me."
He frowned at that, unsure if it was a jest.
I pulled him into a hug anyway. He resisted for half a breath, then clung.
"Listen to Rodrik," I murmured. "And to Osha."
At the mention of her name, he scowled.
"She smells."
"She also knows how to keep you alive."
That seemed to satisfy him.
I kissed his forehead and stood.
Bran watched from his chair near the window. He didn't ask me to stay. He was smarter than me at his age.
"You'll come back," he said instead.
"Yes."
It wasn't a promise. It was an order I gave the world as much as I did to myself. I stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his brow. His skin was warm. Too warm.
"Don't let Rickon stab anyone important," I told him, trying to lighten the mood.
"I won't."
There was something in his eyes then — something older than eight years. I ignored it.
Osha waited in the corridor.
She leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching me with those sharp wildling eyes.
"You'll stay with them," I said quietly. "At all times."
She tilted her head. "And if I don't?"
I stepped closer.
"Then when I come back, I'll make sure the Wall seems kind."
She studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded once.
"They'll live," she said. "I'll see to it."
I believed her. She did well to protect them in the future I remembered.
I'd already spoken with Ser Rodrik Cassel the night before. The old knight bristled at being left behind but understood the necessity.
"Bolton's men will march with you." he'd said.
"Not all of them," I replied.
He'd frowned.
"Watch for Roose's bastard," I told him then. "Ramsay Snow."
Rodrik had narrowed his eyes.
"Why?"
"Because some men are born wrong."
He hadn't pressed further. Good men rarely want details about monsters.
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Sam mounted beside me when the gates opened.
"You're certain I should come?" he asked for the fiftieth time.
"Yes."
"I'm not much use in a battle."
"You're not here for battle."
He swallowed.
"That's what worries me."
The horns blew. The army began to move. And Winterfell receded behind us.
The march to the Neck took over a month. Slow, steady, deliberate. We did not exhaust the horses. We did not scatter. Robb listened more than he spoke. That was good.
The Greatjon thundered at the front half the time. Karstark rode grim and silent. Theon drifted between groups, restless as a hound denied a hunt.
At night, Ghost and Grey wind ranged the edges of camp. Nothing approached unnoticed.
When we finally saw Moat Cailin rising from the bogs like broken teeth, even the most seasoned men fell quiet.
The Neck was not welcoming. It was watching. The crumbling towers loomed over the causeway. The air smelled of wet earth and rot.
Waiting for us were the levies of House Manderly — banners white and green snapping in the damp wind.
Wylis Manderly rode out to greet us. Round-faced, earnest, armored more richly than most.
"Lord Stark," he said, bowing from the saddle.
Robb returned it.
That evening, once camp was set within the shadow of the Moat's towers, I pulled Robb aside.
We climbed one of the broken stairways, wind whipping at our cloaks.
"What is it?" he asked. "You've had that look since we crossed the bog."
"There's something you need to act on now," I said.
He waited.
"Roose Bolton's bastard," I said. "Ramsay Snow."
His brow furrowed.
"What of him?"
"He's dangerous."
"Many men are."
"Not like this."
Robb studied me.
"You've never met him."
"No."
"Then how?"
"My dreams," I said flatly.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Jon....."
"Listen to me." There was enough steel in my voice that he did.
"He tortures women for sport. Hunts girls with dogs. Flays men alive. He will betray us the moment it suits him."
"That's a grave accusation based on nightmares."
"I know."
Wind howled through the broken stone.
"But Roose Bolton is quiet. Calculating. And this bastard of his is worse — because he's not quiet."
Robb's jaw tightened. "If this is true, why hasn't Roose dealt with him?"
"Because he finds him useful."
That landed. Robb turned away slightly, thinking.
"Even if I believed you," he said carefully, "I cannot accuse a bannerman's son, bastard or not, without proof."
"Then don't accuse," I replied. "Act quietly."
He looked at me.
"Have him taken," I said. "Discreetly. Before he becomes a problem."
Robb looked at me with scandal in his eyes but seeing the seriousness in mine, he thought for a few seconds.
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then we've removed a rabid dog before it bites."
