Hello everyone!

Again I came back with an update, several months later but I hope you love it. In this chapter we will see the vision of the North in a very different way than we are used to.

I also take this opportunity to point out a new policy that I decided to implement. Instead of updating every few days, I'm going to do it based on the amount of reviews and support I get. I know it may sound bad but in reality it is a bit demoralizing to write and see that you receive many followers and others but not an opinion of how your work is going because it gives you a bad taste in your mouth as a writer and takes away your inspiration (which happens to me with my other story, which I will leave without posting new chapters for a while despite the fact that I have already written three more chapters of it).

I mean, a personal opinion, no matter how brief, is always welcome if you liked it or if you want to criticize it. Fanfiction authors work hard to write so a few words are always welcome.

That said, let's go to the chapter, I hope you like it.

I want to do a poll by the way: would you rather Robb be monogamous with multiple mistresses or have multiple wives? In case you vote for the second one, which girls would you recommend (only three)?

Chapter Two

Guilt is a sin as heavy as injustice

Year 297 A.C

Harma

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"Well, lass, what do you think of our lords, the Redstarks?" Lady Ramsay asked her.

Harma looked at her, then cocked the head. "They're, m'lady, good lords, especially the Red Wolf. He has led us into countless good battles," she said awkwardly, wary of the question. Harma had been serving as Lady Ramsay's sword for some time, for less than a year, and had learned much about her.

Any question, said in that disinterested and friendly tone, was not a good one if it came from Lady Ramsay. The bastard of Dreadfort might have been sworn to Magnar Robb, who supplied her with arms and charged her with duties, but she was still a member of the Near North. Harma didn't really know many near-northeners but she wondered if they were that dangerous and capable of murdering you in bed for fun.

Ramsay grinned, amused. "Oh, yeah, the Red Wolf is a good lord. A good warlord, skillful when it comes to battle, but there is no one who understands him. He believes in abstract ideas and probably his honor will make him lose the head"

Harma felt a chill in her stomach at that. Said words could have been seen as treason in the eyes of anyone but the position of Ramsay Snow, commander of the right flank of the Winter Wives, sat with a wide smile. "Our Lord is an idiot, and I appreciate that. And I know he'll go far, though without help from the Good Lady… Our lordship screwed," she added, spitting on the side of the road.

The Good Lady, Harma repeated to herself.

The Good Lady, the sister of the Red Wolf, was probably the most beloved figure in all the North at this pace. Because of her, applicants came from all over the region every day to become loyal swordswomen of the Winter Wives and swordsmen of Farnorthern army. Even a bastard like Ramsay could find glory in Far North. As if that were not enough, the Good Lady served as a point of union for the entire Far North, seeking its well-being, to the point that even the Umbers, located behind the Wall, considered it faster to bring their orders to Winterhold.

And thinking of the Good Lady made her feel a little jealous of Ramsay.

Harma had entered the service of the sacred Order one year ago. Ramsay Snow, on the other hand, had served the Order since ten years old. It was said that she had even been a childhood friend of the Redstark lords. To think that Harma, a warrior from a good family and legitimate daughter, had never been able to clash swords against the Good Lady or see her very closely, while Ramsay Snow—a cruel madwoman—had such a privilege… no.

It wasn't fair. She didn't express her thoughts at any time, of course not.

She highly valued her skin.

"And then there's Tyddewi, that sword."

"What about said sword, Lady Ramsay?"

"Tyddewi," Ramsay spoke, laid forward on the horse, "was forged in the other world by the First Gods. This sword existed before the Wall was created, a gift to Brandon the Builder. The sword that says that if you carry the sword, you'll be the rightful warlord of the First Men. Lord Robb found it after the siege of the Frostfangs. He went out into the forest to pray, it is said, and won it by facing off against a mountain devil who held the sword. As the legend says, whenever the bearer is in a desperate situation, they only has to stick the sword in the ground so that all the Old Gods leave the other world and come to the other world to help them"

Ramsay shook the head, not because doubted the legend but because it filled her with admiration. "It's very interesting, considering that the insidious ones lie saying that it is a legend spread by our lords and that the sword was found in the siege. A normal sword, they said".

Harma frowned. "They'll be idiots, then," and if Ramsay was willing—for reasons her crazy head understood—to kill her for said answer, so be it.

To say that the Redstarks were lying would be an affront to all the lords and people of the Far North.

Furthermore, to test Magnar Robb's honor, he had sworn to his interest not to be King or plant rebellion against his own uncle, the Usurper Eddard, or King Robert.

And he would make a good King, she thought.

If the North were independent, without the need for those insidious southerners and their dirty customs, everything would be better. Taxes were shit too. And the southerners will come to tell us northerners that we are fine. Oh, yes, of course, well with the price of wine fifty coins more expensive, and what about beer. Because if the beer was expensive, then the yeomanry could not forget their sorrows but bitterly remembered everything that happened.

Taxes.

They were marching through the lands of the region to collect the relevant taxes that would be sent to Winterhold—and from there they would be sent to Winterfell and later to King's Landing. They visited village leaders and minor magnars, always accompanied by a clerk from Lord Robb's treasury, who computed the rents. Harma had been surprised that Lady Ramsay, cruel lover of battles, far from going to lead war hosts, stayed behind to perform such a common task as collecting taxes.

