Chapter 2: The Pack Assembled
The smell hit first.
Fresh bread. Seared bacon. Something sweet and honey-thick. Winterfell's Great Hall breathed warmth against the morning cold, braziers crackling in their iron brackets. Servants moved through the space with practiced efficiency. Light spilled through high windows, catching dust motes in golden columns.
And there, at the high table, sat the ghosts.
Ned Stark.
Alive.
My father—no, Robb's father, but the distinction felt thinner with each passing moment—sat at the center of the long table. Broad shoulders. Long face. Gray eyes that had seen too much and would see worse. He was cutting meat with careful precision, listening to Maester Luwin murmur something about grain stores.
He'll be dead within the year if I don't act.
Catelyn sat at his right hand, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with softness. Auburn hair caught the light. Her smile seemed easy, directed at little Rickon beside her, but Robb's memories told me the truth: she was already preparing. The royal visit meant politics, and politics meant danger.
The children sprawled across the table's remaining length. Sansa, eleven and perfect, ate with delicate bites while sneaking glances at the servants—probably imagining which ones would attend her in King's Landing. Arya, nine and furious about something, stabbed at her porridge like it had personally offended her. Bran, seven and vibrant, chattered about climbing to see the royal procession. Rickon, three, flung food at whoever came within range.
And Jon.
Jon Snow sat at the far end, separated by empty seats and old prejudice. His dark head was bowed over his plate. He ate mechanically, not tasting anything. Ghost wasn't here—still too young to be allowed in the Great Hall—but Jon's shoulders carried the weight of the direwolf's absence anyway.
Half-brother, Catelyn's voice whispered through Robb's memories. Bastard born of dishonor.
My jaw tightened.
Grey Wind pressed against my leg. Through the bond, I sent him a wordless command: Stay close.
I walked.
The hall noticed. Servants glanced up. Theon Greyjoy—lanky and smirking at a side table—raised an eyebrow. Ned's gaze tracked my approach with quiet interest.
I walked past my usual seat.
Past Sansa's confused frown.
Past Arya's sudden attention.
Straight to the end of the table.
"Jon."
He looked up. Gray eyes—Stark eyes, whatever anyone said—met mine with guarded surprise. "Robb?"
I sat down. "Brother."
Silence crashed through the hall like a wave.
Jon blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "You... shouldn't sit here."
"Why not?"
"I'm—" He stopped. The word bastard hung in the air, unspoken.
"You're my brother." I reached for a piece of bread, tore it in half, offered him the larger piece. "Pass the bacon?"
Jon passed the bacon. His hand trembled slightly.
At the high table, Catelyn's spoon had stopped halfway to her mouth. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Ned watched without expression, but something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, maybe, or the first stirrings of concern.
Theon's jest shattered the tension. "The young lord's feeling charitable this morning! Perhaps he'll invite the stable boys next."
Nobody laughed.
My head turned. Theon's smirk faltered under the weight of my stare. Through Robb's memories, I could see him clearly: the hostage playing at friendship, desperate for approval, drowning in resentment. A boy who would become a traitor. A boy who could become something better.
Later.
"Eat your breakfast, Greyjoy." I turned back to Jon. "So. The royal visit. Excited?"
Jon's confusion hadn't faded, but something else was creeping in—a fragile, bewildered hope. "I suppose. The king's hunting party might provide good sport."
"You should spar with me after breakfast. Before the chaos starts."
"I—" He glanced toward Catelyn. Toward Ned. "Are you sure?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
He had no answer. We ate in silence for a while, but it was a different silence than before. Warmer.
Arya appeared at my elbow like a small wolf materializing from shadow. "Why are you being weird?"
"I'm not being weird."
"You're sitting with Jon."
"Jon's my brother."
She processed this with the brutal efficiency of a nine-year-old. "Good. Mother's wrong about him." She vanished back toward her porridge before Catelyn could hear.
Ned's voice cut across the hall. "Robb. A word before training?"
"After, Father. Jon and I need to spar."
The great Eddard Stark looked at his eldest son for a long moment. Whatever he saw made his brow furrow slightly. But he nodded.
The training yard smelled of sweat and leather and old wood.
Practice swords hung from racks along the walls. Targets stuffed with straw lined the archery range. The ground was hard-packed earth, scarred by a thousand boots.
Jon selected a blade and tested its weight. "You're acting strange."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep being that."
My hands found a practice sword without looking. The grip settled into my palm like it had always belonged there. "Maybe I'm just tired of wasting time. The king arrives today. War is coming, Jon. Real war. Not bandits and wildlings—armies, politics, people who want us dead. I need to know who I can count on."
Jon's jaw tightened. "And you can count on me?"
"Can I?"
We circled each other. Grey Wind watched from the yard's edge, tongue lolling. Ghost had appeared from somewhere, smaller and silent, flanking his brother.
Jon struck first.
Fast. Clean. A diagonal slash aimed at my shoulder.
My body moved before thought could catch up. The parry came perfect, angles aligning with mechanical precision. Counter-thrust. Jon barely blocked it, stumbling back.
There.
Something shifted behind my eyes. Not vision—knowledge. The certainty that Jon would feint left. The awareness that his weight favored his right foot. The prediction that his next attack would target my ribs.
He feinted left. His weight shifted right. His blade cut toward my ribs.
I was already moving.
Parry. Redirect. My pommel tapped his sternum before he could recover.
Jon staggered. His eyes went wide. "How—"
"Again."
We traded blows for twenty minutes. Each exchange, the precognition grew sharper. Not thought—instinct. My body knew where his blade would be before his muscles committed to the swing.
Battle Precognition: 4/10. Room to grow.
Jon's attacks grew more creative. More desperate. He threw combinations I'd never seen, pulled from years of training with Winterfell's master-at-arms.
I countered them all.
The final exchange ended with Jon on his back, my practice blade an inch from his throat.
He stared up at me, chest heaving. "You've improved overnight."
"Maybe I just stopped holding back."
I offered my hand. He took it, rising with a wince. A bruise was already forming on his forearm.
"Robb." His voice dropped. "What's happening to you?"
I died. I was reborn. I know everything that's coming, and I will not let this family fall.
"I'll tell you someday. When I understand it myself."
He searched my face for lies. Found none. His shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"Whatever it is," he said quietly, "I'm with you."
"I know."
Grey Wind and Ghost touched noses. Something unspoken passed between them—wolves sharing secrets humans couldn't hear.
Horns shattered the moment.
Three long blasts, echoing from Winterfell's walls. The outriders' signal.
Jon's head snapped toward the sound. "The royal column."
My hand found his shoulder. "Walk with me to greet them. You're my brother. Act like it."
Confusion. Hope. Wariness. Jon's face cycled through them all before settling on something cautious but real.
He nodded.
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