Jon Snow of the Moral Lowlands

In Winterfell's great hall, Robb sat high in the lord's seat, listening to the baron's grievances.

But he seemed somewhat lost in thought.

Just half a year ago, the banners of House Baratheon, the royal house, had still hung on the walls.

Hundreds of candles had illuminated the hall, while the musicians' harps had played without end.

Hundreds of people had dined together at several long tables.

Robert had walked at the front, arm in arm with his mother, Catelyn.

Eddard had followed close behind with Cersei on his arm.

Everything felt as though it had happened only yesterday.

Gradually, he came back to himself, and the voice recounting its grievances grew clearer in his ears.

"Lord... Lord Robb, your brother struck far too heavily. He nearly broke my son's bones. My son merely forgot to pay. He did not deserve such punishment.

"My lord, please, give me justice."

Robb looked down at Baron Shuta.

He looked to be a little over forty, yet he carried himself with a shrewd air.

He wore a red velvet waistcoat that did not look cheap.

"It matches Mother's hair quite well. I wonder where she is now."

The thought suddenly flashed through Robb's mind before he looked toward Jon.

"Jon, what happened at the time?"

The moment Robb spoke, the baron turned and glared furiously at Jon as well.

He knew perfectly well what his son was like.

There would surely be plenty of arguing to come.

But what happened next took him by surprise. Jon did not argue over what had really happened.

Nor did he debate whether the soldier who had led the group had truly forgotten to pay.

Instead, Jon said:

"Perhaps he did. But a group of them blocked the shopkeeper and his daughter, and they intended violence. Perhaps I did strike too hard. Please punish me."

"You're talking nonsense... Hm?"

Baron Shuta seemed to choke on his own words. He had not expected Jon to admit fault so readily.

Before he could react, Robb spoke.

"Very well. Since you admit your mistake and acknowledge that you exceeded your authority in enforcing the law, I should sentence you to twenty strokes of the military rod. But Ser Shuta, the army will soon march. Jon and I both bear the responsibility of rescuing Father and our family. I have decided to postpone his punishment until after the war."

"But... my lord..."

"What? Do you believe there is something inappropriate about my ruling?"

Baron Shuta suddenly seemed to think of something.

"I... My son is a noble. He! He is merely a bastard. He should not use weapons against a noble!"

Baron Shuta shouted at Jon as though he had seized upon a fatal flaw.

Yet Jon did not care in the slightest.

"But I used a wooden stick."

"You still attacked my son! That is a crime!"

"When the war ends, I'll return to the Wall."

"You..."

Watching the two argue, Theon grinned from the side.

He realized that Jon had become, in a sense, an "invincible man."

It was practically the same as having already sentenced himself to life imprisonment. Even adding another hundred years to it would mean nothing.

"Enough!" Robb said with some displeasure.

He thought that if it had been his father, the man would have quieted down the moment he mentioned fifty strokes.

"If you believe there is anything improper about this, Baron, then summon that father and daughter here to confront us."

Only then did Baron Shuta remember that there was still that matter to deal with.

After a round of stammering, he could only sincerely praise Robb's wisdom and fairness, declaring himself fully convinced.

His only option was to go back and restrain his men, making sure they behaved themselves and stopped causing trouble.

Realizing that he had so easily cowed a lord, even if only a baron, Robb felt invigorated.

When dealing with those old foxes before, he had sent them away, but he had still been somewhat on the losing end.

Robb looked gratefully at the expressionless Jon. He truly did not know what kind of chaos might have broken out here without him.

And seeing the baron's deflated expression, Theon could not help wanting to laugh from his corner.

He had not expected the matter to be resolved so simply.

Everything had unfolded exactly as Jon had predicted.

After the baron left, the three discussed what had happened that day. Theon took it upon himself to tell the story, and he did so with great flourish.

But when Robb heard that Jon had knocked down more than ten men by himself in the blink of an eye, he still found it hard to believe.

He knew Jon was more skilled than he was, but no matter what, he could not possibly be that skilled.

His competitive spirit stirred, and with Winterfell's atmosphere having been so oppressive lately, Robb actually proposed a spar with Jon.

Though they were nominally half-brothers by the same father, Jon knew that Robb was now the "leader."

Whether he won or lost, it would be inappropriate.

So he said:

"Robb, the whole North rests on your shoulders now. There is no need to spar. I need your trust, and we will soon tame those arrogant soldiers outside!"

"All right, Jon. I truly don't know how I would control those men outside without you." Seeing Jon put it that way, Robb did not insist.

Jon merely smiled and said nothing.

The Young Wolf was still too young and somewhat too self-deprecating.

His political skill might have been lacking, but his extraordinary military talent made up for it.

Military victories bestowed enormous prestige upon a ruler.

Otherwise, after the Battle of the Whispering Wood, those Northern lords who had originally refused to submit to him would not have clamored to make a boy not yet sixteen their King in the North.

Soon, over the following days, Jon continued taking a group of men out for their usual "Gwangju play."

The soldiers following him grew more and more proficient with their sticks.

Meanwhile, Jon's accumulated number of post-operation punishments had already exceeded what could be counted on two hands.

And the number of men he had turned into casualties ahead of schedule was rapidly approaching three digits.

They cautiously guarded against Jon and his men, but those men always appeared in the most unexpected places.

In alleyways, behind walls, even on rooftops.

The security around Winter Town was transformed overnight.

Within the Northern army, Jon earned the first nickname of his life—Brutal Flower Staff.

The minor lords had already begun consciously restraining their soldiers, no longer daring to provoke him.

But these small fry could no longer satisfy Jon's appetite.

He hoped a big fish would come along and let him prove his strength.

And Jon's actions had already caught someone's attention.

"Our little duke is establishing his authority."

Lord Leech, Roose Bolton, was the first to see this clearly.

In a brightly lit room, Roose Bolton gave a soft laugh upon hearing of the matter, dismissing it without concern.

His goal remained unchanged: to command the entire Northern army.

He hoped to gain sufficiently high prestige and status in this war.

He had not originally planned to pledge himself to Tywin.

After all, the current situation was that Eddard had exposed the fact that the ones sitting on the Iron Throne were Cersei and Jaime the Kingslayer's bastards.

That was an enormous disgrace to all of Westeros.

In many people's eyes, the Lannisters were about to face the siege of all Westeros.

And fighting one against six did not look like something they could possibly win.

This was no longer merely an advantageous situation. This was fucking victory in the bag.

The shrewd Earl of the Dreadfort would never let such an opportunity slip away.

"What should we do, then? Teach that bastard a lesson?" The speaker was named Mechi Seven. Though already over fifty, he wanted to marry his thirty-year-old fat daughter to Robb.

Roose Bolton shook his head. As an earl, personally stepping in would be far too unbecoming.

Since Jon was acting under the banner of law enforcement, they had to drag him down from the "moral high ground."

"Ramsay, you are a Snow as well. Are you interested in competing with that Snow?"

Bastard against bastard. It was just right.

"Father?" Ramsay was somewhat surprised, but he soon licked his lips excitedly.

He had a powerful desire to prove himself.

To prove that he was fully qualified to inherit the Dreadfort.

"Yes, Father! I am!"