Harma thought it was menial work at first, but then she understood why Ramsay was so interested in her task. Taxes for Lady Ramsay were more important than external enemies.

Taxes, as she later learned, were the greatest source of wealth for individuals unwilling to work, and collection time was always Lady Ramsay's opportunity.

Site after site, Ramsay accepted reports of crop failure and thus levied low taxes, while at the same time filling her saddlebags with gold, which she received in exchange for false reports. "As long as the amount requested by Lord Robb is given, a couple of coins that roll will not be frowned upon" Ramsay told Harma that same day with the same confidence that she always had from someone who trusts a secret and hopes that she will not be betrayed. Or maybe it was her tone warning Harma that the skin was a precious commodity and gossips could painfully remove it with the help of a hot knife.

"Well said, to hell with liars," Lady Ramsay cheered before turning her gaze back to the clerk, whose mule was hauling false statements about the year's crops. "Where now?"

"Ice Keep, my lady."

Ramsay smiled widely, "I see! Craster lands! What did we get out of that filthy oldman last year?

Greá, the clerk, had no need to consult the accounts to verify the corresponding notches. He recited from memory a list of skins, fleeces, salted fish, salt, and ground grain. "Although he paid in tin too" Far-Northern lords rarely paid in gold. It was a rare item. However, tin was not at all misjudged.

"Diligious filthy Craster as always, what offer would he accept, Greá?"

Greá calculated an amount equal to half of what Craster had paid the previous year, and it was exactly the amount agreed upon before dinner in Lord Craster's castle.

"Have you been visiting the moors lately?" Craster asked Lady Ramsay that night.

"Never," Lady Ramsay said.

Craster snorted.

Craster was an ugly, short, bald, heavyset old man with tribal tattoos on his cheeks, arms, and legs. He dressed in the manner of the ancient times before Edwyle the Conqueror but he preferred the northern way of life. Harma had the impression that Craster lived well. He harvested good crops, his cows and sheep fattened in peace, and his wives—a secret no one told was that Craster was probably an incestuous beast—well fed.

Furthermore, the threat from the Free Folk was remote; more, however, he was not satisfied.

"There is money on the moors," he told Lady Ramsay. "Silver"

"Silver?" Lady Ramsay said sarcastically.

Craster nodded solemnly, showing her all his rotten teeth in a wide smile. Lord Craster was quite drunk, as were most of the warriors gathered around the low table where dinner had been served. They were all warriors, Lady Ramsay's Winter Wives.

Harma, as Ramsay's squire, had to stay close to her lady commander's seat.

"Silver," Craster repeated, "and possibly gold, too, but lots of silver."

It was a private conversation, for dinner was almost over and Craster had handed over the taxes to Ramsay's warriors. No one paid any attention to the two except Harma and Craster's squire, a boy with eyes drowsy from the wine.

Harma listened carefully, trying to be as discreet as possible.

"You may not be interested in silver," Craster went on, "but many others are In the Near North they pay a good price, not to mention the south of the country". He punched the air dismissively, referring to the rest of Westeros, and let out a burp that apparently surprised himself. He soothed his bad digestion with a sip of applewine and frowned as if he didn't remember what they were talking about. "Silver" he said finally, remembering.

"Speak, then," Lady Ramsay urged, glancing at one of her women, who had undressed a servant girl and was buttering her belly.

"That silver doesn't belong to me," Craster said with conviction.

"But someone is the owner," replied Lady Ramsay. "Do you want me to ask Greá? He is a smart ass when it comes to money and property."

The soldier slapped the girl's belly hard and the butter splattered onto the low table causing a burst of laughter. The girl complained but the Ramsay soldier beat her severely and smeared pork fat all over her body.

"The problem is," Craster went on briskly, diverting Lady Ramsay's attention from the naked servant, "the late Wise Wolf introduced a group of Karkstark settlers. They came to work in the old mines, because our people did not know how to do it. Those bastards, take careful note, are obliged to send their income to the treasury, but they only do half of it. I know that without a doubt."

Lady Ramsay had raised her eyebrows, "treason, you say."

"And they refuse to pay me, and therefore our Red Wolf don't recieve his fair pay," Craster went on. "Those damn nearnortherns. They strip our wealth. And it doesn't end there, because I discover that I lack cows, sheep and some servants from time to time. Those miners go too far and don't pay you as they should. But never you could never prove it. Not even your cunning clerk could, peering out of a hole into the moor, tell us how much can be mined in a year. They think they're above the law, that's the point. Only because they are under Stark protection, they are considered themselves exempt from obligations.

Lady Ramsay shrugged. She was again aware of the buttered servant, who was now being chased by half a dozen drunken women. The fat spread all over her body made hunting difficult.

It was funny, and it took a lot of effort for Harma to contain herself.

"Then go up there and kill a few of those cunts," Ramsay said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"I can't," Craster replied.

"Why not?"

"The Wise Wolf granted them protection. If I take it against them, they will let our lord the Red Wolf and Winterfell know and make me pay the prisgwaed."

The prisgwaed was the price that the law imposed for blood crimes. Magnar Rickard had imposed it to prevent wanton slaughters in the region. The prisgwaed of a noble magnar was priceless, a peasant's was cheap, but even a petty magnar like Craster would find a good miner's prisgwaed very high.

