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A thunderous exclamation of "Enough!" pierced through the cacophony of boisterous voices resounding within the fabric walls of the grand tent. Every northern lord, engrossed in their heated debates and fervent arguments, abruptly swiveled their heads in unison, their curious gazes fixated on the audacious soul who dared to command their attention. Nestled beside the indomitable Lady Mormont, capturing the collective interest with a magnetism that defied his unassuming stature. Lord Reed effortlessly compelled the majority to divert their eyes, a testament to his influence in the realm of the North.
His ebony-green irises, reminiscent of withered grass on a desolate plain, scrutinized the assembly, leaving an indelible impression on all present. Casting an aura of suspicion towards Lord Bolton, Lord Reed's piercing gaze eventually settled upon the figures of Robb Stark and Lord Karstark.
"Enough of this madness, you speak of fighting against the Royal Family, to fight Lyanna's boy," Lord Reed's voice pierced through the clamor with a mix of disappointment and unwavering determination. His words echoed powerfully within the confines of the tent, capturing the attention of those present.
As the name "Lyanna" slipped from his lips, a collective hush fell upon the gathering, causing many eyes to subtly shift downward in reverence or perhaps out of a sense of guilt. However, amidst this sea of somber gazes, two figures remained unperturbed: Lord Karstark and GreatJon.
The latter, an imposing figure whose massive frame towered over the rest, emitted a low growl before striding purposefully toward Lord Reed. His chest puffed out, accentuating his already formidable presence, and as he closed the distance between them, it became apparent that GreatJon resembled nothing short of a fully grown short-faced bear—the largest and most fearsome of its kind, known to instill both awe and terror.
"Jon Snow has abandoned his own blood, Howland!" GreatJon's booming voice echoed through the tent, his words laced with disappointment and anger. With fierce determination etched across his face, GreatJon leaned in closer, his spit inadvertently finding its target on Howland's visage. Unfazed by the physical assault, Howland calmly brushed away the droplets, refusing to let them mar his unwavering resolve. Locking eyes with GreatJon, his gaze piercing and unyielding, Howland stood his ground, unafraid and undeterred by the absence of fear on GreatJon's face.
"Jon Snow reunited with his family, Lord Stark stole him from his family. GreatJon, and you're telling everyone here to fight a Dragon." Howland reminded him, feeling as if he was explaining this to a child.
GreatJon, a towering figure with a commanding presence, could not contain the fire of his rage as he let out a growl that reverberated through the air. The veins on his forehead pulsated, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, a testament to the intensity of his anger. He scoffed dismissively at the mention of the Dragon.
"Screw the Dragon," GreatJon declared defiantly, his voice laced with unwavering confidence. "that litter beast stands no chance against the might of the North, he's welcome to use it, but he will soon learn just how powerful The North is," His proclamation echoed through the tent, resonating with the hearts of those gathered, earning him a chorus of fervent shouts and thunderous applause.
Howland confronted GreatJon with a furious look; his eyes were ablaze with a fire that matched the Northern warriors. Each word that escaped Howland's lips pierced through the tense silence, challenging the very essence of their cause. "So you want us to fight Lyanna's son, to shed the blood of our own kin?" he questioned, his voice heavy with a mix of anger and disbelief. GreatJon's reaction was immediate, his lips pressing together tightly, forming a fine line of contemplation and conflict. The weight of Howland's words hung heavily in the air.
"Tell me what is that we fought for during the Rebellion, to bring justice to the Mad King for killing Our Lord, and Heir Brandon Stark, to protect Ned Stark from the Mad King, and to bring back Lyanna Stark. Do you think Lyanna would have wanted us fighting against her own son," Howland tried to reason, his voice boomed, filling the tent and transcending its boundaries, reaching the ears of all in the vicinity. The visage of GreatJon, his countenance flushed with the fire of anger, loomed over Howland, his face descending closer to meet the other man's. In that charged moment, the tension between them crackled like lightning, poised to unleash a tempestuous storm. GreatJon's fists clenched, poised to deliver a punch.
With a voice as resonant as a horn, GreatJon's declaration reverberated through the tent, causing a chorus of approving shouts from the crowd. "Lord Stark brought him where he truly belonged, in Winterfell, where he was raised as a Stark like his family, like his mother, where he was raised as a Northern," he proclaimed passionately, his words enveloped in the fervor of conviction.
