The Starks

On the training grounds.

Jon Snow patiently instructed Bran on how to draw the bowstring with force.

Young Rickon Stark giggled, sitting on the saddle of a wooden horse nearby, brandishing a wooden sword and lost in fantasies of knightly games.

The direwolves of the three squatted quietly beneath the wooden frame, their ears twitching slightly, their eyes following their respective masters.

Passing squires and servants occasionally slowed their steps, pausing to watch for a moment.

When they saw Bran's arrow miss the target, they let out a burst of good-natured laughter.

Against the wall on the other side, Theon Greyjoy leaned back, watching with a bored expression.

"Whoosh!"

Encouraged by Jon, Bran drew his bow and shot again.

As expected, he once again shot the arrow into a wooden barrel next to the target.

Bran stomped his foot in annoyance.

Witnessing this, Garon smiled and looked at Robb, saying, "He must be Bran, right?"

"Mm, yes," Robb nodded and called out towards the training grounds, "Bran!"

Bran followed the sound, turning his head to look back.

He saw Robb waving at him, with a tall and imposing man standing beside him.

"Robb?"

Bran didn't recognize Garon and looked at the two approaching with some confusion.

"Brother Robb!"

It was Rickon whose eyes lit up. He danced excitedly on the saddle, as if welcoming a triumphant knight.

Jon, afraid he would fall from the saddle, quickly lifted him down from the wooden frame.

As soon as Rickon landed, he rushed towards Robb.

The direwolf squatting under the wooden frame also ran after its master.

In just a few breaths, Rickon hugged Robb's thigh, causing Robb to lower his head and affectionately stroke his hair.

Garon stood by with a smile, watching the interaction between the brothers.

A moment later, Robb looked up and introduced Garon to him, "This is Rickon, my youngest brother."

"Rickon, this is Garon, Sansa's fiancé."

"Come, say hello to Garon."

Rickon was still young and didn't understand what a fiancé was.

He raised his wooden sword and shouted happily, "Hello, I'm Rickon."

Then he tilted his head, thought for a moment, and pointed to the direwolf at his feet, introducing, "This is my Shaggydog!"

Rickon's direwolf let out a bark.

Garon looked at the five-year-old Rickon and said warmly, "Hello Rickon, my name is Garon."

"Garon Glover!"

Rickon blinked his eyes, unsure if he understood that Garon was from the Glover family.

Jon, standing nearby, seemed to realize something and glanced subtly at Theon, who was still watching the spectacle.

Robb gently patted Rickon's head, signaling him to let go, and then introduced Bran and Jon to Garon one by one.

"Bran, you already know him."

"This is Jon, also my brother."

"This is Garon, and as you just heard, Father has already agreed to his marriage with Sansa."

Robb's last sentence was directed at Jon.

Hearing Robb refer to him as his brother externally warmed Jon's heart, but he still bowed to Garon.

"Lord Garon, I am Jon Snow."

"Welcome to Winterfell as a guest!"

A flicker of surprise flashed in Garon's eyes, and he said with a hint of depth, "I know your name, Jon!"

Jon froze, and his expression immediately turned cold.

He had always been sensitive about his status as a bastard, and hearing Garon say that, he thought he was being mocked for being illegitimate.

But Garon's next words made him as joyful as drinking honeyed wine under the scorching sun.

"Half a year ago, when I met Robb, he mentioned your name."

"He said your swordsmanship was superb, your archery and horsemanship were skilled, and that the Stark's direwolf blood flowed within you."

"I originally thought Robb was just boasting about his brother."

"I never expected that seeing you today would prove his words to be true."

Garon's expression was sincere, and his words of praise instantly filled Jon with a sense of goodwill toward him.

Especially when Jon heard him mention that he possessed the blood of the First Men, his face flushed with excitement.

Since the time of the First Men, the blood of the wolf had always been used to describe only the most direct descendants of the Stark line.

For Garon to say this was tantamount to acknowledging that Jon's status was just as noble as that of the Starks.

Jon's lips moved, and just as he was about to speak, he heard Robb laugh in affirmation.

"Of course, even I am no match for Jon when it comes to swordsmanship."

"When you have time, the two of you should spar and test your skills."

Robb looked at the two of them with a hint of anticipation and said excitedly, "To be honest, I've always been curious about which of you is the better swordsman!"

He and Jon were as close as biological brothers, so he naturally didn't mind Garon's words.

Garon laughed, "Then let the three of us spar together another day."

"I also want to see if your swordsmanship has improved over the past half year, Robb."

Robb shook his head with a bitter smile; ever since he returned from Deepwood Motte after attending the funeral of Galbart, he had been busy receiving training as a lord, and his practice of swordsmanship had long since slackened.

"I am no match for you; you should just test your skills against Jon."

Hearing this, Bran, who was standing to the side, couldn't help but feel surprised.

He hadn't expected Robb to actually admit that his swordsmanship was inferior to Garon's.

He is even taller and bigger than Robb; he must be stronger in terms of raw power.