"How would they know that you were responsible for the slaughter?" Ramsay asked slyly.

Craster patted his cheek in response. He seemed to imply that the blue tattoos, worn by members of his province, would give away his soldiers.

Ramsay nodded.

"So?"

"Well, I could do something if I found a handful of men capable of decimating them… or women. I would force them to beg me for protection, do you understand? In exchange, I would demand the silver they send to Karhold. And I'd pay you..." Craster paused to check that Ramsay wasn't impressed by the clumsy proposition. "It would consist of half"

"How many?" Ramsay asked promptly.

They both spoke in low voices so Harma had to strain her ears to understand her words in the midst of the uproar and voices.

"How about a hundred and sixty pieces of silver a year? Like this beauty" he seized a gold ingot the size of a sword hilt, sliding it across the table.

"So much?" Ramsay's tone sounded bored, but Harma wasn't fooled. Ramsay loved three things in life: women, money, and violence.

"The moor is rich," Craster commented steadily, "very rich."

"How many miners are there?"

"In the nearest village there are seventy or eighty men, with a large group of women and children, of course."

"How many villages do they have?"

"Three, but the other two are further away. I only care about the closest one."

"There are only twenty of us, Craster"

"You'd go at night," Craster suggested. "Besides, they have never been attacked, so they shouldn't stand guard."

Ramsay took another sip of wine. "Make it a hundred and eighty pieces."

Craster nodded after a moment's thought.

"Why not, then?" Ramsay said with a smile. She touched the ingot, then turned to Harma, quick as a snake. Harma, cunning like hunger, did not move or take her eyes from one of the servants, who was lying on the lap of one of her comrades-in-arms. "Are you awake, Harma?"

Harma pretended to startle. "Lady?"

"Good lass," Ramsay said, pleased that she hadn't heard a thing. If the commander hadn't been so drunk, she probably would have noticed Harma's attempt. "You want one of those girls, right?"

Harma's cheeks burned soon.

"L-lady!"

Ramsay laughed.

"There is no fear in saying what one wants. We are the wives of winter so lying with ladies does not make cuckoldry. Do not fear the opinions of others. When you go to the other world, Harma, you will not regret the people you did not kill but you will regret how many women did you let pass. Also, I'm not jealous."

For some strange reason, for all her fear and dislike about Ramsay, the Lady Commander liked Harma. Ramsay then looked at Craster, "tomorrow night."

Leaving her home, Dreamkeep, to entrust herself to the service of the Winter Wives, was not how Harma thought it would be. She thought of honor, of pride. She did not think of falling at Ramsay's hands.

She thought how unfair it all was.

The miners did not actually do anything illegal. They paid Lord Robb Redstark legally and, since it said the contract, they gave a part to Karhold. The good people of the moor would have to face savagery the following night.

Steffon (Jon)

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The crown prince Steffon Baratheon didn't really have too many memories of Robb and Sansa Snow, even if they were too precious. Almost since his birth, he had been raised by his uncle Stannis at Dragonstone. He was supposed to would have stayed in King's Landing with his father the King, but Robert Baratheon never showed any favor to his firstborn.

His mother, Lyanna, had died in childbirth in the Tower of Joy, after being captured by Rhaegar Targaryen. She was two months pregnant when the Targaryen had kidnapped her in what led to Robert's Rebellion.

His father, the King, never took the death of his wife very well, falling into drunkenness and whores. More than once, it was said, the King had called his firstborn a bastard. A son of Rhaegar, a product of rape. They were nonsensical accusations, especially since there wasn't an ounce of Targaryen in him, although it was also true that there wasn't much Baratheon: the crown's prince features had been inherited from the Starks, including the piercing gray eyes and the steel look of authority.

Aunt Cersei, however, pointed out that his gray eyes had shades of blue and he had the same nose as all the Baratheons... Not to mention that, at fourteen, he was over six feet tall.

Lies or not, Stannis had fought back fiercely against Robert's accusation, even telling him sternly that if he dared to insult the son rebels took so much pains to rescue from the dragon loyalists, then he was spitting on the memory of Lyanna Stark. The King and Stannis had never gotten along very well, especially since the lord of Dragonstone was pure iron where Robert was impulsive, and this argument ended up creating a gap between them.

If not for the intervention of Stannis and Lord Jon Arryn, Steffon probably would have had to deal with being at court where he was not favored by the King or by his new stepmother, Lady Cassana.

Fortunately, such had not been the case.

Stannis had brought him to Dragonstone to raise him and give an ideal upbriging for a Prince. From history classes that went beyond before the Andals arrival, to medicine, politics, economics, and martial training with a Lyseni swordsman, Jon had seen a lot of growth. His uncle was never an emotional or expressive man, but he always tried to give him the best education and fill him with enough capacity to be a good King in future. For physical displays of affection, Steffon had his aunt and Shireen.

However, there was a period when Steffon wasn't on Dragonstone. Steffon was seven years old when, by order of the King and permission of Lord Stannis, he was sent for a time to live with his maternal family, the Starks. He did not go as Lord Stark's apprentice but as a guest for a specific time.

