Theon I
295 - AC
Snow fell in lazy spirals, soft and silent, as Robb Stark's sword came down in a clean, merciless arc.
The blade bit through the neck of the kneeling man with a muted crack. The bandit's head rolled into the frost, steam rising faintly from the wound as his lifeless body sagged forward.
The Winter Sons stood in a half-circle around their young lord—men and boys alike, faces pale beneath the gray light of the North. Robb's breath misted as he wiped the sword clean against the dead man's cloak.
"The crimes are read," Robb said, voice steady. "Raiding smallfolk near Last Hearth. Stealing from the holdfasts of his liege lord. Slaughtering a woman who would not give up her food. For these, I pass sentence."
He looked every bit the heir of Winterfell then—only twelve and already with the voice and bearing of a man twice his age.
Theon had seen grown men falter at executions, but not Robb. The boy who used to laugh loudest in the training yard now spoke like his father—measured, cold, just.
Theon shifted on his horse, his bow resting across his saddle.
The rest of the Winter Sons watched in silence. Robett Glover's mouth was a hard line. Domeric Bolton's eyes, calm and calculating. And Ramsay Snow—bastard of the Dreadfort—grinned faintly from behind the curtain of his hood, pale lips twitching in amusement.
Theon caught it and looked away. There was something about that smile that chilled him deeper than the wind.
They had been doing this for nearly a year now. Riding across the North, answering the banners of small lords who had lost sheep, daughters, or silver to bandits. What had started as a boy's venture—one Robb had begged his father for—had turned into something real. The Winter Sons were no longer just noble sons learning command. They were hunters.
And Robb… he was no longer just a boy.
Theon remembered when Lady Catelyn had stood on the steps of Winterfell, pale with anger, as her husband told her their son would ride out.
"Winter turns boys to men sooner than we wish," Lord Stark had said. Theon hadn't understood it then. Now he did.
Robb rode ahead of them through the snow, Jory Cassel at his side, the old soldier's beard white with frost. Theon followed with Jon Snow and the others—Theon Karstark, tall and grim, the two Boltons not far behind.
"Another day, another bastard outlaw," Theon muttered to Jon, earning only a faint smirk in reply.
But Jon was different now too. He had changed since the day Robb fell ill in Winterfell. He rode close to his brother, always watching, always quiet. There was a look in his eyes Theon couldn't name—something between protectiveness and unease.
By midday, they had taken a handful of bandits alive from the last raid—dirty, wild-eyed men, half-starved from living in the woods. They were tied up near the camp, guarded by Ramsay Snow.
Theon caught sight of Robb leaning close to the Bastard of Bolton, whispering something low and sharp. Ramsay's grin stretched wider, and he nodded eagerly before disappearing into the shadows of the pine trees, dragging two of the captives with him.
Theon frowned. "You see that?" he muttered to Robett.
"Aye," Robett said quietly. "Best not ask."
When Ramsay returned later, his gloves were off, and there were dark stains on his sleeves. He hummed a tune as he passed the fire, smiling like a man pleased with himself. The bandits left behind looked hollow-eyed, and none dared speak again.
That night, Theon sat near the fire with Jon, stringing his bow and listening to the sound of steel being sharpened. Robb sat apart, a parchment on his knee, writing by firelight. He had sent ravens to Karhold, White Harbor, even Bear Island—rallying the old loyalties of the North.
"To remind them Winterfell still remembers, we still care," he had said.
Theon had laughed at first, calling it "a child's council." But now, seeing the men they'd brought to heel, the supplies filling their wagons, the northern banners returning to the wolf's call—he wasn't so sure.
Theon looked over at Robb, the flicker of the firelight dancing across the boy's face. There was pride there, yes—but also something else. Something colder.
Robb glanced up, meeting his eyes across the flames. For a moment, Theon thought he saw something shift—like the faintest glint of red behind the gray of Robb's eyes. But it was gone as quick as the snowflake melting on his glove.