Howland, never one to shy away from confrontation, sneered in response, a smirk dancing across his face. "Where he was raised a bastard you mean," he retorted, his eyes locked onto GreatJon's, searching for any trace of guilt. And indeed, for the briefest of moments, Howland noticed a flicker of remorse flickering across GreatJon's countenance, only to vanish as swiftly as it had appeared.
"We all know the tale of Jon Snow, the bastard of a man who was too honorable to have a bastard, a tale we all believed, so he could raise Lyanna's son, the only thing left of Lyanna, to raise him as a bastard." Lord Howland spoke with a sneer, looking at everyone's faces; some had thoughtful looks but were still looking at Howland with anger; Howland was forced to face GreatJon when the latter abruptly placed his massive hand on Howland's shoulder.
"I have known Ned, we all know Ned, we swore our vows to him. Do you really think he would have allowed Jon Snow to be treated like a bastard?" GreatJon's tone carried a subtle undercurrent of mockery, yet there was an unmistakable restraint in his words, a conscious effort to temper his disrespect even in the face of Howland's contrary assertions. For, in truth, GreatJon held a deep respect for the man before him, a respect that rivaled only the esteem he reserved for Ned Stark and Rickon Stark.
"Aye!" The Northern Lords shouted in approval with what GreatJon said. They all knew Lord Stark. He might have kidnapped Lyanna's son, and he might have raised him as a bastard, but they all believed that Lord Stark would have never allowed Jon Snow to be treated poorly; after all, why would he? Jon Snow was a child of the North, Lord Stark's nephew; the thought of Lord Stark ever treating Jon Snow in a bad way sounded outlandish, something he would have never done. Old Gods themselves wouldn't be happy if Ned Stark allowed his own blood to be treated poorly under his own roof.
Sure, none of them knew for sure how Jon was treated; after all, none of them lived in Winterfell, and they had visited Winterfell only three times in the last decade. They didn't know what happened in Winterfell; they didn't have spies placed there. All they had were rumors.
The lords of the North had information about Robb Stark since he was the Heir of Winterfell and the Future Lord of Winterfell. All the Northern Lords always paid attention to the heir, mostly to the heir, but many of them didn't really pay attention to Jon Snow; after all, he was simply the bastard of Winterfell, and they didn't know much about him, they had heard rumors, but everyone knew that rumors could easily be lies.
"If he was treated fairly, why did he leave Winterfell?" Lady Mormont's voice, sharp and commanding, pierced through the heavy silence that hung like a thick fog within the confines of the tent. All eyes instantly swiveled towards her, their gaze drawn to the lady Mormont.
Lord Karstark could not help but scoff at Lady Mormont's question. GreatJon's curiosity was piqued. His attention shifted from Lord Reed to the formidable Lady Mormont.
"What?" he queried, his deep voice resonating with a mix of surprise and intrigue. He stepped closer to her, undeterred by the coldness of her piercing gaze. Lady Mormont, unflinching and resolute, held her ground in her seat, her icy eyes unwaveringly fixed upon him.
"You're saying that Jon Snow wasn't treated as a bastard, so why did he leave Winterfell five years ago. We all remember when Lord Stark sent ravens to every corner of The North, and even in the South. Why did Jon Snow leave Winterfell?" Lady Mormont questioned sharply, her eyes glaring at everyone in the tent.
GreatJon opened his mouth to answer but quickly closed his mouth; he had no answers to that; back when he had first received the raven, he had simply thought the kid had been foolish enough to think that he could live on his own outside of Winterfell, after all, who knows what can go through the head of a nine name days boy. His own son, when he had been ten name days, had almost jumped from the window thinking that if he had a pouch of feathers in his hands, he would be able to fly like a real bird.
After discussing it with Ned, GreatJon had been informed that the kid hadn't left Winterfell out of his foolishness, but for another reason, a reason GreatJon didn't know and Ned refused to say, and after years passing, people of the North had started to forget that Jon Snow ever existed, until he suddenly returned one day, as if he appeared out of thin air.
GreatJon knew he didn't know the truth; the only ones who could tell him the truth were Lord Stark himself, Jon Snow, or someone who knew Jon Snow very well.
As GreatJon slowly rotated his head, his gaze settled upon Robb Stark, standing proudly by the side of Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton. In that fleeting moment, a peculiar sensation swept over GreatJon, akin to the feeling one gets when beholding a child's innocent visage. However, as Robb's piercing eyes locked with GreatJon's own, a profound transformation occurred. A veil of solemnity descended upon Robb's countenance, instantly aging him beyond his tender years. Yet, amidst this newfound maturity, one could discern remnants of a recent outpouring of sorrow, evident in the lingering crimson hue that adorned Robb's tear-stained eyes.