You have to create a broad view of all your subjects, keep your eyes open, Lord Stannis had told him the day left to the North. Aunt Cersei said, hugging him and kissing him on both cheeks, observe everything, my child, and when you return to our arms, tell me everything you have seen.

In the year 288 after the Landing, Steffon Baratheon embarked on a ship piloted by Lord Davos and made the longest voyage he had ever taken until that date.

Winterfell was a brutal shock when it was compared to Dragonstone. Always cold and raw, the North was uncomfortable from the first moment. At least, he received a warm welcome from his uncle Lord Eddard and his family. At that time, the Stark children—who were just Eyron and Minisa up to that point, because Brandon, Arya and Rickon weren't born yet—were too young to be his playmates so he had started hanging out with his cousins Robb and Sansa.

The twins, both bastards, were between eight and nine years old. They were the sons of Steffon's older uncle, Bran the Wild Wolf, who had evaded his vow with House Tully to marry another woman. Lady Catelyn resented the twins quite a bit, but he loved them from the start.

Sansa was the one who gave him the nickname he was proud to wear—Jon.

Unlike the Andal variant, Yonh, the name Jon hid a rather deep meaning. Jon meant 'son of old winters' in a very old Old Tongue word—or perhaps, Uncle Stannis would point out much later with his usual lack of touch, they were just kidding you.

It made sense really, the names' importance, when you realized that every name Northerners used had a magical meaning. As the books said each name had its own magic. Brandon, the most commonly used Stark name, meant 'one who brings good legacy', so why couldn't the name Jon mean something on its own?

"But my name is Steffon" he had complained that afternoon that Sansa told him. Jon remembered that they were in the library that day, after receiving some lessons from Maester Luwin.

"But you're a northerner in your blood, so you deserve to have a nickname by whatever we can call you" Sansa had replied with unblinking blue eyes. At the time, she was only eight to nine years old but Jon remembered her as beautiful. Sansa was always beautiful, with her fire-bright red hair and her soft smile that made him melt. "The blood is the only thing that matters."

The blood is the only thing that matters were the words that Sansa Snow said the most. Even as children, she and her twin brother were quite proud of their blood. They claimed to be purebloods from the north, the son of Brandon the Wild Wolf and a lady whose lineage ascended to the legendary Raymun Redbeard—the great far-northern warlord who slayed Willam Stark, father of the magnificent Edwyle, during the Winter Wars. House Rayder had inherited the blessing of fire, as the Far North called redheads, and the blood of the first men burned their insides.

Lady Catelyn Tully had bright reddish auburn hair but she was nothing compared to the deep, blood-like red the twins possessed. Jon had never encountered redheads like Sansa and Robb. Their appearances, so different from the typical Stark, were not a reason for shame but rather pride.

Unfortunately, the way they looked made Lady Catelyn furious.

Jon's memories of Lady Catelyn were pleasant: a kind woman who cared for him, her children, and her husband. As Tully's motto said: Family, Duty, Honor. Still, it was hard to think of that same gentle woman from his memories when it came to the mention of the red twins: cold stares, distaste fixed on her beautiful face, and clear rejection. Rare were married ladies who tolerated bastards, they were a threat to legitimate children. However, that didn't mean Jon approved of it.

He loved the twins as siblings, especially Robb. He and Robb were inseparable in that short period. They were always playing everywhere, laughing and running everywhere.

However, his memories ended in beginning of year 289, the year of the Greyjoy rebellion. Lord Eddard went to war alongside Jon's father, and soon received a missive from Stannis... when his uncle completely destroyed the ironborn naval fleet. 'I'll be looking for you soon,' said the terse missive, and two months later the gloomy Lord Stannis arrived at Winterfell with an escort.

He never saw the twins again.

The last thing he knew about them was that, exactly one month after his departure, they got into a fight that led to their expulsion from Winterfell and confinement in a fortress lost by the hands of the Gods.

Since then, he hadn't thought much about the twins. Stannis was a very strict person who made sure that he prepared himself with everything necessary for when he would be King. Northern affairs did not concern him much at the time. Until now, when he had decided to return... just at the moment that they had to undertake a march to the northernmost part of the North, to suffer cold and tribulation.

And to see his cousins.

"Nervous, prince?" Eyron inquired, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Jon looked at his cousin, tilting his head. His horses were close together, and they were last in the long procession of bannermen who marched alongside their lord Eddard.

"Just thinking" was his reply, his gray eyes scanning his cousin.

"We're just going to bring justice to the bastard and his sister, we won't put up of a rebellion. In case they do, we have men. I'll face him myself if necessary"

The heir to the North, young Lord Eyron, was barely thirteen years old. He was quite tall, to the extreme, and stocky thanks to his Tully blood so he looked much older than he was… yet, despite everything, he was a boy. A little boy. As Uncle Stannis said, 'that man who praises war and its glory is nothing but an idiot.'

Only a person who had never fought in his life would speak so blindly.

War was not a game nor was it a place to win honor. Wars were only fought when necessary and when there was no other reason. If a vassal disobeys, the lord must crush him and set an example but without neglecting justice. A lord did not glorify himself in possible wars, a lord did not praise the possibility of killing a person.

