Chương 7: The Captain’s Watch

Jory Cassel POV The wind howled through Winterfell's turrets, carrying the scent of snow and pine from the Wolfswood beyond, as Jory Cassel strode across the yard, his boots crunching frost with each step, his cloak snapping behind him. The morning was raw, the kind that bit at a man's bones — yet his gaze kept drifting, not to the shivering guards at their posts, but to the figure moving through the castle like a thread through a tapestry: Robb Stark, his future lord.

He'd served House Stark since he was a lad, trained under his father, Martyn Cassel, and taken up his own position after his father fell beside Ned at the Tower of Joy. Winterfell was his blood and breath, its people as familiar to him as the weight of his own sword. But these days, he scarcely recognized the yard and some of the men training in it, and the bringer of that change was Robb. Robb emerged from the armory, his hair tousled by the wind, his step light despite the hour. Jory paused, narrowing his eyes.

The young lord wore little more than a wool tunic and breeches — no furs, no heavy cloak — yet the cold seemed a stranger to him. The other lads, Jon and Theon among them, stayed bundled in their layers, breath puffing white, while Robb moved unburdened, his cheeks barely touched by the chill. As if the Northern cold makes an exception for him, Jory thought, a shiver tracing his spine that had little to do with the morning chill.

"Jory!" Robb called, spotting him. He crossed the yard in a few strides, his pace quicker than Jory remembered, quicker than any lad his age had any right to move.

"The lads are sparring. Care to join us?" Jory forced a grin, shaking his head.

"Duty and the spar yesterday calls for me just to watch today, my lord. I'd only slow you down — besides, you've grown a fair bit in your dueling of late, sword and axe both." Robb's laugh rang out, bright and sharp, before he turned back to the training yard. There, among the clash of steel, he moved in a blur, his blade striking true while the others faltered around him. Jon Snow — once the steadiest and grimmest of the lads — kept pace for a time, but even he tired, his swings slowing.

Theon Greyjoy, all flash and taunts, lasted less still, his breath ragged as he leaned on his sword. Robb pressed on, tireless, his endurance a quiet marvel. Jory had seen seasoned men flag sooner than this boy did, as though the cold fed him strength rather than sapping it away. The whispers had begun weeks ago, soft at first, out of the kitchens and stables — bolder now that the guardsmen had taken them up too.

The Old Gods had not only spared him after his accident but had also given him their strength and blessing. Jory wasn't a man for gods or tales, but he couldn't unsee it in the way Robb fought, the way he carried himself — still Robb, but different now, more purposeful, a seasoned veteran's bearing folded into a boy's frame, faster and stronger than grown men twice his age.

Whatever had touched him, Old Gods or Seven, Jory found he was still proud of the lad — proud that he stayed humble with it, that he spent the gift on his brothers and friends rather than himself. At the midday meal in the great hall, Jory lingered near the door, tracing the changes plain across the family. Lady Catelyn sat straight-backed, hands folded, her gaze darting like a hawk's — watchful, wary, especially whenever it landed on Robb.

She'd carried that edge ever since Ned raised the matter of Bran's fostering with the Karstarks, as if bracing herself for losses not yet come. Jon sat beside Theon, quieter than usual, his dark eyes tracking Robb with something between pride and unease. Theon's jibes had gone sharper too, his smirks tighter, as if he felt the ground shifting under him with every change in Robb. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Lord Eddard stood by the hearth, broad shoulders faintly hunched as he spoke with Maester Luwin. Ned had always carried Winterfell's weight easily enough, but his silences ran heavier these days, his grey eyes clouded with thoughts he kept close. Jory knew that look. Ned was a man turning something over in a private storm.

"Jory," Ned said suddenly, turning. His voice was low, a command dressed up as a request.

"Will you walk with me?" They stepped into the godswood, the air thick with earth and old trees. The heart tree loomed ahead, its red eyes watching, and Jory felt the familiar stillness settle over him. Ned stopped beneath its branches, breath misting in the cold.

"Catelyn's agreed to Bran's fostering with the Karstarks," Ned said, his tone measured but laced with a father's ache.

"He's of an age now. Needs to see the North beyond these walls, learn its ways from Rickard Karstark and his sons." Jory nodded, his mind already turning to logistics.

"Rickard's a hard and good man, but loyal. His boys will sharpen Bran — teach him steel, not just songs of it."

"Aye," Ned murmured, his gaze on the heart tree.

"He'll need it. He dreams too much of southern knights, their tales of valor and shining swords. Those stories have filled his head, and I fear he believes every word of them true. Not all knights are what the songs make them out to be. Gregor Clegane wore that title once, and he was no hero — he butchered Elia Martell and her children in King's Landing, babes who'd done no wrong. That's the truth Bran needs to see." Jory, ever practical, nodded in agreement.

"Aye, my lord. Karhold's a hard place. Rickard's boys know steel's weight, and will still have plenty of stories for Bran to learn. They'll show Bran what's real, and what beauty the North holds on its own terms."

"When the timer does come for him to leave, I want him escorted safely, Jory. Pick the best men for it — men you trust."

"Wyl and Alyn," Jory said without hesitation.

"Steady hands, good heads. They'll see him to Karhold and handle whatever comes up along the way." Ned's nod was slight, but something softened behind his eyes — a rare glimpse past his lord's exterior.

"Good. However, I won't send him just yet. He'll have more time here first, and I've still terms to settle with Karstark. But have them and yourself ready to go the moment it's arranged." He paused, lowering his voice.

"And Jory… what do you truly make of Robb these days?" Jory shifted, the question catching him like a wolf spotting a hare. He met Ned's eyes and chose his words carefully, knowing his lord would want the truth of it.

"He's stronger, my lord. Faster than he's any right to be. Lasts longer than the others, too. And the cold — it doesn't seem to touch him the way it should." Ned's jaw tightened, pride warring with something less comfortable.

"The fall changed him. I see it. The men see it. The Old Gods spared my son, and blessed him besides, for some reason — greatness, I'd wager. But the gods don't hand out blessings for free. I only hope whatever boon they've given him isn't measured against what he'll face when he's lord."

"Aye," Jory said, though doubt gnawed at him even as he spoke it.

"The folk say he's blessed. He leads like it, too — in the yard and at prayer both. He's grown more devoted than I recall, visits the godswood often enough now. The guards and servants follow him without question and have started a few older prayers to the old gods." Ned glanced toward the heart tree, its sap dark as blood against the white bark.

"They'll need to. Hard days are coming, Jory. I feel it in my bones." Jory said nothing, but the weight of it settled deep all the same. He'd guard Robb — guard all the Starks, as his family always had — though he found himself wondering, not for the first time, what storm could shake a man like Ned Stark, who he knew to have gone through many storms. The North felt a bit lighter and firmer, and the Starks were causing it. Jory gripped the cold hilt of his sword, his breath clouding in front of him.

The Old Gods may watch, he thought, but it's my sword they'll need when the winds turn foul. He'd sworn his life to this house, and he'd keep that oath whatever the gods, or the North, asked of him.