Using All Your Money

The Northern army gathered around Winterfell was like dark clouds gradually dispersing.

A thin layer of snow still covered the ground, and the marching troops left a long black trail behind them.

After Bolton bowed his head, no one dared to act up in front of Robb anymore.

The marching arrangements proceeded in an orderly fashion.

Greatjon had not lost two fingers for threatening Robb and saying he would leave the army.

Instead, he kept going over to Jon, hoping to pry out where he had learned his martial skills.

On the city walls, Hodor carried Bran on his back as they watched the army depart.

"May the gods bless them. Let Robb return safely, let Jon return safely, let Theon return safely. Let everyone come back alive."

Bran watched the banners slowly recede and prayed softly.

"Hodor."

Luwin, standing beside him, smiled.

How could there be no deaths in war?

Even before they set out, Jon had killed someone.

Sansa, Arya, Robb...

In truth, watching the children he had delivered with his own hands head south one after another, Luwin felt reluctant to part with them as well.

But there was no helping it. This was Robb's responsibility as a man of the North and a Stark.

Two direwolves led the army.

Jon's Ghost and Robb's Grey Wind.

The difference was that Jon had disguised Ghost somewhat.

That coat of white fur was simply too conspicuous. It was the best camouflage amid the snow around the Wall, but once they headed south, it would make him an obvious target.

Before setting out, Jon had dyed Ghost's fur brown, so much so that Grey Wind kept staring at him when they met again.

Ghost was getting impatient with his brother's gawking.

Traveling south from Winterfell to the Twins would take at least half a month.

The journey was long, but it would also give the soldiers time to warm up beforehand.

That afternoon, the army began making campfires to cook, but one smaller force did not stop to rest. Instead, rhythmic sounds of training and fighting rang out.

"Thrust!"

"Ha!"

"Thrust!"

"Ha!"

"Left turn!"

"Right turn!"

"About turn..."

Following Jon's commands, several hundred soldiers practiced with spears in hand.

They also performed some seemingly useless and comical formation drills.

Anyone who had undergone military training knew that this sort of thing was bound to make people laugh when they first started practicing.

Soldiers from other camps liked to bring their dinners over and watch the spectacle.

Jon's actions naturally drew the attention of some nobles.

"A bastard just loves making a mess. They're about to go to war, and he's still wasting time on training," one knight complained to his friend.

"I really don't know what good this training does. Look, look—he's actually teaching soldiers how to walk. What the hell is he thinking?"

"If I were one of those soldiers, the first person I'd kill on the battlefield would be him!"

Everyone discussed it animatedly, and the great lords naturally heard about it as well.

The army had not even set out yet, and Jon had already become a figure of note.

Now that he was doing something so strange, it was difficult not to notice him.

"Let him do as he pleases." Roose Bolton had no interest in the matter.

He knew he would not gain anything from heading south this time.

So he had adopted a detached attitude. He only needed to complete the tasks assigned to him and make sure no one noticed that he was slacking off.

As for the other lords, they merely watched from afar. Only Greatjon personally came to Jon's camp.

"Hey! Eddard's bastard!" He waved at Jon with casual familiarity. "What are you doing?"

"I'm training them, my lord," Jon answered respectfully.

He bore no ill will toward Greatjon. Aside from being a little masochistic, the man was actually quite decent.

"Training? Do people need training to walk?"

Jon was not sure whether a medieval noble would understand concepts like conditioned reflexes and muscle memory.

So he simply made up an excuse.

"It's like this, my lord. Most of them are farmers, and many of them speak with accents. I'm actually helping them become familiar with my commands and my voice in advance, so they won't scatter in confusion once we reach the battlefield."

"Oh, I see. Very good! An interesting idea!"

As he spoke, Greatjon patted Jon's shoulder with a hand as large as a fan.

"I heard you ran away from the Wall on your own. Is that true?"

"Yes." Jon was frank. "I plan to return after rescuing my father."

"But you left the Wall without permission. Even if you rescue Eddard, he'll probably have your head cut off."

At the mention of Eddard, Greatjon's body trembled.

Eddard's military discipline was probably strict as well. This fellow had likely been punished more than once.

"He gave me life. If he wishes to take it back, that would only be right."

Hearing Jon say that, Greatjon looked him over from head to toe in surprise.

"Good lad. But I already asked Robb about it—you never officially joined the Night's Watch. Once we rescue Eddard, I'll put in a good word for you."

"A fine young man like you would be wasted at the Wall."

Having seen Jon's skill firsthand, he liked the boy immensely.

Jon neither agreed nor refused, merely saying they could discuss it after the war ended.

At present, Jon was probably the only person in the world—or rather, one of only three—who knew Eddard's coming fate.

After the Northern army won its first battle in the south, news of Eddard's execution would arrive.

Then war would erupt in full, with blood flowing across Westeros and heads rolling everywhere.

Jon could only do his best to preserve the North—or... use his own methods to pull the coming age of chaos back onto the proper path!

But returning to the formation drills of Jon's soldiers.

This training method, which practically seemed designed to humiliate people, naturally stirred dissatisfaction among some soldiers.

But once dinnertime came and they saw chunks of meat or pastries in their bowls, they no longer had a single complaint.

The other nobles, especially the soldiers from the Dreadfort, believed Jon was favoring his own men as quartermaster and complained to Robb.

However, when Jon said he had bought the food with the money he had won betting with those soldiers, they had nothing more to say.

When Bran had brought that large chest of Copper Stars and Silver Stags to Jon before leaving, Jon had truly been stunned.

He had never expected the odds to be so high. Had he known, he would have placed a bet himself.

The army continued onward.

The Northern army arrived at the Twins three days later than expected.

An army of more than twenty thousand men needed time to adjust.

Even something as simple as traveling brought constant trouble.

Especially since some lords closer to the south joined them along the way.

Jon used this time to initially forge the troops under his command into a cohesive whole.

Even Old York, who had never thought much of him, noticed something unusual.

He found that this army, composed mostly of farmers, faintly exuded a grim, murderous air while marching.

They were forbidden from talking while on the march, and their steps had to remain in unison.

Whether it was useful or not could wait; at the very least, it looked impressive.

Especially compared to the other armies, they stood out like cranes among chickens.

This gave him a few expectations for Jon.

Perhaps the boy really did have some skill?

Just as he was considering and assessing matters, he saw the Twins appear in the distance.