Jory Cassel P O V
The wind howled through Winterfell's turrets, carrying the scent of snow and pine from the Wolfswood beyond as Jory Cassel strode across the yard, his boots crunching the frost beneath each step, his cloak snapping behind him. The morning was raw, the kind that bit at a man's bones, yet he found his gaze drawn not to the shivering guards at their posts but to the figure moving through the castle like threads in a tapestry, grown bored Robb Stark, his future lord.
He'd served House Stark since he was a lad, trained under his father, Martyn Cassel, then took his position after his father fell beside Ned at the tower of joy. Winterfell was his blood and breath, its people as known to him as the weight of his sword. But these days, he scarcely recognized the currents shifting beneath its stone walls.
Robb Stark emerged from the armory, his hair tousled by the wind, his step light despite the hour. Jory paused, narrowing his eyes. The young lord wore little more than a wool tunic and breeches, no furs, no heavy cloak, yet the cold seemed a stranger to him. The other lads, Jon and Theon among them, bundled in their layers, their breath puffing white, but Robb moved unburdened, his cheeks barely pinked by the chill. As if the Northern chill itself made an exception for him, Jory thought, a shiver tracing his spine that had little to do with the weather.
"Jory!" Robb called, spotting him. He crossed the yard in a few strides, his pace swifter than Jory remembered, swifter than any lad his age ought to be. "The lads are sparring. Care to join us?"
Jory forced a grin, shaking his head. "Duty calls for me to watch my lord. I'd only slow you down with my old bones; besides, you seem to have grown much in your dueling talent with both sword and axe."
Robb's small laugh rang out, bright and sharp, but Jory's gaze lingered as the young Stark returned to the training yard. There, among the clash of steel, Robb danced a blur of motion, his blade striking true while others faltered. Jon Snow, who used to be the most promising, steady, and grim of the lads, kept pace for a time, but even he tired, his swings slowing. Theon Greyjoy, all flash and taunts, lasted less, his breath ragged as he leaned on his sword. Robb pressed on, tireless, his endurance a quiet marvel. Jory had seen seasoned men flag sooner, yet Robb fought as if the cold fueled him rather than sap him of strength.
The whispers had begun weeks ago, soft at first, from the kitchens and stables, now bolder as the guardsmen got in on it as well. The Old Gods not only spared him after his incident but, gave him their strength and blessing. Jory wasn't one for gods or tales, but he couldn't unsee it with the way he fought and walked still Robb but different, more purposeful, a grown vetrain in a heir's body slightly faster and stronger than other fully grown men. Robb was touched, marked by something beyond what his mind could not understand be it the seven or the old gods; he was still proud of him for keeping humble with his new talent and skill, using it to better his brother and friends.
In the great hall, the midday meal brought the Starks together, and Jory lingered near the door, his eyes tracing the changes writ plain. Lady Catelyn sat straight-backed, her hands folded, but her gaze darted like a hawk's watchful, wary, especially when it fell on Robb. She'd been like that since Ned brought up Bran's fostering with the Karstarks, a new edge honed her, as if she braced for losses yet to come. Jon sat beside Theon, quieter than usual, his dark eyes tracking Robb with a mix of pride and something unreadable. Theon's jibes were sharper, his smirks tighter, as if he felt the ground tilting beneath him, the changes in Robb unbalancing his routine.
Lord Eddard stood by the hearth, his broad shoulders hunched as he spoke with Maester Luwin. Ned had always carried Winterfell's weight, but now his silences were heavier, his gray eyes clouded with thoughts he kept close. Jory knew that look; Ned was a man peering into stormy thoughts.
"Jory," Ned said suddenly, turning. His voice was low, a command cloaked as a request. "Will you walk with me?"
They stepped into the Godswood, the air thick with the scent of earth and ancient trees. The heart tree loomed ahead, its red eyes watching, and Jory felt the old stillness settle over him. Ned stopped beneath its branches, his breath misting in the cold.
"Catelyn's agreed to Bran's fostering with the Karstarks," Ned said, his tone measured but laced with a father's ache. Bran's of an age now. He needs to see the North beyond these walls, to learn its ways from Rickard Karstark and his sons." His tone is firm but tinged with a father's concern.
Jory nodded, his mind already on the task. "Rickard Karstark's a hard man, but loyal. His boys'll sharpen Bran, teach him steel and spine."
"Aye," Ned murmured, his gaze on the heart tree. "He'll need it, he dreams too much of southern knights and their tales of valor and shining swords. Those stories fill his head, and I fear he believes them all true.
Not all knights are what the songs make them out to be. Gregor Clegane wore that title, yet he was no hero. He butchered Elia Martell and her children in King's Landing, babes who'd done no wrong. That's the truth Bran needs to see.
Jory, ever practical, nods in agreement. "Aye, my lord. Karhold's a hard place, Rickard's boys know steel's weight, not just its gleam. They'll show and teach Bran what's real as well as the beauty of the north on its own."
I want him safely escorted, Jory. So pick the best men for the escort men you trust."
"Wyl and Alyn," Jory replied without hesitation. "Steady hands, good heads. They'll see him to Karhold and handle anything along the way if something were to happen."
Ned's nod was slight, but his eyes softened a rare glimpse beneath his lord's exterior. "Good. Though I won't be sending him just yet. I'll give him some more time here, and I still need to discuss a bit more on the terms with Karstark. But you should be prepared to go whenever everything is ready. And Jory…" He paused, lowering his voice in a truly unknowing tone. "What do you make of Robb these days?"
Jory shifted, the question catching him like a wolf with a tasty hare. He met Ned's gaze, choosing his words, he knew Ned would want and value truth. "He's stronger, my lord. Faster than he's any right to be lasts longer than the others, too. And the cold… it doesn't seem to touch him as it should."
Ned's jaw tightened, pride warring with unease. "The fall changed him. I see it, the men see it. The Old Gods spared and blessed my son for a reason, I reckon it's for greatness, but the gods dont hand blessings for free. I just hope the boons they might have given him will not be a measure for what my son will face when he is lord."
"Aye," Jory said, though doubt gnawed at him. "The folk say he's blessed. He leads like it, too, in the yard and in the Prayer, he has become more devoted than I remember visiting the godswood many a time; the guards and servants follow him without question."
Ned glanced at the heart tree, its sap like blood against the white bark. "They'll need to. Hard days are coming, Jory. I feel it in my bones."
Jory said nothing, but the weight of Ned's words sank deep. He'd guard Robb, guard all the Starks as his family always did, as he always had, though he wondered what storm could shake a man like Ned.
The North was changing, and the Starks with it. Jory gripped the cold stone, his breath clouding. The Old Gods may watch, he thought, but it's my sword they'll need when the winds turn foul. He'd sworn his life to this house, and he'd keep that oath whatever the gods or the North demanded.