Galon's lips curved with the faintest trace of amusement as he watched Theon glare at him with rising fury.
From the beginning, this had been his goal.
'If I strike first, I break my word to Ned.'
'If Ned sees me as the aggressor, the betrothal becomes fragile. But if Theon draws first and I defend myself, that changes everything.'
'And if it sows distrust between Robb and Theon, even better.'
Theon Greyjoy — ward, hostage, and childhood companion to the Stark heir — held influence over Robb Stark that Galon could not allow to continue.
Power was position. And he would not tolerate an enemy standing at Robb's right hand.
'I need him away from Robb before the War of the Five Kings begins.'
'Only when Robb realizes that an Ironborn remains an Ironborn — even if his name is Theon — will he trust me to remain behind and guard the North.'
In Galon's mind, Theon had only one true purpose: to return to the Iron Islands and provoke Balon Greyjoy into raiding the North.
That would give Galon the perfect stage to intervene — to crush the Ironborn, save the lands they threatened, and prove himself indispensable to Northern lords.
One victory. One rescue.
And Deepwood Motte and its future would be secured.
But Theon was hesitating — hand on his sword, yet unwilling to draw.
Galon's gaze lowered to Theon's fingers tightening around the hilt.
'Still cautious. Still thinking.
'Do I push him further?'
He prepared another insult — sharpened and ready — when a commanding voice boomed across the yard.
"What's all this? Why are you all standing still?"
Galon turned and saw an older knight approaching — thick-bodied, white-haired, and walking with the confidence of one who had spent a lifetime drilling discipline into soldiers.
Ser Rodrik Cassel — Winterfell's master-at-arms.
He marched forward as if unaware of the tension thick enough to cut.
"The king will be here soon! Winterfell is a storm of preparations! And yet you stand around doing nothing?"
"Move! All of you!"
Those who had lingered scattered immediately.
Even Arya — who had been secretly watching — disappeared at once, hurrying off to share the drama with someone who would definitely react.
In moments, only Galon, Robb, Jon, Bran, Rickon, and Theon remained — along with Ser Rodrik, who now fixed his gaze on Theon.
"You as well, Theon."
"Lady Catelyn needs extra hands in the keep. Go."
Relief washed across Theon's face, though he tried to hide it behind a forced scowl.
As angry as he was, the size and presence of Galon were impossible to ignore — and if he lost a duel here, his pride would never recover.
He shot Galon a venomous glare — a silent promise — then stalked away.
Robb noticed. A small seed of unease took root in his expression.
But he quickly masked it and turned to Galon with a lighter tone. "Galon, this is Ser Rodrik Cassel — master-at-arms of Winterfell and the one who trained Jon and me."
Galon spared only a brief look in the direction Theon left before responding politely.
"Well met, Ser Rodrik."
Ser Rodrik bowed his head slightly, "And well met to you, Lord Glover."
Then, with a sigh, he added quietly,
"Please pay no mind to what just happened. Theon's temper runs ahead of his judgment. He meant no great offense."
Galon shook his head.
"Perhaps so. But I doubt he and I will ever get along."
There was nothing hostile in his tone — merely certainty.
Ser Rodrik studied him for a moment. He knew enough of Northern history to understand that there was blood and bitterness between the Ironborn and House Glover.
Trying to force friendship between them would be like asking wolves and krakens to share a den.
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, then addressed Robb.
"See to our guest."
"And for the sake of the gods — no more trouble today. Winterfell has enough chaos already."
Robb nodded with a resigned sigh.
Ser Rodrik then motioned for Jon to join him, and the two departed.
Once they left, Robb straightened and spoke with renewed energy. "Come, Galon. I'll take you to meet Sansa and Arya."
"Bran — watch Rickon."
Bran nodded dutifully and took his younger brother's hand.
Robb gave Rickon one final pat on the head, then led Galon toward the inner corridors of Winterfell.
....
Elsewhere in the castle…
Arya burst through the door of the sewing room, peeking first to ensure Septa Mordane was nowhere in sight.
The coast was clear.
She sprinted inside.
"Sansa! Sansa!"
Sansa didn't look up.
Seated by the window with perfect posture, she continued stitching delicate thread through soft fabric, calm and graceful.
Arya stomped closer.
Still nothing.
So Arya turned — spotting Beth Cassel nearby. "Beth! Guess what I just saw?"
Beth raised an eyebrow.
"You shot arrows again and made Bran angry?"
Jenny Poole giggled softly behind her hand.
Arya scoffed dramatically and puffed her chest. "No! I saw Galon. Galon Glover!"
"Sansa's betrothed!"
"And he was just about to fight Theon!"
Needle paused.
Sansa's fingers froze.
A heartbeat later, she pricked her own hand — and barely noticed the sting. Her head lifted slowly, eyes wide.
"He… he arrived?"