Jon had fought his first battle a few months ago. His uncle Renly had a rebellion with one of his vassals—which was not strange because, according to the analyzes that Jon collected during his stay in the Stormlands, his uncle Renly was useless in matters of governance except when it came to smiling pretty and charm ladies... and wallow with knights, though that was a separate topic—and had asked for help from the crown.

King Robert's action?

Send Stannis, of course.

Stannis and Robert hated each other to death but the lord of Dragonstone was still the Master of the Kingdom Ships and probably one of the best strategists today. Was there a riot? Sending Lord Stannis was the solution.

And his uncle took him to see the harshness of the battlefield.

Other lords would have kept Jon in a tent—as, exactly, Aunt Cersei had asked her husband—but Stannis was different. He knew what war was and how horrible it was, the desperation it could bring, and that showed Jon: the difficulties of a siege, the different needs of the Army that must be met so that it can be optimal, what to do in hunger and the need for his men to see him as one of their own. One of the teachings of his uncle was to apply the death sentence: Steffon Baratheon was appointed to execute several of the leaders of the revolt.

Feel their looks of fear, the weight of the sword in real combat, and the application of sentences. He remembered their heads rolling and the urge to throw up. No. Wars were not pretty. And most of the lords who loved war never fought on a battlefield or were at the time of sentencing.

Maybe because of that, or because of the shitty look on Eyron's face, he disliked his maternal cousin even more. Eyron was a spring boy, a spoiled, stubborn boy who ingratiated himself with the idea of fighting. Maybe that was why Jon disliked Eyron, or was it because he bad-mouthed Robb and Sansa?

He didn't really know.

Eyron was only a year younger than Steffon, but Steffon had been raised with Stannis—a gloomy, cynical lord who viewed Westerosi society as a mockery in itself. Eyron Stark was not a bad boy. Actually, Jon had a chance to train with him at Winterfell before they left. Eyron was a good swordsman and in the future he would be a good lord of Winterfell… as long as there was no war coming up. Without war, with the advice of Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik Cassel, Eyron would shape his brain to lower his immaturity and his wild spirit.

With war?

In a hypothetical case that the North started a war of independence, which was a threat that although distant could not be ignored, under the hands of Eyron, something curious would happen: the northerners would love Eyron. He would be the example of a Warrior King, an excellent strategist and someone who would bring unity to the North. If, in a specific case, the Trident were to unite under the hands of Eyron Stark, then he would be unstoppable.

People could call him the Young Wolf, adore him and excuse his defects. Northern lords would give their lives for him and peasants would sing songs about him.

The problem with Warrior Kings, however, was that they didn't last long on the throne. They ended up being killed or betrayed. If they were too strong, then they were killed off the battlefield. Daeron the Young Dragon died before he tasted his complete victory, and so it was with warlords: they rose high and died high. People wouldn't remember how they put the kingdom in debt or how they created chaos, oh no, people only remembered their greatness.

Now, if the Warrior King lived long enough, his vassals were going to fall out of love with him and start hating him when the romanticization left their eyes: a vivid example was his father the King Robert.

With warrior Kings in mind, Robb Redstark's performance also needed to be addressed. Lord Eddard accused him of torturing prisoners of war, of murder instead of fair trials... What truth was there?

Jon refused to think that the charges were really that severe, though Eddard was too honest a man to misrepresent his opinion. However, Robb's vassals were in complete agreement with Lord Redstark's rule—just see that the Umbers, longtime enemies of the Far Northers, paid their taxes to Winterhold—and even spoke of Tyddewi and the Good Lady.

Tyddewi, Robb's supposed magic sword, was another archetype of the ideal warlord: a legendary weapon coupled with a good nickname.

The only thing that came out of the picture was the Good Lady. The warrior kings were famous for occupying the throne and being the central figures; even if there were people behind them who stabilized the throne, no one counted them. In the case of the so-called Red Twins, however, the opposite was true: Lord Robb was as famous on the battlefield as his sister was in the administration of the region; even, Steffon had learned, Lady Sansa was the Lady of the Winter Wives and had fought on more than one occasion. They both complemented each other.

Jon thought of them all the way from Winterfell to where the castle stood. "I think so" Steffon limited himself to saying to his cousin.

That same night, having already camped, his uncle Lord Eddard sent him to request his tent.

Steffon Baratheon found his uncle sitting reading some accounts, completely lost in thought. Ever since he had arrived at Winterfell three weeks ago, Lord Eddard's face had been the same. Lord Eddard, at thirty-four, was quite old: his beard was cropped short, speckled with gray, and his dour expression did nothing to hide the bags that weighed down his eyes with stress.

"Steffon" he finally said, looking up, and Jon saw the reflection of the smile. Like all the Starks, he referred to Jon by his real name and not by his nickname—only his cousin Shireen and Lord Stannis and Lady Cersei did that. "How's the cold?"

"Freezing, Uncle," was Jon's retort, "but I've gotten used to it." He snuggled closer to the heavy furs that covered his own shoulders. "I had forgotten how cold the North was."

"When you cross the Wall, it seems that you enter a totally different place. Snow everywhere, and cold, even during summer. For the Far North, this cold is just a breeze" commented Lord Eddard.

Jon watched him. "Is it wise then to take so many men to Winterhold?" he said he, "with all due respect, while a lord who presents himself with his banner to a vassal lord may be seen as fearless, it would also mean giving him more importance than he is."

