"Jon won! Jon won! Yes—!"
Greatjon Umber shouted the result before anyone else could, and Bran practically lit up like he was about to float off Hodor's shoulders.
It was the happiest he'd been since he'd broken his legs.
After Jon choked the armored swordsman unconscious, he walked straight toward Ramsay.
Roose Bolton finally couldn't keep his composure.
He was already in his forties. It was hard to say whether he'd ever sire another son. Ramsay was his only heir—maybe the only person he could even call family.
Only now did Bolton understand what he'd done wrong.
He'd set a bear trap… and what showed up wasn't a Stark direwolf.
It was a Targaryen dragon.
The trap hadn't hurt it. It had only angered it.
"My lo—"
Bolton started to speak, but Robb stood up first and barked, "Jon, stop!"
At the order, guards surged forward and blocked Jon off.
"Jon!" Robb snapped. "You said you came back to save Father—this is how you save him?"
Then Robb turned and roared at the crowd. "You are my father's bannermen. I called you here to do your duty."
"Not to buy me with gifts, and not to spend every day scheming about which of you gets to marry a daughter into my house!"
Robb didn't name names, but the lords who recognized themselves in his words flushed with shame.
This was exactly what Jon had planned for.
"My father was framed by a false king and a pack of liars," Robb continued. "And now I—Robb Stark—your liege lord's son and heir—stand here."
"You interfere with your liege lord's decisions. You try to meddle in your liege lord's marriage."
"Tell me—what crime is that?!"
As Robb shouted, Grey Wind leapt forward, eyes a bright, predatory green, fixing on each face in turn.
Almost nobody there had ever seen a wolf that big.
It could bite an adult's throat without even lifting its head.
Then Robb's gaze snapped back to Jon and Ramsay.
Under Jon's stare alone, Ramsay could barely stand. If the men behind him weren't holding him up, he might've sat down in the dirt.
"Ramsay," Robb said, voice hard, "you know Jon is my brother. Even if he's my father's bastard, he is still my family."
"You insult your liege lord's family—what crime is that? Hm? Answer me!"
Watching Robb finally find his voice, Greatjon looked almost starry-eyed.
He muttered, "Old gods and new… that's Ned's blood right there."
"Ramsay Snow. Jon Snow," Robb said. "I sentence you each to one hundred lashes."
"But the host marches soon, so the punishment will be recorded and carried out after the war."
"Does anyone object?"
Robb scanned the faces around him.
The lords and lesser nobles of the North fell silent.
Only then did Robb finally feel, for the first time, like the true lord of Winterfell.
When no one dared speak, Robb turned his attention to Roose Bolton.
"Lord Bolton."
"My… Lord Robb."
"You want command of the entire Northern host." Robb's voice stayed even. "That won't happen."
Bolton nodded. After all, he was the one who'd pushed his son forward. In a sense, Robb had just saved Ramsay's life.
"But," Robb continued, "I understand your intent. You want to serve me well, and win this war."
"So I will give you a force of your own to lead."
Bolton stared, stunned—then immediately understood the hook.
Robb went on. "And I'll assign Jon as your deputy."
"You'll handle field command. He'll handle logistics and intelligence to support you."
"You're both working to save my father. I expect you to mend this rift and work together on the battlefield."
Robb said "work together," but everyone in that circle understood the truth.
Logistics was an army's lifeline—and its leash.
"Thank you, my lord," Bolton said slowly, his voice carrying a bitter edge.
With Jon attached to him, winning meant his glory might be shared.
Losing meant the blame would stick to him like tar.
Robb nodded, satisfied, then added, "And I see you've brought Ramsay with you."
"You intend to name him your heir, don't you?"
Bolton didn't know how to answer.
He only had one son. With Robb asking in front of everyone, he couldn't deny it even if he wanted to.
"Then we'll do this," Robb said. "Ramsay joins my personal guard and rides to war with me."
"Yes, my lord," Bolton said.
With that double lock in place, the Lord of the Dreadfort had no choice but to behave.
......
Later, in Robb's study, Robb and Jon sat together with Theon, Bran, Maester Luwin, and the rest.
The mood was light—almost giddy.
Everything had unfolded exactly as Jon planned, and it had landed as cleanly as anyone could've hoped.
"First you conquer the weak," Luwin said, curious, "then you conquer the strong. And the ones in between fall into place. Jon—where did you learn to talk like that?"
Jon, of course, didn't tell the truth.
"Maester," he said, "I heard it at the Wall. There was a man there who trained monkeys for performances."
"He said if you're training a whole troop, you start by killing a chicken in front of them. Most of the monkeys fall in line after that."
"A few still act up—so you focus on taming the meanest one. Once you've broken the worst of them, the rest behave."
"Oh," Luwin said, smiling, thoughtful. "That's… an interesting method."
Theon snorted. "So you're saying the lords are monkeys?"
"More or less," Jon said. "A lot of the time, people aren't much different."
Then Jon looked at Robb. "Now that the host is assembled, we should march as soon as possible."
"Have you decided how you're going to get old Walder Frey to open the crossing for us?"
Robb stared into his cup.
"I've decided," he said quietly. "After we win the war, I'll marry one of House Frey's daughters."
"In exchange, the Freys join our cause and grant us passage."
Jon studied him. Robb didn't look happy about it.
For one thing, the Frey girls weren't known for their looks—and Robb, unfortunately, cared about that.
For another, House Frey was only six hundred years old. House Stark was eight thousand. The match felt like an old dynasty humoring a rich upstart.
But Robb understood speed mattered. Waiting too long would throw away the advantage.
Jon also knew that as Robb kept winning, he'd start to feel invincible.
At sixteen, leading armies, winning battles, becoming King in the North—anyone would get carried away.
Jon might have too, in his place.
"Walder Frey's greedy," Jon said. "Add Arya or Rickon. Two marriage ties should be enough to make the old man bite."
Robb blinked. "What?"
He hadn't expected that his younger siblings might have to be "spent" for House Stark like that.
As the older brother, he felt it as a failure.
Jon shrugged. "What—do you want me to do it? I don't mind. As long as the Freys greeting us at the Twins aren't greeting us with arrows and falling logs."
That got a laugh—brief, but real.
Then it faded.
They all understood Jon had already paid a price for Robb's authority.
Robb had already asked Luwin to arrange an independent unit for Jon—somewhere between \(300\) and \(500\) men.
You couldn't keep Bolton in check with words alone.
After that, Jon offered more advice.
For example: make sure Walder Frey understood that striking into the Westerlands was a golden opportunity.
Sell him a vision. Make him believe he wouldn't be fighting for Robb—he'd be fighting for himself.
Then Robb spoke again, suddenly quiet.
"Jon… when the war is over, don't go back to the Wall."
"Stay with me. I need you."