"You're saying my sister is asking me to go to King's Landing—to swear fealty to the king who imprisoned our father?"
In the council chamber of Winterfell, Robb Stark looked incredulously at Maester Luwin after hearing the news of his father's capture.
"Lord Robb," Luwin said, "the handwriting is indeed your sister's—but the tone of the letter sounds far more like the queen's."
"Fine then!" Robb slammed his hand on the table. "If that's what Sansa wants, I'll go south to King's Landing. But this time—I'm taking my father's bannermen with me!"
At Robb's command, all the ravens in Winterfell were released, each carrying word to summon his father's vassals. Caught off guard by the sudden turn of events, Robb felt a surge of panic and helplessness—but under the guidance of Theon Greyjoy and Maester Luwin, he quickly regained his composure.
Then Theon suddenly asked, "Robb, should we send word to the cannibals on Skagos Island? I've heard they've got giant's blood, just like the Umbers—brave, fierce, fearless in battle. With their help, we could send those southern bastards running for their lives! And I heard Jon's got five hundred men under him already. If we tell him to raise another five hundred, that'd be a huge boost to our campaign."
Robb thought for a moment, then turned to Luwin. "All right. Maester Luwin, send a raven to Eastwatch—tell them to notify Jon."
—
Two months later, as Winterfell came into view in the distance, Jon Snow felt a strange mixture of emotions. The sight stirred a swirl of memories—of what had happened before he set out.
That day, when the raven from Eastwatch arrived, Jon had been furious. His first instinct had been to ride alone to Winterfell's aid. He knew what Marco was planning, but he didn't want to trouble his lord with his family's affairs.
Yet, persuaded by his men, Jon sailed to Griffin's Roost. Though he felt his request might be too much, he still hoped Marco would help.
In Jon's eyes, Marco was a just and merciful lord—one who would conquer the North openly and honorably if he ever sought it.
This time, Jon wanted to borrow troops to aid Robb's march south. Nervous but resolute, he laid out his plea.
"Jon Targaryen," Marco said, his voice echoing beneath the cry of a small crystal dragon. "I can grant your request—but have you truly thought this through? You know I'm preparing to resurrect the dragons. Your ice dragon. Don't you want to see it take flight?"
Marco's words struck like a blade through Jon's heart. Ever since learning of his heritage, he had dreamed of soaring through the skies on dragonback.
He finally understood why, as a child, he'd dreamt of being a "little dragonlord." And with the discovery of the ice dragon egg, that dream had felt tantalizingly close. But now—
Jon bowed his head in silence, then lifted it again, his eyes firm.
"My lord," he said, enunciating every word, "I still wish to help my family. They mean more to me than any dragon. My uncle bore the weight of his honor so that I could live. I owe him that much."
"Hahaha… well said!" Marco laughed heartily. "Truly worthy of the dragonrider I chose. You haven't disappointed me. I'll grant you one thousand foot soldiers and five hundred cavalry. Ser Mashendan Magnar will serve as your lieutenant and follow your orders. Make good use of this chance to hone your command. As for intelligence—see your uncle, Brynden Rivers."
Marco smiled with satisfaction. This one truly bore the mark of a protagonist—noble, steadfast, uncorrupted. Even the lure of dragons couldn't sway him. That was the kind of dragonrider Marco wanted.
"My lord! I can't thank you enough," Jon said, his face alight with emotion. "You are a true knight—thank you for your mercy and aid."
"Don't thank me yet," Marco replied with a grin. "I have another task for you—your trial. I want you to bring me the heads of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. They murdered your half-siblings.
"And that dog Clegane—he also butchered your father's first wife. I may not understand your father's motives, but this is your duty to bear. As I hear, they're still rampaging through the Riverlands. Their crimes warrant death a hundred times over.
"Oh—and Anna!" he called out. "You're not to help him. Just make sure he doesn't die. If he can't handle those two himself, he's not fit to lead my army."
Marco's words echoed in Jon's mind, leaving him uncertain how to even begin his hunt.
Then—
"Ha! Look who it is! Jon Snow! Didn't expect you'd bring such a force with you. My big nephew's not with you? And who's that beast beside you—looks stronger than me!"
The booming voice of Greatjon Umber pulled Jon from his thoughts.
Looking up, Jon saw the roaring giant banner of House Umber, and atop his horse, Greatjon himself, with his son Smalljon at his side.
Jon quickly saluted. "Lord Umber! What brings you here?"
"My men saw the driftwood banner," Greatjon said with a hearty laugh, his thick bear-fur cloak swaying with his booming mirth. "I thought my nephew had arrived—turns out it's you, lad!"
The warriors around him chuckled as well, their faces flushed with drink and cheer.