Robb smiled faintly, as if nothing had happened, and turned back to his parchment.
"Tomorrow," he said, voice calm and even, "we ride for the Wolfswood. There's word of another camp."
Theon swallowed the unease building in his throat.
Another day, another outlaw.
Another lesson in what it meant to be a Stark of Winterfell.
—
Jon III
295 - AC
Snow clung to Jon's lashes, melting against the heat of his skin as he swung his sword again and again. The world had narrowed to breath, blood, and the hiss of steel. The air stank of iron and pine sap. Around him, men screamed—the harsh, cracking cries of those dying in the cold.
The ambush had come swift and brutal.
One moment, the Winter Sons were marching through the narrow pass, snow crunching underfoot, the next the trees themselves seemed to come alive—bandits surging from behind drifts and rocks, blades glinting in the pale sun.
"Shields!" Jory Cassel bellowed, but too late.
Theon Karstark's horse went down with a shriek, an arrow buried in its flank. Robett Glover's shield caught an axe-blow that split the wood to the rim. Ramsay laughed like a madman, cutting down a man and kicking him into the snow.
Jon parried a strike, feeling the jolt rattle through his arm. His breath steamed in quick bursts as he fought beside Robb, the two of them back to back in the storm of blades. He could taste the salt of blood on his lips, hear Theon shouting something from behind the trees, hear the clash of steel echo like thunder.
The world blurred into movement—men shouting, steel flashing, horses screaming.
And through it all, Robb's voice cut steady, calm, sure. "Hold the line! With me!"
He moved like his father then—methodical, cold. Each strike counted, each motion measured. The Winter Sons rallied around him, forming a rough circle in the snow.
For a time, they held.
But then the red-bearded man who led the bandits turned his horse and vanished into the deeper woods, a wolf pelt draped across his shoulders.
"Robb!" Jory shouted. "Let him go! It's a trap!"
But Robb was already moving, cloak flaring behind him like a shadow of flame. Jon didn't think. He only followed.
Branches whipped his face as he spurred his horse through the narrow paths, the snow growing thicker, heavier. He could hear Robb ahead, the rhythm of his mount cutting through the storm, until even that faded into silence.
"Robb?" Jon called, slowing. The woods swallowed his voice whole.
Then—movement.
The bandit leader sat astride his horse among the trees, a cruel grin splitting his scarred face. Behind him, shapes emerged from the mists—men in rough furs and bone charms, faces painted in ash and soot. The mountain clans.
There were dozens of them.
"Well, look at the wolf pup," the man called, voice rough and full of malice. "Come all this way for glory? Thought you'd find it in the woods?"
Robb's horse stood perfectly still. He did not speak. His eyes were fixed on the man before him, unreadable.
Jon drew his sword and moved beside him, every sense alive with dread. The cold seemed to deepen. The silence pressed on his ears.
"Robb," Jon hissed, "ride. Go. I'll hold them—go!"
Robb did not move.
He only turned slightly, and Jon caught his eyes—calm, cold, ancient somehow, as if the boy he'd grown up with had vanished into the storm.
"Jon…" Robb said quietly, "promise me you won't speak of what you're about to see."
Jon blinked. "What are you—"
"Promise me," Robb said again, voice like the low rumble of distant thunder.
Jon's mouth went dry. "…I promise."
Robb nodded once. Slowly, he drew his sword.
At first, Jon thought it was a trick of the light. But then the blade began to shimmer—dark, unnatural. A flame licked along the steel, not red or gold, but black, deeper than shadow. The snow hissed where it touched.
The bandit leader barked a laugh. "Tricks, is it? The boy's gone mad."
Robb began to whisper.
The words were not of the North, nor the Old Tongue, nor anything Jon had ever heard. They were guttural, cracking, like the sound of ice splitting on a frozen lake. The ground seemed to pulse beneath them.