But Sansa definitely wouldn't like him; she prefers the elegant princes from the stories.

He is too bulky; standing next to Sansa, he would look just like a bear.

Glover?

I thought he was a Mormont...

Just as Bran's thoughts were wandering, Garon's gaze quietly shifted toward him.

His eyes lingered on Bran's legs for a moment, and a trace of pity surfaced in his heart.

There were only three days left until the king arrived at Winterfell.

Soon, Bran would be pushed from a high tower by Jaime after catching the siblings in the act, resulting in his legs being broken.

This would trigger a series of conflicts between the lions and the wolves.

But pity was just pity; Garon had no intention of intervening to change his fate.

On one hand, Garon needed the plot to develop normally to buy time to build up his own power.

On the other hand, he also looked forward to seeing Bran become the Three-Eyed Crow.

A crow with broken legs is always easier to control than one with sound limbs!

I hope that through him, I can understand what R'hllor and the Great Other truly are.

Westeros was a magical world with gods.

Garon didn't dare to gamble on whether interfering too much would attract the attention of certain mysterious entities.

Rather than that, it was better to change the plot in limited ways to reap the benefits.

In any case, all I want is the Iron Throne!

As for the gods or whatever, since I don't have any cheats, I'd better play it safe.

Garon collected his thoughts and smiled at Bran, "Bran, do you know why you couldn't hit the target just now?"

The voice interrupted Bran's wandering thoughts, and he shook his head blankly.

Garon pointed to his bow and arrow and explained, "Don't be deceived by your eyes; you must rely on your intuition."

"Come, shoot again."

Bran was a little confused, but he still obediently raised his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it onto the string.

"Keep your arms relaxed, and raise the bow a little higher..."

Garon helped correct Bran's archery posture, guiding him to release the arrow in the most comfortable position.

Once Garon stepped back, Bran focused slightly and released his fingers.

With a whoosh, the arrow struck the target in an instant.

Bran stared at the arrow on the target, unable to believe for a moment that he had actually hit it.

A moment later, he jumped up in excitement and cheered loudly to the others.

"I hit it!"

"Haha, I finally hit it!"

Seeing this, Robb praised, "We've been teaching Bran for so long, and he could never hit it."

"I didn't expect him to learn it the moment you taught him, Garon. You truly live up to the name of Wolfswood Glover."

Garon smiled modestly, and the others watching nearby offered their congratulations to Bran.

Only Theon, leaning against the wall, looked bored; he curled his lip, thinking with disdain.

It's just one arrow, what is there to be so happy about?

A Glover who fawns over a bastard with the blood of the First Men—it's simply laughable.

How could Lord Ned agree to let him marry Sansa?

Theon, who considered himself the heir to the Iron Islands, was naturally no stranger to House Glover.

He scoffed, not believing for a second that a mere Glover had any right to marry Sansa.

Theon stood up, cast a haughty glance at Garon, and then walked toward Robb.

"Robb!"

As he drew near, Theon called out softly, announcing his arrival to everyone.

Robb didn't think much of it; he glanced at Theon and introduced him to Garon: "Garon, this is Theon, my father's ward."

Garon nodded perfunctorily, not even bothering to look at Theon, and turned back to discuss archery with Bran.

"Bran, remember that feeling."

"Once you integrate that sensation into your muscle memory, you'll be able to hit your mark every single time..."

Jon felt a sense of unease.

He had lived with Theon for years and knew well that Theon was arrogant and could not stand being ignored.

Sure enough, Theon's expression darkened.

Jon wanted to speak up to smooth things over for Garon, but he remembered that his own relationship with Theon was equally strained, and speaking up rashly would only make matters worse.

Thus, Jon looked at Robb and gave him a wink, signaling for him to intervene.

But before Robb could speak, Theon's mockery reached their ears.

"A Glover knows how to teach archery?"

"I thought Glovers were just a bunch of lumberjacks living on wooden chamber pots in the wild mountains, only good for staring blankly at trees."

"Haha..."

After saying this, Theon didn't forget to let out a mocking laugh.

No one in the training yard followed suit; everyone's gaze involuntarily shifted to Garon.

This included Arya, who had snuck out to the training yard to watch the excitement.

Her eyes widened, feeling both excited and nervous: Theon's mouth is so foul. How could he call Deepwood Motte a wooden chamber pot?

If it were me, I'd definitely fight him!

But Garon is so burly, Theon probably isn't his match.

However, to Arya's disappointment, Garon did not get angry or draw his sword.

He simply looked at Robb calmly and said pointedly:

"Robb, take me somewhere else to look around."

"Preferably a place without outsiders!"

He emphasized the word "outsiders," and anyone could tell he was implying that Theon was not truly a part of Winterfell.

Theon, who had always craved recognition from the Stark family, was instantly consumed by rage.

His gaze was like a hook, pinning itself firmly onto Garon.

His right hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, as if he were about to draw his blade at any moment.

The air suddenly grew tense.