In the training yard, Jon Snow stood behind Bran, patiently correcting his stance and the way he drew the bowstring.
Nearby, little Rickon giggled loudly from atop a practice saddle mounted on a wooden rack. He swung a wooden sword with great enthusiasm, fully imrsed in his own knightly adventure.
Three young direwolves waited beneath the rack, sitting as still as statues. Their ears twitched now and then, eyes never leaving their masters.
Servants and stable hands passing by sotis slowed their steps to watch.
When one of Bran's arrows once again missed the mark and buried itself in a barrel beside the target, soft chuckles echoed across the yard.
Against the far wall leaned Theon Greyjoy, arms crossed, posture lazy, face bored.
With a sharp snap of the bowstring, Bran loosed another arrow.
Again, it missed.
Bran stomped the ground in frustration.
Watching the scene, Galon smiled faintly and asked Robb beside him,
"That must be Bran."
Robb nodded and called out, "Bran!"
Bran turned at the sound of his brother's voice.
He saw Robb waving at him — and beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered stranger.
"Robb?"
Bran blinked, confused, still gripping his bow.
Rickon, however, reacted far faster.
His eyes sparkled with delight and he waved his wooden sword wildly in greeting, as if a hero had returned from glorious war.
Jon quickly grabbed him before the boy toppled off the rack and helped him to the ground.
The mont his feet touched earth, Rickon sprinted toward Robb — with his shaggy little direwolf bounding behind him.
Within seconds, he wrapped his arms around Robb's leg. Robb chuckled and ruffled his hair affectionately.
Galon stood quietly beside them, watching the warmth of the Stark family with a calm expression.
After a mont, Robb introduced them.
"This is Rickon, my youngest brother."
"Rickon, this is Galon — Sansa's betrothed."
Rickon didn't fully understand the word, but he understood introductions. He lifted his wooden sword proudly and declared,
"Hi! I'm Rickon!"
Then paused, pointed to the pup at his feet, and added confidently, "And this is my fuzzy wolf!"
The direwolf barked once, as if to confirm it.
Galon smiled gently. "Well t, Rickon. I'm Galon — Galon Glover."
Rickon blinked, likely unsure what that truly ant — but Jon Snow's expression shifted. His eyes flicked briefly toward Theon, who still watched from a distance.
Robb continued the introductions.
"Bran you already know."
"And this is Jon — also my brother."
Then he added with emphasis, looking at Jon, "And you heard: Father has agreed to Galon's betrothal to Sansa."
Jon offered a respectful bow.
"Lord Galon. I am Jon Snow. Welco to Winterfell."
A flicker of sothing unreadable passed through Galon's eyes. He answered quietly,
"I know your na, Jon."
Jon stiffened. His jaw tightened — expecting insult.
But Galon's voice was warm.
"Half a year ago when Robb and I t, he spoke of you. He said you were skilled with sword and bow — and that wolf-blood runs strong in your veins."
"I thought he was rely praising a brother. But now that I see you myself, I find he spoke nothing but truth."
Jon froze — then flushed red with pride.
To be acknowledged as one with the wolf-blood — the heritage of true Starks — was sothing no one had ever said aloud to him.
Before Jon found words, Robb grinned and said, "Of course. Jon's better than with a sword."
"We should arrange a spar between the two of you. I've always wondered who would win."
Galon chuckled.
"Then let the three of us spar soday. I'm curious if you've improved since last ti, Robb."
Robb groaned. "I doubt it — I haven't trained nearly enough lately."
Bran's eyes widened.
To him, Robb was already a knight in all but na — and yet he admitted he wasn't equal to this stranger?
He studied Galon again — tall, powerful, imposing — and silently concluded, 'He looks too much like a bear. Sansa won't like that. She likes princes.'
'He looks like he belongs to House Mormont more than House Glover.'
As Bran's imagination drifted, Galon's gaze shifted subtly toward him — then paused at his legs.
A quiet sigh passed through his thoughts.
Three days remained until the king's arrival. Three days until Bran climbed that tower.
Three days until his fate shattered — and the North with it.
Galon felt sympathy, but not enough to interfere. The tiline needed to remain intact — at least for now.
A crippled raven was easier to guide than one that could fly freely.
And through Bran, one day, he might glimpse the true forces behind this world — gods, magic, and the unseen.
But for now, he smiled and asked gently, "Bran, do you know why you keep missing the target?"
Bran shook his head.
Galon tapped his bow.
"You're looking too hard. Stop relying only on your eyes — trust the feeling."
"Try again."
Bran hesitated, then readied another arrow.
"Relax your arm. Lift the bow just a bit…" Galon adjusted the boy's stance, then stepped back.
The arrow flew.
This ti — it struck the target.
Bran stared, stunned. Then he erupted into cheers.
"I hit it! I did it!"
Robb laughed. "We've been trying for weeks — and Galon teaches you in one attempt. A true son of the Wolfswood."
Galon rely smiled politely as voices around the yard praised the boy's success.
Only Theon rolled his eyes.
"It's just one arrow," he muttered.
"And that Glover fool flatterin' a bastard like he's royalty? Pathetic."
He pushed himself off the wall and approached with a smug grin.
"Robb."
Robb nodded, unaware of the tension.
"Galon, this is Theon — my father's ward."
Galon only gave a dismissive nod — not even looking at him — and returned to Bran. "Rember the feeling just now. When your body learns it — every shot will find its mark."
Jon's stomach tightened.
He knew Theon too well.
Silence stretched — thin as ice.
Then Theon scoffed loud enough for all to hear. "So, Glovers teach archery now? I thought you forest folk only knew how to chop trees and piss on pine bark."
A sharp laugh followed — alone, unreturned.
Every gaze turned to Galon.
Even Arya — hiding behind a crate — froze, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"This is it," she whispered. "If soone spoke like that to , I'd punch them. But Galon looks strong. He'll surely crush him."
But Galon didn't flare with anger.
Instead, he finally turned his head — looking past Theon as if he weren't worth acknowledgnt.
"Robb," he said calmly, "show sowhere else."
"Preferably a place without outsiders."
The word outsiders landed like cold steel. Theon's face flushed with fury — hand snapping to the hilt of his sword.
The yard went silent.
The tension tightened — brittle and dangerous. And the next mont would decide whether blood spilled.
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