The snow stirred.
It began as a shiver in the air, a breath, then a wind. The mist thickened, curling around them in slow, deliberate motions. Shapes flickered in the white—shadows without source.
Jon turned, searching. "Robb!" he shouted, but his voice was swallowed.
Then came the first scream.
A bandit staggered back from the mist, clutching at his throat, eyes wide with terror before something unseen dragged him down. Another turned to flee, but a blur passed through him, leaving him in pieces in the snow.
The mist boiled. Figures moved within—tall, lean, with glowing gray eyes that pulsed like dying embers. They darted through the fog, silent as ghosts, their movements too quick to follow.
The air filled with the sound of steel meeting flesh, bones cracking, and something else—something wrong, like whispers at the edge of hearing. Jon's stomach turned as he saw one of the creatures pass through a man like smoke, leaving his body crumpled and blackened, as though the life had been burned out of him.
The bandit leader screamed orders, his voice cracking. His men swung wildly, their blades cutting only air. The mist seemed alive, responding to Robb's low, steady chanting.
Jon stumbled back, his breath ragged, sword slipping in his grip. The cold was unbearable now, sinking into his bones. He thought he saw faces in the fog—men he knew, dead long ago. Grey eyes, pale skin, whispering words he could not understand.
The world became a nightmare of sound and motion. He could no longer tell where Robb stood. The shadows seemed to coil and uncoil with every beat of his heart.
Then—silence.
The mist began to thin. Slowly, painfully, the white retreated.
Bodies lay all around—bandits, mountain men—torn apart, scattered like broken dolls. The snow beneath them was black with blood.
Jon stood shaking, sword heavy in his hand. His breath came in short gasps. Every sound—the creak of a branch, the sigh of wind—felt too loud, too real.
Then, through the thinning mist, Robb appeared.
He walked slowly, his sword dragging a thin trail in the snow. The black flame had died, leaving the steel dark and dull. His cloak hung heavy with blood. His hair clung to his brow.
His eyes… they were pools of black ink, dripping down his face like the red on the weirwoods in the dim light.
Jon couldn't speak.
Robb stopped before him, the mist curling at his feet. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sheathed his sword with slow, deliberate care.
"Robb…" Jon whispered, voice shaking. "What—what was that?"
Robb only looked at him. The faint gray light faded from his eyes, leaving behind the stillness of deep water. His face was calm again—eerily calm, as if the storm had passed through him and left only silence in its wake.
"Take me home," he said softly.
Then his eyes rolled back, and Robb Stark collapsed into the snow. The black sword slipped from his hand, the steel sinking halfway into the frost with a dull thud.
"Robb!" Jon's voice tore through the quiet. He stumbled forward, boots crunching over the frozen ground, dropping to his knees beside his brother. For a moment, panic flared hot in his chest, the same terror that had gripped him once before—back in the Wolfswood, when he'd found Robb pale and still beneath the trees.
But this time, Robb's chest rose and fell. His breath came slow and steady, soft mist curling from his lips. He wasn't fallen. Only sleeping.
Jon let out a shaking breath, relief and confusion mingling like frost and flame. The air still reeked of iron and ash, and the snow around them was dark with blood. He glanced around once more—the forest was silent now, the mist gone, the bodies still.
With careful hands, Jon lifted Robb by his cloak and dragged him to his horse. The boy was heavier than he remembered, limp with exhaustion. He pulled him into the saddle, steadying him with one arm before climbing up behind.
They rode through the dead woods in silence, the snow whispering under hooves. Every tree seemed to lean closer, watching. The air hung thick with something unseen, something that hummed low in the bones.
Jon's eyes flicked toward Robb again and again as they rode—the faint color returning to his cheeks, his hair darkened with blood and melting snow. He looked peaceful now. Too peaceful.
Jon gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles white against the leather. His breath came out as a trembling mist.
"What have you become, brother?" he whispered to the cold.
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