The Starks

The training yard.

Jon Snow patiently showed Bran how to draw his bow.

Young Rickon Stark giggled as he sat on a saddle resting on a wooden rack, swinging his wooden sword and lost in a fantasy of playing at being a knight.

The three direwolves crouched quietly beneath the rack, their ears twitching as their eyes followed their respective owners.

Passing servants and attendants sometimes slowed down to watch for a moment.

Whenever Bran's arrows strayed from the target, they let out a few good-natured chuckles.

Against the wall on the other side, Theon Greyjoy leaned back, looking bored as he watched.

"Whoosh!"

At Jon's encouragement, Bran drew his bow and shot another arrow.

As expected, it once again missed the target and struck a wooden barrel beside it.

Bran stamped his foot in frustration.

Watching this, Galon smiled and turned to Robb. "I assume that's Bran?"

"Yes," Robb replied with a nod. Then he called across the yard, "Bran!"

Bran turned at the sound of his name.

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

"Robb?"

Bran didn't recognize Galon and watched the two of them approach with some confusion.

"Big brother Robb!"

Rickon's eyes lit up. He waved his arms excitedly from atop the saddle, as though welcoming home a knight returning in glory.

Worried that Rickon might fall, Jon quickly lifted him down from the wooden rack.

The moment he landed, Rickon ran straight toward Robb.

The direwolf crouching beneath the rack followed close behind.

In just a few breaths, Rickon had wrapped his arms around Robb's leg. Robb lowered his head and affectionately ruffled his hair.

Galon stood smiling beside them, watching the brothers interact.

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

"Rickon, this is Galon. He's Sansa's betrothed."

"Come on, say hello to Galon."

Rickon was still too young to understand what a betrothed was.

He raised his wooden sword and called out cheerfully, "Hello, I'm Rickon!"

Then he tilted his head as he thought for a moment, before pointing at the direwolf by his feet. "And this is my Shaggy Dog!"

Rickon's direwolf let out a bark.

Looking at the five-year-old Rickon, Galon smiled warmly. "Hello, Rickon. My name is Galon."

"Galon Glover!"

Rickon blinked. It was hard to tell whether he understood that Galon belonged to House Glover.

Jon, on the other hand, seemed to realize something. He glanced discreetly at Theon, who was still watching the proceedings.

Robb gently patted Rickon's head, motioning for him to let go, then introduced Bran and Jon to Galon in turn.

"You already know Bran."

"This is Jon, my brother too."

"And this is Galon. As you just heard, Father has agreed to his marriage to Sansa."

Robb's last remark was directed at Jon.

Hearing Robb introduce him as his brother, Jon felt warmth spread through his heart. Still, he bowed to Galon.

"Lord Galon, I'm Jon Snow."

"Welcome to Winterfell!"

A flicker of surprise crossed Galon's eyes. "I know your name, Jon."

Jon was taken aback, and his expression immediately turned cold.

He had always been sensitive about being a bastard. Hearing Galon say that, he thought the man was mocking him for it.

But Galon's next words left him feeling as if he were drinking sweet wine beneath the blazing sun.

"Half a year ago, when I first met Robb, he mentioned you."

"He said you were a fine swordsman and a skilled archer and horseman, with the Blood of the Direwolf flowing through your veins."

"I thought Robb was simply boasting about his brother."

"But now that I've met you, I know he was telling the truth."

Galon looked sincere, and his praise instantly won Jon over.

When Jon heard him say that he had the Blood of the Direwolf, his face flushed redder still.

Since the time of the First Men, Blood of the Direwolf had been used only to describe the most direct line of the Starks.

By saying this, Galon had recognized Jon as every bit as noble as the Starks.

Jon's lips moved. He was just about to speak when Robb gave an approving laugh.

"Of course. I'm no match for Jon with a sword."

"You two should spar sometime."

Robb looked eagerly at Galon and Jon. "To be honest, I've always wondered which of you is the better swordsman!"

He and Jon were as close as true brothers, so he naturally didn't take offense at Galon's words.

Galon smiled. "The three of us should spar together sometime."

"I'd like to see whether your swordsmanship has improved over the past six months, Robb."

Robb shook his head with a wry smile. Since returning from Galbart's funeral at Deepwood Motte, he had been busy learning the duties of a lord and had neglected his sword practice.

"I'm no match for you. You should spar with Jon instead."

Bran, standing nearby, couldn't help feeling surprised.

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

"He's even bigger than Robb. Maybe he's just stronger."

"But Sansa definitely won't like him. She likes the graceful princes in stories."

"He's so huge. Standing next to Sansa, he'd look like a bear."