His uncle looked at him seriously, "tell me something, Prince, do you think I sent for you to warn me?"

Jon stared at him with equal grimness. "Do you think I am going to admonish you, Lord Stark?"

Silence fell in the tent. Both uncle and nephew stared at each other for seconds so long it seemed like an eternity. Lord Stark's look was worthy of scaring a boy away, but Jon was used to Stannis's surly demeanor, and that was more than his uncle Eddard could offer him.

Lord Eddard's muscles relaxed a little and his stern face melted a little. "You look a lot like Lyanna," he said, "but your eyes are Stannis's, just like your words. He has taught you well. Sit down."

"So they say," Jon took a seat in front of the man and was more than ready to take the pitcher of northern beer that his uncle handed him. That ale was too strong but apart from making him dizzy, it brought him warmth. "Then visiting my cousin Robb. You carry too many men to stay from town to town and we're taking a direct route up the highroad. And you don't take your Winter Wolves."

"And what does that tell you?"

"What, contrary to what others may believe, you are going to visit my cousins with no intention of beheading them. You have too few men for a war and we are taking the main road instead of heading down the routes that lead us far down the path of lords willing to give you lodging. You want to get to Winterhold fast."

Lord Eddard tasted his ale. "And why would I want to do that?"

"Because Lord Robb is the lord of an inner region within your domain, and he has quite a bit of power. His actions are barbaric, to say the least, but effective, and the people love him. Also, from what I've been able to deduce from what I've been told. Your banners said, Lord Robb hasn't got many faults: he's put down every rebellion in your name, declared himself your vassal multiple times, and pays his taxes even if it means leaving his land depleted. Plus, he and his sister Lady Sansa favor trade and peasant activity"

Lord Stark nodded again, encouraging him to continue.

"Then if you send it to Winterfell, their vassals would automatically see that as aggression and it would be a matter of trouble. Even if that's not your intention, the Far North will interpret it as they see fit. So that's why you're going to see him together with your heir"

"And what does Eyron have to do with my decision?" Eddard inquired, his eyes interested.

"Lord Robb..." Jon paused briefly to drink from his tankard "he is a bastard under the general laws of the seven kingdoms. However, his father married under a Weirwood, and is therefore considered a legitimate son by many Northmen and probably the true lord of the North. You are going to visit him, as Lord Paramount, and test his loyalty. And you bring your heir with you, which shows security in your legitimacy, and brings a protection over you: during the way to Winterhold, during the stay inside the castle and during the march, you are protected by honor. If something happens to you or your heir, even if Lord Robb isn't connected to said plot, then people will call Robb Redstark a kinslayer and that would detract him from any legitimacy."

His uncle seemed unhappy with certain parts of his analysis, as if she considered some of what Jon was proposing to be too immoral, but he seemed to agree with his analysis. Jon was a bit confused though, especially seeing his uncle's complicated face at any reference to Robb being a bastard.

Did Lord Eddard feel guilty?

Most likely it was.

Robb and Sansa were the sons of Lord Eddard's older brother, the ones who were supposed to inherit Winterfell, but by twists of fate they had been declared bastards.

However, Jon wondered how far that guilt would go. Not long enough to withdraw Robert's order and make Robb his heir, surely. After all, even in spite of everything, what happened in the North was nothing more than a radical change in succession, as had happened in hundreds throughout Westeros. Eddard Stark's blood would rule Winterfell for generations to come, and guilt would not make Lord Eddard change that.

"However, naming your nephew, who probably has a grudge against you, as lord of a chunk of land is dangerous. Making him lord of a sub-region was stupid" he thought.

He naturally didn't express his thoughts.

Ned

.

.

.

"In case of a clash, no participating in shield walls"

"No, father" Eyron replied again, respectful face disimulating his tireness about the matter.

It was the fourth time Ned had told him, not because he thought Eyron was stupid but because he knew the spirit of his heir. Eyron reminded him a lot of Robert, a hothead. They weren't going to have a fight, but a little field training would go a long way for his son anyway. "Only men can withstand the shield wall," Eddard continued, "the most dangerous blows come not from the axes and swords that are seen, but from those that are not visible: the blade that reaches under the shields aimed at the ankles is the worst."

He took the opportunity to give Eyron and Steffon other advices during the weeks that the trip took. Steffon didn't ask many questions, didn't even ride in the front line with them most of the time. Instead, Steffon struck up a conversation with all of Ned's bannermen, trying to spend time with them and learn about Ned's concerns and thoughts. Eddard approved of such behavior.

Of the two hundred and fifty men who headed for Winterhold from Winterfell, fifty did so on horseback. It was the closest bannermen of House Stark or the richest landlords who could afford some sort of armor, carrying shields and swords. Some had hunting bows with them, and all had been ordered to carry three weeks' worth of food (stale bread, an even staler cheese, and smoked fish).

They followed the highroad causeway, crossing Willam's Trail, the great wall that runs along Eagle Mountain, and continued inland.

The wall was built by Edwyle, Ned told Jon and Eyron, to guard the causeway from getting snowed up in the winter. These walls were called Willam's Trail, built by Lord Artos Stark the Winter Architect, Edwyle's uncle and probably the creator of the architectural works that made up the region.