Since Marco's conquest, trade and contact between the Skagosi and the Umbers had flourished. Both peoples shared a love for drink and brawling, and over time, that had forged an unlikely friendship—one born, mostly, of Marco's lucrative trade in wine.
Jon introduced Mashendan to the Umbers. The man, fed and trained well under Marco's rule, was built like a beast of legend—thick with muscle and radiating raw power.
About half an hour later, the northern lords gathered in Winterfell's great hall. They shouted, laughed, cursed—each one fierce and unrestrained.
Jon sat beside Bran, checking on his recovery. The boy was elated to see him again, bounding with energy to show off how well he'd healed. Jon couldn't help but smile.
"I said it before!" Greatjon suddenly roared, slamming his hand on the table. "If I'm not leading the vanguard, I'm leaving! The men of House Umber always lead the charge!"
"You can take your men and go," Robb said sharply, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "But I'll march with the rest to rescue my father. When I return, I'll take your head myself—for breaking your oath."
"Bang!"
"So you've got a death wish then!"
Greatjon's fury filled the hall as he rose, his men following suit. He clenched his massive fists, looking ready to crush Robb's skull.
Robb's legs trembled involuntarily. Around them, the other lords stood, shocked by the insult. Theon nearly drew his axe, but Jon kicked him under the table, stopping him just in time.
Theon glared at Greatjon, teeth bared in silent rage, but said nothing.
Then, a low growl pierced the tension. From behind Robb, a gray shadow leapt forward—his direwolf, Grey Wind.
In an instant, White Ghost and Summer joined him. The three wolves tackled Greatjon to the floor, Grey Wind's jaws hovering inches from his throat, awaiting a command.
Robb froze—but relief soon replaced his fear. He believed his wolf was protecting him out of loyalty. He didn't notice the fleeting white glow in Jon's eyes across the table.
Since joining Marco, the wargs had been training under the guidance of the Three-Eyed Raven. Their abilities had evolved—from total control, to conscious communication, to subtle influence. Jon's link allowed him to suggest rather than command, minimizing the risk of accidents.
Now, he merely nudged Grey Wind's anger, guiding it—ordering the wolf to pin Greatjon down but await instruction. The same suggestion reached Ghost and Summer.
"You've heard what happens to assassins," Robb said coldly. "Three men tried to kill my brother—two died by Theon's hand, the third had his throat torn out by our wolves.
"Would you like to try your luck, Lord Umber? Or shall we say you're just… playing with our pets? Grey Wind!"
The icy venom in his tone sent a chill through every man in the room.
At last, Grey Wind retreated, followed by Ghost and Summer, each returning to their masters.
"Hahahaha! Well done! Only Starks can command direwolves so!" Greatjon laughed heartily, climbing to his feet. "House Umber accepts the Young Wolf's command! Hahaha!"
The laughter spread across the hall, and those who'd doubted Robb now bowed their heads in respect.
But in a dark corner, Domeric Bolton watched Jon with quiet suspicion, sensing something… unnatural about him.
Beside him, Ramsay Snow muttered, "Hey, brother, what're you staring at? That Jon fellow weirds you out? I heard he brought fifteen hundred men. Damn—if it weren't for—"
"Shut up," Roose Bolton hissed, cutting him off. "Have you forgotten what happened last time? Don't provoke them."
He turned—feeling a gaze upon him. Across the hall, Mashendan Magnar was watching him, smiling coldly as he raised his cup in silent mockery.
Roose returned the gesture, his face blank—but those who knew him recognized the sign of his anger. He hid his emotions well, a master of patience and calculation. And now, he was sure: Marco's power was the very "source of chaos" the courtesan of Braavos had spoken of.
Roose couldn't challenge Marco directly—but he knew the strength of Braavos. The offer had already been made, and he saw no reason to refuse. After all, revenge and profit were always a pleasant combination.
The feast carried on late into the night. When the last of the lords departed, Robb summoned Jon and Theon to the council chamber. On the table before them lay a rough map of the Seven Kingdoms.
Prepared by Maester Luwin, it was marked with carved tokens for each house.
Rubbing his temples, Robb said, "These lords—most fought beside Father in the Rebellion—but none have ever commanded such large forces. Roose Bolton can't be fully trusted. Before we march, I want your counsel. Our enemy is Tywin Lannister, and I don't plan to hear his minstrels singing 'The Rains of Castamere' over my grave. Theon, you first."
Theon placed a carved wolf token on Harrenhal. "If we want to rescue Lord Eddard, our first target should be Harrenhal. It's the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. From there, we can strike at King's Landing, or retreat north along the Kingsroad if needed. It's close enough to both the Riverlands and the Vale to gain their support.
"I say we send word to your uncle—have him rally his banners and hold off the Lannister host, to buy us time to take Harrenhal."
"It won't be that simple…" Jon said quietly.
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