"Good day, Lord Ned."
Galon stepped forward and bowed respectfully.
Ned rose from his seat and walked down from the dais, lifting Galon back to his feet.
"You've grown stronger," Ned said, patting his shoulder with approval. "It seems you've worked hard these past months."
"To guard Deepwood Motte for my lord, I must have the strength to do it," Galon replied with a faint smile.
"And before my father passed, his final words warned me never to bring shame to our house. I dare not slack."
A flicker of admiration passed through Ned's eyes as he nodded.
"Good lad. If Sansa is to be yours, I have no worries."
Galon had expected this outcome — Ned Stark was a man of honor — yet hearing it aloud still sent a rush of excitement through his chest.
Still, he asked again, just to be sure.
"Lord Ned… you mean…?"
Robb laughed beside them.
"What else could he mean? Galon, we'll be family."
Ned nodded in agreement.
Joy surged through Galon. He bent again in gratitude, but Ned stopped him.
"But Sansa is still young," Ned added. "The marriage will wait two more years. You have no objection?"
Galon shook his head quickly. He only needed the legitimacy of the agreement — the date was irrelevant.
Ned continued. "You must have seen it already — Winterfell prepares for the king's arrival."
He paused before adding, "I intend for the king and the Old Gods together to witness the betrothal."
"Stay in Winterfell for a few days. Once it is done, you may return to Deepwood Motte."
Galon immediately nodded.
"As you command, my lord."
He paused, then asked with feigned curiosity, "My lord… why is His Grace suddenly traveling North?"
Ned fell silent for a breath — grief flickering in his eyes. Jon Arryn's death weighed heavily on him.
But instead of answering, Ned shifted the topic.
"Robb," he said, "show Galon the castle and introduce him to your brothers and sisters."
Robb nodded, ready to lead Galon away, but Ned suddenly spoke again.
"Galon… one more thing."
Ned's voice grew serious.
"I have a ward, Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon. With the king arriving soon, I expect no trouble between the two of you."
Robb blinked in confusion, not understanding the tension.
Galon, however, understood perfectly.
Ned wasn't asking — he was warning him not to start a fight.
Galon held Ned's gaze and answered firmly. "The North remembers. Forgive me, but I cannot show courtesy to an Ironborn."
Ned exhaled in frustration.
Of course — Deepwood Motte and the Iron Islands had blood between them, not mere rivalry.
Ironborn had raided the North for generations, and House Glover had always been the first to repel them.
Their house words — Blood-Forged Deep Roots — were not poetic exaggeration, but history.
And nine years ago, during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, Galon's father had led Deepwood men into battle.
On the assault at Pyke, he had been struck by a cold arrow loosed by Theon's brother, Maron Greyjoy.
The wound never healed.
It eventually killed him.
There was no path where Galon and the Ironborn ever stood on the same side.
One would fall — or the other would.
But Ned's voice hardened. "This is not a request. It is an order. The North cannot lose honor before the king."
Galon understood the meaning beneath the command.
Do nothing dishonorable, and Ned would not interfere.
He bowed his head.
"Yes, Lord Ned."
Only then did Ned breathe out, relieved.
He signaled to Robb.
Still oblivious to the tension, Robb grinned and grabbed Galon by the arm. "Come, Galon. Winterfell won't explore itself."
Galon nodded to Ned once more before being led out.
Ned watched them go with a troubled sigh.
"Winter is coming," he murmured.
Catelyn entered just in time to hear it.
"Ned?" she asked softly, stepping closer. "What troubles you now?"
Ned shook his head. "Nothing. I was only thinking of the feud between House Glover and House Greyjoy."
Understanding lit behind her eyes — followed by dissatisfaction.
"You should not have agreed to the marriage," she whispered urgently. "The king will be here in three days. With your history, he will surely propose a royal match."
"Sansa could become queen."
The moment she spoke, Ned's expression hardened. They had argued this too many times already.
"Catelyn," he said, cutting her off, "we have spoken about this."
"My bannerman fought for me. He bled for me. He died because he answered my call. His last request was for this marriage."
"Would you have me spit on honor and forget loyalty?"
Catelyn fell silent — because she knew nothing mattered more to him than honor.
But silence did not equal surrender.
She simply lowered her eyes, hiding the resentment twisting beneath.
'Let Robert speak to him,' she thought.
'If anyone can change his mind, it is the king. No matter what he says — I refuse to let Sansa marry into that house.'
Meanwhile, Galon walked alongside Robb, unaware of the silent battle already forming against his future.
And even if he knew — he wouldn't care.
With Ned's word given, the betrothal was iron.
Catelyn's complaints meant nothing. Soon, they reached the training yard — just in time to see young Bran practicing archery.
Galon paused, watching the boy draw back the bowstring with determined effort.
Winterfell — and his future — were finally within reach.