"Galon, you shouldn't have ignored him like that."
As they walked the corridor, Robb spoke with the same tone Ser Rodrik had used earlier — half frustrated elder brother, half mediator.
"Theon is just…"
Robb stopped mid-sentence and turned to face him.
"He's proud. Too proud, maybe. He wants to be seen, to matter. His temper is rough, yes — but if you give him time, you two could be friends."
Galon remained still and shook his head. "Forgive me, Robb — but that is something I cannot do."
Robb frowned, confused and irritated.
"Why not?"
He'd expected tensions, but not this much stubbornness so soon.
"You gave your word to my father. Why can't you let this go and take one small step back?"
His tone wasn't angry, but there was disappointment beneath it. Galon understood — if he answered poorly, a wall would form between them.
So he softened his expression, exhaled, and bowed his head slightly.
"My apologies, Robb."
"I acted too quickly, and I put you in a difficult place. But as for stepping back…"
He paused, letting the moment hold weight.
"Because the North remembers."
Robb's breath hitched.
Galon continued, voice steady. "You are right — I made Ned Stark a promise. I will not provoke Theon."
"But that does not mean I must bow."
"This is about honor — not temper. I am a Glover. Blood-forged deep roots."
"If an Ironborn can insult me openly in Winterfell and I retreat without answer, how could I ever stand before Sansa as her betrothed?"
Robb opened his mouth — then stopped.
Half-forgotten memories surfaced.
He remembered the funeral.
He remembered his father quietly warning him never to mention the Iron Islands near House Glover.
He remembered learning why.
Suddenly, his annoyance slipped away, replaced by realization — and guilt. 'Of course… No wonder Father warned him first. And I didn't even think of it.'
Before he could apologize, Galon spoke again, gentler.
"Do not fret — I will make no trouble during my stay. I will avoid him when I can. You will not need to worry."
Robb sighed, defeated.
"You shouldn't have to avoid him. I'll speak to Theon. But enough of this — come. Sansa's waiting."
He turned to continue walking — but Galon stopped him.
"Robb. One moment."
He waved over a passing servant.
"Find my captain, Roger, in the kitchens. Tell him to bring the gift I prepared for Lady Sansa."
When the servant hurried off, Robb raised an eyebrow.
"You brought her a gift?"
Galon only smiled. "You will see soon enough. It's something you've never seen nor heard of."
Robb's curiosity burned instantly.
Before long, the servant returned — and with him came Galon's captain, carrying a silk-wrapped wooden box.
"Lord Galon — the gift."
Galon accepted it carefully.
"Thank you, Roger. You may return."
Once the captain left, Robb couldn't stop himself from asking,
"It's not jewels, is it?"
Galon simply smiled without answering.
Robb groaned quietly in suspense.
Soon, they reached the embroidery room.bInside, Septa Mordane circled the young ladies like a hawk, correcting posture and comparing stitches.
Soft laughter drifted from the girls seated together.
Galon leaned forward, peeking inside.
Sansa Stark sat by the window — auburn hair flowing softly, eyes distant, expression troubled.
Robb called gently.
"Sansa."
Every head turned.
Arya was the first to react — she leaped up and pointed.
"That's him! Galon Glover!"
Immediately, Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole leaned forward, whispering and giggling behind their hands.
Even Sansa — despite herself — looked.
Galon stepped into the room with confidence, setting the silk-wrapped box against his arm.
He bowed politely.
"My apologies if I startled you, ladies. I hope my appearance is not too disappointing."
The joke landed perfectly — soft laughter filled the room.
Even Sansa's tension eased, her fingers relaxing slightly at her lap.
She studied him quietly.
He was not what Arya described.
His shoulders were broad and strong, yes — but his stance was straight, disciplined, not brutish.
He was tall, with dark brown hair and deep red eyes — uncommon, intense, yet not frightening. His features were rough-hewn, northern, but honest rather than crude.
Not a prince from a song — but something solid, dependable.
Safe.
'Arya exaggerated....He doesn't look like a bear at all.'
She glared at Arya before rising gracefully. "Good day, Lord Galon. Winterfell welcomes you."
Galon stepped closer, voice warm.
"A pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Sansa. I bring a small gift — I hope it pleases you."
She looked at Robb for silent approval.
Robb nodded.
So she accepted it, setting it gently on a nearby table.
"What is it?"
"Open it and see."
She lifted the silk, revealing a wooden box carved in a blue-and-white checkered pattern — smooth, polished, and surprisingly elegant.
Sansa traced the surface with her fingertips.
Then she noticed the lock.
Real gold.
Her curiosity brightened.
Perhaps jewelry? A tiara? A necklace?
But when she opened the box — her smile faltered.
Inside were thirty-two carved wooden figures — half dark, half pale — arranged neatly in rows.
Not gems. Not silver.
Not anything she recognized.
Wooden pieces. Beautifully carved… but still wood.
She blinked, disappointed.
'Mother warned me,' she thought. 'Deepwood Motte really has nothing but trees.'
Galon saw the shift in her eyes.
He smiled — calm, confident.
"Lady Sansa. Allow me to introduce your gift properly."
"This is Westerosi Chess."