"Glover?"

"I thought he was a Mormont..."

As Bran's imagination ran wild, Galon's gaze quietly settled on him.

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

The king would arrive at Winterfell in just three days.

Bran would soon catch Jaime and his sister together, and Jaime would push him from a tower, breaking both his legs.

That would set off a chain of conflicts between the lion and the wolf.

Still, pity aside, Galon didn't intend to interfere and change Bran's fate.

On the one hand, Galon needed events to unfold as they were supposed to, buying him time to build up his power.

On the other, he hoped to see Bran become the Three-Eyed Crow.

"A crow with broken legs will be easier to control than one with both legs intact!"

"I hope he can help me learn what R'hllor and the Great Other really are."

Westeros was a magical world where gods existed.

Galon didn't dare risk drawing the attention of some mysterious being by interfering too much.

Rather than that, it was better to alter events only as much as necessary and seize the benefits.

"Besides, all I want is the Iron Throne!"

"As for gods, I don't have any cheat powers. Better to play it safe."

Galon collected his thoughts and smiled at Bran. "Bran, do you know why you missed just now?"

His voice interrupted Bran's daydreaming. Bran shook his head blankly.

Galon pointed at the bow and explained, "Don't let your eyes deceive you. Rely on your instincts instead."

"Come on, try again."

Bran looked a little confused, but obediently lifted his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and set it against the string.

"Relax your arm, and raise the bow a little higher..."

Galon adjusted Bran's stance, helping him find the most comfortable way to shoot.

Once Galon stepped back, Bran focused, then released his fingers.

With a whoosh, the arrow struck the target.

Bran stared at the arrow lodged in it, unable to believe that he had actually hit it.

A moment later, he jumped up excitedly and shouted to the others.

"I hit it!"

"Haha, I finally hit it!"

Robb praised him. "We taught Bran for ages, and he never managed to hit it."

"But the moment you taught him, he got it. You really live up to being the Wolfswood Glover."

Galon smiled modestly, while the others watching called out congratulations to Bran.

Only Theon, leaning against the wall, seemed bored. He pursed his lips and thought scornfully,

"So what if he hit one arrow? What's there to be happy about?"

"A Glover who flatters a bastard by saying he has the Blood of the Direwolf. Ridiculous."

"How could Lord Ned agree to let him marry Sansa?"

Theon considered himself the heir to the Iron Islands, and he was hardly unfamiliar with House Glover.

He gave a scornful laugh, convinced that a mere Glover had no right to marry Sansa.

Theon stood up, shot Galon a haughty glance, then walked over to Robb.

"Robb!"

When he was nearly there, he called out softly, announcing his arrival to everyone.

Robb thought nothing of it. He glanced at Theon, then introduced him to Galon. "Galon, this is Theon. He's my father's ward."

Galon gave a perfunctory nod. He didn't even bother looking at Theon, turning instead to talk with Bran about archery.

"Bran, remember how that felt."

"Once you've made that feeling part of your muscle memory, you'll be able to hit the target every time..."

Jon had a bad feeling.

He had lived with Theon for years and knew how proud he was. Theon couldn't stand being ignored.

Sure enough, Theon's expression darkened.

Jon wanted to speak up and smooth things over for Galon, but then remembered that he and Theon didn't get along either. If he intervened, it would only make matters worse.

So Jon looked to Robb and gave him a meaningful glance, asking him to defuse the situation.

But before Robb could say anything, Theon's mocking voice rang out.

"Can Glovers even teach archery?"

"I thought Glovers were all lumberjacks living in outhouses in the mountains, staring at logs all day."

"Haha..."

After speaking, Theon made sure to laugh mockingly.

No one in the training yard joined in. All eyes turned to Galon.

Even Arya, who had sneaked out to watch the fun, was among them.

She opened her eyes wide, feeling both excited and nervous. "Theon's mouth is filthy. How could he call Deepwood Motte an outhouse?"

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

"But Galon's so imposing. Theon wouldn't stand a chance against him, would he?"

But Arya was a little disappointed when Galon didn't draw his sword in anger.

He simply looked at Robb and said pointedly,

"Robb, show me around somewhere else."

"Somewhere without outsiders, preferably!"

He placed particular emphasis on the word "outsiders." Anyone could tell he was saying that Theon wasn't one of Winterfell's people.

Theon, who had always longed for the Starks' acceptance, immediately burned with rage.

His gaze turned sharp as a hook, fixing on Galon.

His right hand clenched around the hilt at his waist, as if he were about to draw his blade at any moment.

The air suddenly grew tense.