He held my gaze for a long moment.
"You truly believe this."
"Yes."
Finally, he nodded once. "Very well."
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We met Wylis Manderly in his pavilion that night. Maps spread. Wine poured.
Robb spoke carefully.
"There are… concerns," he said, "regarding Ramsay Snow."
Wylis blinked.
"Roose Bolton's bastard?"
"Yes."
Robb gestured to me.
I stepped forward.
"He plans to abduct your father's cousin lady Donella Hornwood."
Wylis hesitated.
"Father or Lord Bolton have not spoken of any such… issues."
"Your father doesn't know about this and Roose wouldn't tell anyone, even if he knew," I said.
Robb interjected smoothly.
"We wish this handled quietly. Write to your father. Ask him to dispatch trusted men north — to seize Ramsay Snow and see him… removed."
Wylis swallowed.
"That is a delicate matter."
"It is," Robb agreed. "Which is why it must be done cleanly."
Wylis nodded slowly. "I will write."
Robb later penned two more letters — one to Lord Wyman himself, stressing urgency and caution. Another to Ser Rodrik at Winterfell, instructing vigilance.
Precautions. Small moves that might change everything.
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We held Moat Cailin for two days while stragglers joined.
By the time we moved again, our numbers had swelled to near twenty thousand.
The North in truth.
Banners stretched along the causeway like a river of color.
A week later, the land grew less bleak. The air warmer.
And then we saw it. The Twins.
Two castles facing one another across the Green Fork, joined by a stone bridge.
House Frey's banners fluttered from the towers.
The crossing we needed.
The old man who would demand his price.
I felt Ghost's presence at my side.
In another life, this place had been a grave.
This time, I intended it to be nothing more than a negotiation.
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We made camp within sight of the Twins.
Twenty thousand Northmen stretched along the riverbanks, cookfires burning beneath the shadow of Walder Frey's towers.
Before we could send envoys, riders approached from the south.
River banners. A leaping trout. Robb saw them first.
"Mother," he breathed.
Catelyn Stark rode at their head, posture straight despite the weeks on the road. Beside her rode her uncle — Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish — lean, sharp-eyed, grey hair pulled back.
Robb didn't wait for ceremony. He spurred forward.
I followed at a distance. Mother and son met between the hosts.
She dismounted before her horse had fully stopped. Robb caught her in his arms. For a moment, war didn't exist. She held his face in both hands as if making sure it was real.
"You've grown thin," she said.
"You've grown more stubborn," he replied.
Her laugh broke halfway into something close to tears.
Ser Brynden watched with quiet approval.
Then her eyes shifted past Robb.
And found me.
The warmth faded.
Not fully.
But enough.
"Jon," she said, polite. Distant.
"Lady Stark."
She studied me — surprised, perhaps displeased.
"You left the Wall."
"Yes."
"For this?" Her gaze flicked toward the gathered banners.
"For family."
Something unreadable crossed her face. She inclined her head slightly. Then she turned back to Robb.
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That night, I pulled Robb aside again.
"You're becoming predictable," he muttered.
"Get used to it."
We stood near the river, the Twins looming dark ahead.
"Tomorrow," I said, "Walder Frey will demand a marriage."
Robb sighed immediately.
"Of course he will."
"To you."
His jaw tightened.
"You're certain."
"Yes."
"And this certainty comes from your dreams."
"Yes."
He stared at the water for a long moment.
"If I refuse?"
"He won't give us the crossing."
"We can't afford to waste time."
"No."
He rubbed his forehead.
"And you suggest?"
"Do not let Lady Stark bargain you away."
His head snapped toward me.
"She would do what is necessary."
"I know she would, it would be understandable even, but you can't keep promises."
"What do you mean I can't."
"You will fall in love with someone else, break the betrothal."
Robb looked at me as if I had gone mad. That was the problem.
"Tell her before she enters the castle. No marriage pacts for you."
He hesitated for a long time.
"And offer?"
"Bran," I said quietly. "Or Rickon."
He grimaced.
"They're children."
"So are half of Walder Frey's daughters."
A reluctant huff left him.
"What about Sansa and Arya" he asked.
