"Draw! Loose!"
The instructor's voice echoed crisply across Winterfell's training yard. Snowflakes drifted lazily in the frigid air as young Bran Stark lifted his bow and released. The arrow shot forward—but only grazed the edge of the bullseye before veering off.
From the sidelines, laughter erupted. Robb Stark grinned proudly at his little brother. Theon, Jon Snow, and several household men chuckled as well. Winterfell's atmosphere today was relaxed, warm in its own Northern way, despite the biting chill.
Across the yard, Lord Eddard Stark watched silently from the gallery, his wife Catelyn Tully standing beside him. Their expressions remained composed, but a hint of pride flickered in Ned's grey eyes.
Of the lads watching, Theon Greyjoy was the oldest. Nine years had passed since the Greyjoy Rebellion—nine years since Theon's father, Balon Greyjoy, had risen in defiance and paid dearly. His two elder sons died in the rebellion; Theon, then only ten, had been taken to Winterfell as hostage and ward. He wore the Stark colors often and carried himself with confidence, but the shadow of his heritage always lingered.
Jon stepped closer to Bran, voice calm, gentle—so unlike the sharp cold he often faced from certain members of the household.
"Keep your aim steady," Jon murmured quietly. "Clear your mind."
Bran shot him a quick glance, took a breath, and nocked another arrow. This time his movements were smoother, his expression focused. The string snapped—thwip—and the arrow landed squarely in the center.
Robb clapped Bran on the shoulder. "Well done, little brother!"
"Well struck!" Theon added with a laugh. "Look at our good knight!"
Theon's grin was wide and smug, that same smugness that often irritated Jon. The ward of Winterfell was handsome, sharp-tongued, and carried his arrogance like a cloak.
Robb, nearly grown, was tall and athletic, with auburn hair and vivid blue eyes—traits inherited from House Tully. Jon, by contrast, was pale, lean, with long dark hair and grey eyes like the direwolf banner of House Stark itself—features inherited from a father whose name he bore only partially.
"Knight," Jon murmured under his breath. What a proud title indeed. Robb's skill with spear and shield had grown quickly, but Jon's swordsmanship and horsemanship surpassed nearly all the boys in Winterfell. Yet even with his talents, he knew well: there was no place for bastards in noble dreams.
A sharp whistle from Theon snapped him out of his thoughts. Theon smirked. "Speaking of knights… have you all heard the news?"
Robb raised a brow. "What now?"
"The King's bastard. The one who ran across the Narrow Sea." Theon leaned in conspiratorially. "They say he's become a Mercenary King. Commands Unsullied, screaming warriors, freed slaves… a whole army of them!"
Jon narrowed his eyes. He'd heard the same rumors—of a warrior born a bastard, rising high on his own merit. Someone rumored to be unstoppable.
Someone living a life Jon dreamed of.
Theon continued, "Some say he fights with spear, hammer, sword—everything. They say even the Dothraki fear him."
Robb frowned. "If he clashes with his father, that would be… disastrous."
Kinslaying was no light matter. It was a sin condemned by all gods. And the King was aging, his belly growing larger every year. Robb's voice dropped. "What if… the King is defeated?"
The instructor scoffed. "Hmph! Cowardly rumors from cowards across the sea. No sellsword can match a true Northerner."
Jon remained quiet. His eyes drifted toward the balcony where his father and Catelyn observed. Something weighed heavily on Lord Eddard these days. Jon could feel tension in the air—an instinct sharpened by a childhood spent quietly reading faces.
What is troubling him? he wondered.
---
A Conversation in the Gallery
"If that day comes," Ned said softly, his eyes tracking his children in the yard, "Robb will inherit Winterfell. And Bran and Rickon can be good bannermen to him."
Catelyn nodded. She liked seeing the boys together, liked the unity of her children… except for the one who wasn't hers.
Her gaze drifted to Jon Snow below the gallery—the dark-haired boy who resembled Ned far more than Robb ever did.
That resemblance hurt her every time she looked at him.
No matter how many years passed, she could never feel kindness for him. Jon was a constant reminder of the one thing she could not forgive Ned for. And worst of all… Jon bore the Stark look so strongly that one might mistake him for the trueborn son.
She pulled her cloak tighter.
Ned noticed but said nothing.
"I have a feeling," he continued quietly, "that Robert isn't coming here just to visit old friends. He will ask me to go South."
"South?" Catelyn frowned. "With the kingdom in turmoil?"
"Jon Arryn is dead," Ned said with a sigh. "And Robert's bastard has joined forces with Targaryen remnants across the sea. For every reason—political and personal—the King needs my help."
"Will you refuse?" Catelyn asked, though she already sensed the answer.
"I want to," Ned admitted. "I belong in the North. My place is here."
Catelyn looked out across the snow-covered courtyard. "The South is a different world. They worship different gods. Play different games. A mistake in King's Landing can be deadly."
Ned smiled faintly. "Robert loves me more than his own brothers. Even if he scolds me, we'll be drinking together within a week."
"That was then," Catelyn whispered. "Not now."
Ned didn't respond.
The wind blew harder.
"But if Robert truly insists… if South means war… I will go." Ned's voice was steady. "The last time I rode South was Balon's rebellion. And this conflict may well be worse."
Catelyn shivered.
They both knew the threats looming across the Narrow Sea.
---
The Threat Across the Sea
"Myr, Lys, the Stepstones... all once part of the Triarchy," Ned said. "Three-quarters of their strength remains. And the Targaryen children… orphaned or not, they still carry dragons in their blood."
"If Robert's son provokes war with that bastard and his allies," Catelyn murmured, "will they blockade King's Landing like the Three Daughters did?"
Ned nodded grimly. "A blockade could starve the Crownlands. And two Free Cities combined—wealth, ships, mercenaries—that is no small force."
Catelyn felt a chill.
It reminded her of the stories of the Long Night and the Others—stories of cold and darkness descending unexpectedly.
"And fighting a brother," Ned said quietly, "is easier than fighting a father. Robert wants Joffrey to inherit. His son must deal with the threat across the sea."
Catelyn sighed. "Then… going South may be unavoidable."
She hesitated, then added, "It may not be entirely bad. The girls—Sansa and Arya—are growing up. Marriages in the South could bring honor and security to the family."
Ned raised a brow. Catelyn didn't voice her deepest hope—that Sansa might one day wed into the royal family. It was too grand, too dreamlike to dare say aloud.
Instead, she looked again at Jon Snow in the courtyard.
"…And Jon?" she asked carefully.
Ned's face hardened.
"He can go anywhere," Catelyn said, "but I do not think he should remain in Winterfell."
Ned held her gaze for a long moment, then turned away without a word.
Snow fell silently between them.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)