GreatJon figured that Lord Robb would tell them the truth; he would have wanted to ask Ned, but since he was imprisoned, GreatJon knew that he had to wait, so taking a breath, he addressed Robb respectfully.
"Lord Robb, why did Jon Snow leave Winterfell?" GreatJon questioned with a huff; everyone's attention quickly turned to Robb, who stepped forward; despite his young age, he looked like a lord in the eyes of everyone.
"Father never talked about it, me and Arya used to ask him, all he would say is that Jon thought that he had a better opportunity outside of Winterfell. My father was always good with him, so I don't know why Jon would ever think of leaving Winterfell," Robb answered slightly reluctantly, his blood boiling with anger; this time, Robb wasn't really lying; his father never gave them a clear answer on why Jon left Winterfell.
Since the trial, Robb found himself inexorably drawn into a whirlwind of bittersweet reminiscence as vivid recollections flooded his mind like a torrential downpour. Each memory emerged from the depths of his consciousness; hearty laughter reverberated through their shared camaraderie and countless intimate moments where they savored meals together, forging an unbreakable bond of kinship. Yet, with an agonizing ache in his heart, Robb couldn't escape the searing truth that all those cherished moments, once brimming with joy and mirth, now lay charred and reduced to mere ashes, for it was Jon's betrayal that had cast an irreversible shadow over their family.
Robb tightly clenched his teeth, feeling a surge of anger coursing through his veins with each passing second. The memories of Jon's face flashed before his eyes, intertwining with the bittersweet recollections of the countless moments they had shared, promising eternal brotherhood and an unbreakable bond. However, these cherished memories now mingled with the bitter taste of betrayal, for it was Jon who had shattered their unbreakable pact, casting aside their family's honor as he condemned their father to a life on the desolate Wall.
As the fiery rage surged through his veins, Robb fought valiantly to restrain the overwhelming urge to unleash his wrath. His hands instinctively clenched into tightly coiled fists, itching to seize hold of a gleaming training sword and pummel an unsuspecting training dummy into oblivion until pure exhaustion claimed him. But a part of him yearned for something more, something far more satisfying. His eyes burned with an intense fury; their gaze sharpened to the point of nearly envisioning the crimson hue of his anger. With each blink, Robb could almost summon the vivid image of Jon's treacherous countenance, his smug face etched with a malicious smirk.
The memory of Jon's betrayal, relishing in the fall of House Stark as their father was unjustly sentenced to the Wall, fueled the fire that consumed Robb's very being. A deep, guttural growl rumbled within him as he gnawed relentlessly on his lower lip, the pain of his own flesh offering a temporary respite from the seething emotions coursing through his veins. You Traitor, Robb thought.
The rest of the meeting passed without Robb paying much attention. The northern lords eventually decided to go and have a talk with Lord Stark, to have a discussion with him if the king allowed them to, and GreatJon said that Lord Stark would be honest with them.
With each labored breath, Robb trudged wearily back to his humble tent, the ethereal glow of the moonlight casting a glow upon the bustling camp. The flickering flames of the torches danced and swayed in the night air, their warm embrace providing the only solace from the enveloping darkness. Robb's footsteps echoed with a resounding heaviness, imprinting a tangible mark upon the ever-dampened soil beneath him. With each sinking boot, the muddy ground seemed to mirror his own somber mood, an echo of the weighty thoughts that weighed upon his weary mind.
The wind whipped through his hair, causing it to dance wildly around his face. In a moment of desperation, he drew a deep breath, but it felt as though his lungs weren't filling with air.
A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him, and he wheeled around, ready to face whatever enemy lurked in the shadows. But instead of a foe, his eyes met the concerned gaze of Grey Wind. The direwolf stood beside him, towering over him with a sense of protective loyalty. In an instant, Robb's worries seemed to dissipate, replaced by a newfound sense of comfort and security.
His hand instinctively reached out, fingers sinking into the thick fur atop Grey Wind's head. The direwolf's eyes closed in contentment as Robb's touch brought a spark of joy to their bond. A wet, warm lick against his hand confirmed what he already knew – Grey Wind was there for him, unwavering and loyal. A small smile tugged at the corners of Robb's lips as he whispered into the wind, "I'm grateful to have you by my side." In response, Grey Wind's tongue caressed his face.
