"Galon, you shouldn't have ignored him like that."
As they walked the corridor, Robb spoke with the same tone Ser Rodrik had used earlier; half frustrated older brother, half mediator.
"Theon is just..."
Robb stopped mid-sentence and turned to face him.
"He's proud. Too proud, maybe. He wants to be seen, to matter. His temper is rough, yes, but if you give him time, the two of you could be friends."
Galon stood still and shook his head. "Forgive me, Robb, but that is something I cannot do."
Robb frowned, confusion and irritation mixing together.
"Why not? You gave your word to my father. Why can't you let this go and take one small step back?"
His tone wasn't angry, but disappointment lay beneath it. Galon understood that one careless answer could put a wall between them.
So he softened his expression, exhaled, and bowed his head slightly.
"My apologies, Robb. I acted too quickly and put you in a difficult place. But as for stepping back..."
He paused, letting the moment grow still.
"Because the North remembers."
Robb's breath caught.
Galon continued, voice even. "You are right. I made Ned Stark a promise. I will not provoke Theon. But that does not mean I must bow."
"This is not temper. This is honor. I am a Glover. My blood is rooted deep in the North."
"If an Ironborn can insult me openly in Winterfell and I retreat without answering, how could I ever stand before Sansa as her betrothed?"
Robb opened his mouth to argue… then stopped.
Fragments of memory surfaced. His father's warnings. The somber day of the funeral. The stories of Ironborn raids and Glover dead.
Understanding struck him sharply. Annoyance faded into realization and guilt.
Of course.
Before he could speak, Galon's voice softened further.
"Do not worry. I will cause no trouble while I remain here. I will avoid him when I can. You have nothing to fear."
Robb sighed, shoulders dropping.
"You shouldn't have to avoid him. I will speak with Theon. But enough of this for now. Come, Sansa is waiting."
He turned to continue down the corridor, but Galon stopped him.
"Robb. One moment."
He signaled to a passing servant.
"Find my captain, Roger, in the kitchens. Tell him to bring the gift I prepared for Lady Sansa."
When the servant hurried off, Robb raised a brow.
"You brought her a gift?"
Galon only smiled. "You will see soon enough. It's something you have never seen or heard of."
Robb's curiosity lit instantly.
Before long, the servant returned with Captain Roger, who carried a silk-wrapped wooden box.
"Lord Galon, the gift."
Galon accepted it carefully.
"Thank you, Roger. You may return."
Once the captain left, Robb leaned closer.
"It isn't jewels, is it?"
Galon smiled again and said nothing.
Robb groaned quietly.
Soon, they reached the embroidery room.
Inside, Septa Mordane hovered like a hawk, correcting posture and scrutinizing every stitch. Quiet laughter fluttered among the girls seated together.
Galon leaned forward and peeked inside.
Sansa Stark sat by the window, auburn hair tumbling softly, eyes distant, expression troubled.
Robb called gently. "Sansa."
Every head turned.
Arya reacted first. She jumped to her feet and pointed.
"That's him. Galon Glover!"
Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole immediately leaned together whispering and giggling behind their hands. Even Sansa, despite herself, glanced over.
Galon stepped into the room with confidence, the silk-wrapped box supported against his arm.
He bowed politely.
"My apologies if I startled you, ladies. I hope my appearance is not too disappointing."
Laughter bubbled through the room. Even Sansa's tension eased a little, her fingers relaxing in her lap.
She studied him quietly.
He wasn't what Arya described.
Broad-shouldered, yes, but his posture was disciplined rather than brute-like.
Tall, dark brown hair, deep red eyes uncommon in the North. His features were strong and earnest, more dependable than harsh.
Not a prince from a song. But solid. Safe.
Arya definitely exaggerated.
Sansa shot her sister a glare before rising gracefully. "Good day, Lord Galon. Winterfell welcomes you."
Galon stepped closer, voice warm.
"A pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Sansa. I have brought a small gift. I hope it pleases you."
She glanced to Robb. He nodded.
So she accepted the gift and set it gently upon a nearby table.
"What is it?"
"Open it and see."
She lifted the silk.
A wooden box appeared beneath, carved into a blue and white checkered pattern; polished smooth, surprisingly elegant.
Her fingertips traced the surface, then paused at the lock.
Real gold.
Her interest brightened. Perhaps jewels? A tiara, a necklace?
But when she opened the lid, her smile faltered.
Inside were thirty-two small carved figures. Half dark, half pale, arranged in neat formation.
Not silver. Not gemstones.
Just wood. Beautifully carved, but still only wood.
Disappointment flickered in her eyes. 'Mother did warn me… Deepwood Motte has nothing but trees.'
Galon saw it and smiled, undisturbed.
"Lady Sansa. Allow me to introduce your gift properly.
This is Westerosi Chess."