The Conflict

A hint of amusement tugged at Garon's lips as he watched the furious Theon.

From the very beginning, his goal had been to provoke Theon.

"I promised Ned, so I can't be the one to start trouble."

"Otherwise, if Ned found out, he'd be displeased, and the betrothal would be in jeopardy again."

"If Theon makes the first move, though, and I'm forced to fight back, that's another matter."

"I might even be able to drive a wedge between Robb and Theon."

As Ned's ward and Robb's close friend since childhood, Theon had considerable influence over him.

And Garon couldn't stand that influence.

Power was like real estate: location was everything.

Having someone destined to become an enemy standing at Robb's side would bring Garon endless trouble.

"Before the War of the Five Kings begins, I need to force Theon away from Robb."

"Only when Robb realizes that the Ironborn are still Ironborn, and that Theon is no exception..."

"Will I be able to convince him to let me stay behind to defend against the Iron Islands during the War of the Five Kings."

In Garon's view, Theon's only purpose was to return to the Iron Islands and lure Balon into raiding the North, just as he had in the story.

Then Garon could seize the right moment to turn the tide and lead an army to crush the Ironborn raiders.

That way, Garon could not only protect Deepwood Motte, but also win the support of the other houses in the North.

It would be a win-win.

"Still, it looks like Theon doesn't plan to make a move."

Garon's gaze was deep as he watched Theon's right hand clamped around his sword hilt. When Theon still didn't draw, Garon knew that anger hadn't completely clouded his judgment.

"Should I provoke him a little more?"

He was turning the idea over in his mind and had just started to speak when a voice boomed behind him, deep and aged as a bell.

"What are you all doing gathered here?"

Garon turned toward the voice. An elderly, short, stout knight with white hair strode toward them, chest held high.

It was none other than Winterfell's master-at-arms—

Ser Rodrik Cassel!

As if he hadn't noticed the tense atmosphere, he sternly scolded the crowd.

"The king is about to arrive at Winterfell, and everyone is swamped."

"And you have time to stand around doing nothing?"

"Get moving!"

The onlookers scattered at once, and Arya slipped away with them.

She needed to hurry back and tell Sansa what had happened between Garon and Theon.

In an instant, only Garon, the Stark brothers, Ser Rodrik, and Theon, caught between staying and leaving, remained in the yard.

After dispersing the others, Ser Rodrik turned to Theon and gave him a way out.

"Theon, don't stand around here either."

"Lady Catelyn needs more hands. Hurry to the main keep and help out."

Theon, who had been frozen in place, let out a quiet breath of relief.

Though he looked furious in the face of the towering Garon, he felt immense pressure inside.

If he drew his sword and fought, winning would be fine—but if he lost, he would be humiliated.

Grateful for the opening Ser Rodrik had given him, Theon nodded and quickly headed toward the main keep.

But as he left, still resentful, he shot Garon a hateful glare.

Robb saw it, and a trace of unease stirred in him.

But he quickly composed himself and smiled as he introduced Ser Rodrik to Garon.

"Garon, this is Ser Rodrik, Winterfell's master-at-arms."

"He taught Jon and me how to use a sword."

Garon glanced at Theon as he left, regretting that he hadn't managed to provoke him.

There's always another chance...

Then Garon turned to Ser Rodrik and bowed slightly in greeting. "Good day, Ser Rodrik."

Ser Rodrik's expression was solemn as he politely returned the greeting. "Good day, Lord Garon!"

Only after Theon had gone some distance did he offer an apologetic explanation. "Lord Garon, please don't take what just happened to heart."

"Theon can be difficult to get along with, but he didn't mean to provoke you."

As Theon's swordsmanship instructor, Ser Rodrik had known him for many years. He knew that aside from his foul temper, Theon had no serious flaws.

Deep down, he was still a good person.

That was why Ser Rodrik had spoken up to explain things on Theon's behalf.

Garon shook his head. "Perhaps. But I doubt he and I will ever get along."

He knew far more about Theon's character than Ser Rodrik did.

After his father Balon's failed rebellion, Theon had been sent to Winterfell at the age of ten as its price.

Officially, he was Ned Stark's ward. In truth, he was a hostage.

But Theon had been fortunate.

His foster father, Ned, was a lord who upheld honor and justice. He never treated Theon with prejudice because of who he was.

Instead, he raised him with care and even made his own children Theon's brothers and sisters.

And because of that,

Theon, who often called himself heir to the Iron Islands, had always yearned for the Starks' recognition and acceptance.

But things never went his way.

During the War of the Five Kings, he had originally meant to return to the Iron Islands and bring back reinforcements for Robb. But a few words from Balon had easily changed his allegiance.

He gave up when he shouldn't have, then seized Winterfell when he shouldn't have returned.

As a result, he was captured by Ramsay Snow and subjected to inhuman torture.

One wrong turn led to another.

In the end, even when Theon, now known as "Reek," wanted to turn back, he no longer had the chance.

Of course, Ser Rodrik couldn't possibly know any of this.

But he had lived in Winterfell for years and knew of the feud between the Glovers and the Iron Islands.

So when Garon spoke that way, Ser Rodrik realized he wouldn't be able to reconcile the two.

He stroked his beard, sighed inwardly, then turned to Robb with a reminder.

"Lord Robb, please look after our guest."

"Winterfell is busy enough already. Don't let anything else happen."

Robb nodded glumly. Everything had happened so quickly that he hadn't had time to react before the two were at daggers drawn.

If Ser Rodrik hadn't shown up in time, with his relationship to both of them, Robb truly wouldn't have known what to do.

Seeing that, Ser Rodrik decided not to say anything more.

He clapped Robb on the shoulder, then led Jon away from the yard, saying he would go help out.

Once they were gone, Robb forced himself to perk up. "Garon, I'll take you to meet Sansa and Arya."

"Bran, stay here and look after Rickon."

Bran held Rickon's hand and obediently nodded.

Robb ruffled Rickon's hair and told him not to wander off, then led Garon through the yard.

Meanwhile,

Arya slipped back to the sewing room and peeked through the doorway. Seeing that Septa Mordane wasn't there, she let out a sigh of relief.

"Sansa, Sansa!"

She burst excitedly into the room, hopping all the way over to Sansa.

Sansa ignored Arya.

She sat quietly, continuing her needlework with a fine needle without even looking up.

When Sansa didn't respond, Arya's eyes darted around. She turned to Beth Cassel beside them and smiled. "Beth, guess what I just saw?"

Beth blinked. "Did you steal Bran's thunder with your archery again?"

At that, Jeyne Poole, sitting to Beth's right, covered her mouth and giggled.

"Of course not! I saw Garon—Garon Glover!"

"Sansa's betrothed!"

"He was just having a confrontation with Theon!"

Sansa had been calm until she heard Garon's name. Then her heart suddenly fluttered.

Her deft needle slipped in her momentary distraction and pricked her finger.

But she paid no attention to the wound. Staring blankly up at Arya, she looked flustered.

"H-he's here?"