Artos Stark was without a doubt, after Brandon the Builder, the only northern architect of any importance and probably never seen.

Again, Eddard thought of Jon Arryn.

Jon liked to study the great wonders of the world. There was nothing more he wanted than to see the man who had been his foster father. Too bad Arryn was in King's Landing as Hand of Robert. Times like this, he felt that needed someone to give him wise advice.

Jon Arryn had been more his father than Rickard himself. Rickard Stark, just thinking about that name made Ned bitter. Rickard Stark was a good statesman, an incomparable lord who had ended up uniting the entire North with his policies, but as a father... as a father, he was something else.

Ned never understood his lord father.

Rickard Stark was a man of few words and a completely expressionless face. An ice floe, imperturbable. He never gave affection to his children, except for Lyanna, although Maester Walys assured him that Rickard always loved them in his own way. The only thing Ned did remember fairly well was his political ambition, his need to create alliances. That was why he had planned to marry Brandon to Catelyn Tully and Lyanna to Robert.

Ned had had to go to Eyrie as Jon Arryn's ward, his best years really, and had even fallen in love with a young lady. A Dayne. Ned only thought of Ashara and his heart still trembled. In the past, he thought of marrying her and making her his lady. At the time, Ned was only a merely second son. He wouldn't inherit the North, that would be Brandon's. Ned would be free to choose.

Until that idiot Brandon was stupid enough to rebel against his father's wishes by marrying a farnorthern woman. The war between the Starks and the Tullys had only been averted by marrying Ned to Catelyn in a fleeting wedding as soon as the bride was of age; furthermore, at Robert's request, Lyanna married him later that year.

No matter what people said about Brandon Wild Wolf, Ned never forgave him for that stupidity.

Lyanna probably never saw Brandon as guilty of anything, but Ned wasn't surprised. Lyanna and Brandon had the blood of the wolf running too strong through their veins, they were both the same and identical: proud, violent, and willing to do their wishes. Lyanna managed to take control of the untamed Robert and make him do her bidding, and Ned was sure the Baratheon had never been unfaithful to her during that year. If she had not died, she'd probably have been the current sovereign in everything.

But she was dead, just like Brandon.

Dead by the blood of the wolf that ran in their veins in a crazed way.

And they left Ned alone. Hating them and crying at the same time.

And as if that were not enough, he had three nephews identical to his dead brothers. With the prince, it was passable at least. Steffon Baratheon was the spitting image of Lyanna but that temperament reminded him of too much of Stannis's analytical cynicism, which was good on one hand and uncomfortable on the other. Steffon was only a year older than Eyron but it was clear that he had the soul of a grown man. A man with sharp opinions.

Every time Steffon looked into his eyes, Ned could feel how he was constantly being judged, analyzing truths and actions.

Steffon would make a good king, he thought.

As for Brandon's twin sons…he didn't even want to think about it, really.

And with all these close thoughts of his nephews and his dead family, they arrived at Winterhold sixteen days after the march had begun.

"By all the gods," he heard Eyron let out a sound of surprise when they were within a kilometer of the massive castle.

"It's... Amazing," Steffon added, his stoic demeanor hesitating to show childish emotion.

Ned completely agreed with the two of them.

Winterhold was indeed a splendor. When it was being built, Ned had seen it as a magnificent work. Now, six years later, Winterhold was superb, even more so than Winterfell.

The fortress stood on a lofty rock looming over very close to the Shivering Sea. Waves tossed its shore and broke white on the rock's northern tip, and a shallow lake—named Tybalabund—of seawater rippled in the west side between the fortress and the land.

To get to Winterhold, Ned's group had to take a causeway that led south, a strip of rock and sand guarded by a wooden keep. The guards of the keep, dressed in the Redstark emblem—a snarling painted wolf's head while an eagle perched on his head—awaited them. Ned recognized one of them, with the ax-encrusted head emblem sewn into the leather armor.

"Welcome, my magnar Eddard" greeted the young man, in a thick accent, whom Ned immediately recognized as the son of one of Lord Melwas Thenn, one of the far-northern lords sworn to Winterhold. In the past, Lord Melwas was also Brandon's best friend.

The last time Ned saw Melwas and Yorvos Thenn was at the siege of Snowfield some time ago. In those dates in the past, Robb and Yorvas had become bloodbrothers, sword brothers. "Yorvas" Ned greeted, in a friendly tone. The young man was seventeen years old but, like all those who had passed the bloodbath, he seemed older. "How is your father?"

"In his land, chewing dried meat as always. I'd like him to come out more but the Gods occupy him"

Ned heard Eyron snort.

Those of the Far North were Northerners, as much as those of the Near, but they were characterized by being too superstitious. Any design, even the smallest, was seen as a sign of anything. Rumor has it that Lord Melwas served as Layqa, Lord Robb's religious and magical adviser. Melwas locked himself into his castle and, locked in a room with dried meat and incense, he saw and heard the designs of the Old Gods.

"This is my son, Eyron," Ned pointed out, looking seriously at his hewir, who was to his left. He then looked to his right, to his nephew's, "and this is the prince of the realm, Steffon."