"We won't allow Jon to go freely from this, Grey Wind. I won't allow him to ruin our lives," Robb promised, looking directly into his werewolves eyes; the latter looked as if he agreed with what Robb said; Robb felt a burst of strength, knowing his direwolf would never abandon him, unlike Jon who was very quick to abandon everything to become a Prince.
As Robb's lips curled into a sneer, he couldn't help but think, "I'm sure he is already calling Aegon a 'brother'," Anger welled up within him once more, fueling the fire of his resentment. At that moment, a vivid memory raced through his mind like a bolt of lightning, transporting him back to a time when Jon used to affectionately address him as "brother."
The recollection painted a picture of their shared laughter echoing through the wintry landscape as they frolicked together in the powdery snow. Overwhelmed by a surge of fury, Robb growled in frustration, his clenched fist forcefully colliding with the damp earth beneath him. Blow after blow, he relentlessly pounded the ground, losing count of the repetitions. Eventually, when he finally ceased his onslaught, a searing pain coursed through his battered knuckles.
He abandoned us, he abandoned me, he abandoned father, and he abandoned Arya, Robb thought, with growing anger, remembering Arya's tears, the way she cried, the way Bran would ask for their father to return, Sansa's cries, his mother's tears, how Rickon had cried and hugged his direwolf, crying with him. Their happy family was gone and would never be the same. All because of him, Robb thought, feeling more rage than he had ever felt before.
As Robb swiftly made his way back to his tent, his heart pounding with anticipation, he couldn't help but feel a sense of unease creeping up his spine. The moment he crossed the threshold, a wave of confusion washed over him as he realized Sansa's absence, casting a shadow of concern upon his brow. To his surprise, he discovered Arya peacefully slumbering in her bed, cradling Nymeria in a tender embrace. However, amidst this peculiar tableau, it was the sight of his youngest brother, Rickon, that captured Robb's undivided attention. With his eyes bloodshot and aching, a haunting worry etched across his innocent face, Rickon scanned the tent fervently as if desperately searching for something. Without a moment's hesitation, Robb closed the distance between them, his footsteps echoing with urgency, as he approached Rickon, who was frantically peering under a nearby table, his trembling hands betraying his imminent tears.
With a gentle furrow forming on his brow and a genuine concern etching into his voice, Robb reached out to his youngest brother, Rickon, delicately placing his hand on the trembling child's shoulder. In an attempt to coax a response from the distressed boy, Robb softly implored, "Rickon, what's wrong?" As the weight of Robb's touch compelled Rickon to raise his tear-streaked face, a heart-wrenching sob escaped the depths of his being.
Rickon, unable to contain his overwhelming despair, instinctively pressed himself forward, seeking solace in the comforting embrace of Robb's strong and protective chest. His cries, muffled by the sturdy fabric of Robb's coat crafted from meticulously boiled leather, blended with the echoes of his anguish. Through hiccuping gasps and with a voice strained by sorrow, Rickon managed to stutter out his distress, his words quivering with raw emotion, "I-I... I can't find him!" As the tears continued to cascade down his flushed cheeks, every drop a testament to his agony, Rickon's heartache reverberated through the air.
Robb's curiosity was piqued as he swiftly inquired, "Find who?" His mind immediately jumped to the possibility that Rickon had misplaced his beloved wooden toy, whose absence would surely cause the boy distress. However, it became abundantly clear that this situation transcended the mere misplacement of a plaything as Rickon's sobs intensified, echoing through the room.
Robb tightly embraced Rickon as he gently rubbed the young boy's trembling back in an attempt to offer solace and reassurance. "Shaggydog, h-he's gone!! I can't find him," Rickon managed to utter between heart-wrenching sobs.
"Shh, he has probably just gone hunting," Robb whispered soothingly, his voice carrying a hint of confidence. He knew, deep down, that his little brother's fears were unfounded; after all, nothing could truly harm a direwolf.
A single crow's cry pierced the stillness, echoing through the trees with an eerie resonance. Robb's head snapped upwards; his eyes fixated on a small opening in the canopy of their tent. There, perched on a delicate branch, sat a crow unlike any he had ever encountered before. Its eyes were devoid of color and filled with an otherworldly luminescence.
Without warning, the crow unfurled its ebony wings, their velvety blackness contrasting against the pale light filtering through the canopy. The sight was both mesmerizing and disconcerting, the bird's graceful ascent into the air.
Robb couldn't help but wonder where Shaggydog had gone...
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