As the day of departure drew closer, the men Robb had promised Jon were finally supposed to come through.
As agreed, Jon went to Robb's study. The two of them were meant to head to the camp together.
But the one Jon found waiting was Maester Luwin.
He stood in the doorway, and when he saw Jon, he gave him an apologetic smile.
"Jon, there's something I need to tell you."
In Jon's memory, this was the first time in all these years he'd ever seen Luwin look this awkward.
The dirty work Jon had done for Robb had finally circled back and hit him in the face.
The deal had been simple: Jon helped Robb tighten his grip on the host, and Robb would give Jon a force of roughly five hundred men to command independently.
A five-hundred-man force should have at least ten to a dozen knights as its backbone—either as squad leaders or officers.
And since Jon's whole job was to keep Roose Bolton in check, he couldn't do it without men he could rely on.
In an army, strength talked.
But Jon's campaign to enforce discipline had cratered his popularity among the knights.
When Robb's messengers went out to gather volunteers, many knights didn't even bother to hide their contempt: they'd rather die than serve under a bastard.
And even Robb—acting lord of Winterfell—couldn't simply order it.
Because this realm ran on the old feudal rule: "my vassal's vassal is not my vassal."
As Luwin explained it, he knew perfectly well that if Jon hadn't spent weeks cracking skulls and humiliating men in public, plenty of knights would've been willing.
Bastard or not, Jon was still Robb's brother.
Normally, a lord's bastard went to a relatively safe post where he could earn glory without too much risk.
Westeros had no shortage of examples of men following their liege lord's bastard into battle.
This refusal wasn't about Jon's birth alone.
It was payback.
Even though out of the four hundred-plus knights in the Northern host, only a few dozen had personally ended up on Jon's bad side, knights had their own little "club."
And inside that club, Jon's name was poison.
So almost no one wanted to ride under his banner.
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Luwin understood what Jon had sacrificed, so he tried to soften the blow.
"With the march so close, and Robb only just bringing the lords to heel… he really can't force the issue," Luwin said carefully. "Jon, you—"
"Maester Luwin," Jon interrupted, calm, "I expected this the moment I made the plan."
"It's just… a bit worse than I hoped. That's all. It's fine. As long as I can ride to war and save my father, that's what matters."
Luwin nodded, relieved—and right then Robb happened to step out.
"Jon," Robb said, "I'll reassign three hundred men directly from Winterfell's own troops. Between that and what we can scrape together elsewhere, you'll still have your five hundred."
Winterfell's men served House Stark directly. They couldn't refuse Robb.
And they were good soldiers—Robb's way of making it up to Jon.
"Robb, don't blame yourself," Jon said. "From the beginning I told you: if I can get to the battlefield and save Father, the rest doesn't matter."
But the more Jon said it, the worse both Robb and Luwin felt.
They quietly decided Jon would get the best gear and the cleanest supply line they could manage.
To lighten the mood, Jon changed the subject.
"By the way—when do we march?"
"Oh." Robb perked up. "That's what I was about to tell you."
He pulled out a letter. "Old Walder wrote back. He agreed to the alliance—and he'll send at least two thousand men!"
The moment troops came up, the Young Wolf's excitement was obvious.
Jon nodded. In the original story, Walder agreed only after Catelyn reached the Twins and negotiated in person.
Convincing him earlier should buy them time.
After a bit more talk, Robb hesitated, then said, "Jon… there are still two knights willing to ride with you."
"Oh?" Jon said. "That's good news. What are they like?"
Robb's face tightened. "They're…"
He looked like he was about to say it might've been better not to mention it at all.
......
"My lord, my house is from the White Knife," said the first—a knight who looked old enough to be Jon's grandfather. "You can call me Yorck."
Ser Yorck hadn't volunteered out of loyalty. His lord had simply found a convenient way to dump him.
Yorck had fallen asleep during the council meeting.
And since he was pushing sixty, his lord decided he'd be a liability anyway—and tossed him out as an offering.
Worse, he arrived alone, with only a dozen plain servants.
Cutting him loose actually improved his lord's overall fighting strength.
Jon knew he wasn't in a position to be picky. He offered a respectful nod.
"It's an honor to fight beside you, ser."
Yorck clearly felt stuck serving a bastard. Even with Jon being polite, the old knight's face stayed flat and sour.
Fine, Jon thought. On the battlefield, you'll still take orders.
If you want to sulk, sulk.
Then Jon went to meet the second knight.
This one looked the part: twenty-five or twenty-six, solid build, proper height, armor polished bright enough to blind you.
He didn't look like the type to fall asleep during a meeting.
Jon waited for the introduction.
Nothing.
The man just stood there.
Jon blinked, then glanced back toward Maester Luwin, suddenly a little awkward.
Luwin leaned in and whispered, "That's Ser Tommen. He… doesn't process things very fast."
Jon nodded, understanding immediately.
So what if you're highborn? Highborn people can still be idiots.
The moment Robb ordered someone to "find Jon knights," Tommen's lord had probably known exactly who to hand over.
So Tommen got shoved forward.
To be fair, Luwin tried to put a good face on it: at least in terms of basic soldiering skills, Ser Tommen was competent.
Jon went quiet.
So this is what I've got—my very first 'trusted officers'… and I somehow hit the full set of debuffs: old, weak, sick, and slow.
Still, it was too late to complain.
Jon turned back to both men and said, "Sers—this is my first time going to war, and we're short-handed. If you have suggestions, you can say them to my face—"
"My lord," the silent knight suddenly began, as if his brain had only just finished loading. "My name is Tommen Lechi, of House Lechi from Long Lake."
"This time I brought thirty-two servants. Two light horsemen, seven foot soldiers, and three archers…"
Jon stared at him, stunned.
That delay is insane. Is this guy really going to function in a fight?
Beside him, old Ser Yorck finally couldn't hold his face together.
His brows knotted. His mouth puckered. His whole wrinkled face twisted up like a pinched dumpling.
He was probably realizing, in real time, that any hope of earning glory—or loot—on this campaign was disappearing fast.