"If needed," I said. "But better Bran. It binds the Freys to Winterfell long-term without chaining you."
He studied me carefully.
"You truly believe this will happen."
"Yes."
After a long silence, he nodded.
"Very well."
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The next morning, Catelyn and Ser Brynden prepared to enter the Twins as envoys.
Before she mounted, Robb caught her arm.
"Mother," he said quietly, "whatever Lord Frey asks — do not promise my hand."
She blinked.
"What?"
"Do not make marriage terms for me."
Confusion flickered across her face.
"Robb, you do not even know what he will demand."
"I have a fair guess."
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
"And how would you know that?"
"I simply do."
She studied him — then glanced, almost involuntarily, in my direction. Her mouth tightened.
"You are young," she said. "Do not presume to instruct me in negotiation."
"I'm not," he replied evenly. "I'm setting a boundary."
Ser Brynden intervened smoothly.
"Best we hear the old weasel's terms before we argue over them."
Catelyn looked between them. Then finally, stiffly:
"Very well. I will not promise your hand."
Robb inclined his head. It was enough.
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They were gone for hours.
The army waited in a restless sprawl.
By the time they returned, the sun was dipping low.
Catelyn's expression was controlled. Too controlled.
We gathered in Robb's pavilion — the Greatjon, Karstark, Galbart Glover, Roose Bolton, Wylis Manderly, Ser Brynden.
I stood slightly behind Robb.
Catelyn's eyes swept the tent — and paused on her son.
"How did you know?" she asked quietly.
The lords shifted.
"Know what?" Robb asked.
"That Walder Frey would demand your hand in marriage."
Silence fell. Robb did not look at me.
"I assumed he would."
Her gaze lingered a moment longer, suspicious. Then she addressed the tent.
"Lord Frey will grant us passage."
A collective exhale.
"And he will commit four thousand men to our cause."
Approving murmurs.
"But," she continued, "there are terms."
Of course.
"Brandon, my son" she said, "will wed one of Lord Frey's daughters when he comes of age."
Robb's shoulders stiffened but he did not interrupt.
"And Arya will wed one of his sons or grandsons."
That earned louder murmurs.
"Additionally, Olyvar Frey will serve as your squire," she finished, looking at Robb.
Silence followed.
Then the Greatjon barked a laugh.
"That old weasel is wringing us dry."
Karstark nodded once.
Roose Bolton's pale eyes revealed nothing.
Robb inclined his head.
"We accept."
Catelyn's gaze flicked toward him again. Still puzzled.
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That evening, select lords were invited into the Twins for bread and salt.
Robb. Catelyn. Brynden. The Greatjon. Others of rank.
Not me.
I was a bastard, after all.
Useful in a yard. Less so at a negotiating table. I didn't mind.
I'd seen enough of feasts in those halls in another life.
I had no desire to sleep under Walder Frey's roof.
Sam and I pitched our tent with the other northern captains outside the walls.
"You're not offended?" Sam asked cautiously as we settled in.
"No."
"You are the acting lord's brother."
"Half-brother," I corrected.
He hesitated.
"It still seems… unfair."
I smirked faintly.
"Sam. If I start expecting fairness from the world, remind me of where we are."
He considered that.
"Fair point."
Ghost lay at the entrance of the tent, head on his paws, red eyes open.
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Morning brought ravens. And bad news always seems to arrive at dawn. Riverrun was under siege.
Ser Jaime Lannister had encircled the castle with a host flying crimson and gold. Scouts reported another army moving up from the south — larger, slower, commanded by Tywin Lannister himself.
The tent filled quickly.
Maps were unrolled. Voices rose. Every lord had an opinion.
"Strike Tywin first," said one.
"Break the siege," argued another.
"We cannot fight both at once," muttered Galbart Glover.
Roose Bolton stood pale and soft-voiced near the back, offering measured suggestions that committed him to nothing.
Catelyn stood beside Robb, speaking calmly, urging caution, urging relief of her father's seat.
Robb listened.
That was the important part.
He did not speak much. He let the men argue. Let them show their temper. Their pride.
I watched him more than the map.
He was thinking.
That was good.
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