Steffon bowed his head in curt greeting while Eyron embarrassedly mumbled something. Ned knew that Eyron would learn to be courteous and respectful of the beliefs of his future vassals no matter how childish those beliefs were.

"Young Magnar, Prince" Yorvos Thenn bowed his head in greeting though his tone was quite icy even if there was no lack of respect in him.

Bad signal.

"I came to see my nephew," Ned added, not wanting to delay the entrance too much longer.

"He is not here, Magnar Eddard" was Yorvos' reply, "however, the Good Lady awaits you and your men. Please come in."

Ned tried hard not to show his surprise, "Isn't he here?"

"Our Magnar Robb went looking for the remaining Free Folk a few months ago. We haven't seen him in a long time. Windfather protect him" Yorvos frowned and Ned saw truth in his irritated face. As Robb's brother-in-arms, the Thenn heir would have wanted to fight with him and not stay in Winterhold.

How had Ned not realized that eventuality before?

Reluctantly, he walked with Eyron through the low gate and the great stone wall, before passing the barns, blacksmith shop, stables, and stables that made up the small village that surrounded the fortress, all the wooden buildings with rye thatched roofs, and made their way up the tall gate to the massive inner courtyard. Only Ned, his son, and his nephew, plus a dozen loyal banners, entered the castle. The rest would stay in the village until departure time.

The lady of the castle was waiting for them there.

Ned and his party dismounted and handed their horses over to servants before he addressed the woman. Behind her were Mance Rayder and Maester Baric as well as a blonde woman.

"My lord uncle" was the greeting that Ned received from the lips of his niece, that voice so silky and cold. Sansa spoke in a commanding tone, and Ned thought of his lord father Rickard.

What he could notice, moreover, was how beautiful she was. His daughter Minisa was called the Beauty of the North, but Sansa Redstark had nothing to envy her cousin. She was dressed all in white, in the northern fashion, and her auburn hair was neatly pinned over her right shoulder, falling like a river of fire past her hips. Her delicate face was a mask of authority and extreme seriousness, which instead of decimating her physique made her look even more beautiful. Even the fact that Sansa was over six feet tall contributed to her authority figure.

Ned hesitated as to what to do next. Maybe he should hug her? No, that would be out of place. He never acted like a father figure or even a real uncle.

Sansa held out her hand gently, and the blonde woman hurriedly took it gently before gently helping her down the steps. Judging from the way she dressed her and the sword emblem etched into the right side of her cloak, Ned assumed the blonde woman belonged to the Winter Wives.

This scene, without knowing why, made Ned feel strangely out of place, as if he were observing something very private. His thoughts were cut off when his niece reached out to them, letting go of the blonde woman's arm.

She was a head taller than him, which made her look down at him. "It's an honor to have you here, uncle, we were already beginning to think that Winterhold would not deserve the honor of being visited by you" she said, giving him a smile as beautiful as it was a bit sardonic.

"Glad to see you well, Sansa," Ned replied, staring into those deep blue eyes like frozen rivers. "I wanted to see your lord brother but they told me he was dabbling"

"Hunting down the remnants of the Free Folk," Lady Sansa corrected him, "they burn our villages after all and someone has to put an end to them. We can talk about that in a few moments, I imagine you must be tired from all the traveling."

"Fair enough, niece''.

Sansa nodded. "Lord Eyron," Sansa greeted, with a small nod to his son.

The red-haired young man stared at her, stunned, as if he were seeing the most beautiful being in the world. "Cousin," Eyron managed to say, with as much politeness as he could muster.

Sansa then looked at Steffon, who was regarding her with the same serious stoicism as always, and gave her a slight smile. "I didn't expect to see you here, Jon," she commented.

"The improbable always comes in handy" replied the Prince.

Ned raised an eyebrow at that nickname, not quite understanding.

"Then, it's time for us to do it" sentenced the lady, with an indifferent gesture. Sansa, before he could ask any questions, held out to the blonde woman again. The blonde woman reached into her bearskin cloak and pulled out an object. A long dagger with runic engravings all over the pommel, and wrapped in a thick leather strap.

Ned's eyes widened, "what...?"

Eyron tried to raise the alarm as several of Ned's banners tried to draw their weapons but it was too late. Lady Sansa took the dagger swiftly, in a flash, and raised it high into the air, before cutting a long slash across her right hand. The blood gushed out, falling to the floor, in a small pool of red.

"By the Windfather, by the Wolfbrother, by the Sea Mother, by the Eagle Sister and by Winter King, I, Sansa, of House Redstark, swear under my blood being shed, that my guests are welcome to my land and that any intentional harm against them will be the death of all my people" Sansa entoned, blankly face, ceremonially, ignoring the look of shock on Ned's face. Then she held out the bloody dagger again to the blonde woman, who took it out of respect before using the strip of skin to tie it to her wound.

Sansa didn't look away from her uncle.

"At the entrance gate to the castle, there are also men who will offer you bread and salt" she pointed out, with the authoritative tone of someone who is in control of the situation although without disrespecting him.. not at least on his face . "Now we can go in."

"Why… why did you do that?" Eyron said, in a small voice, looking at her.

Sansa's gaze was devastatingly cruel and indifferent. Ned swore her gaze hardened more than it was. "They are our customs, the customs of the First Men"

…

The next day, almost as if planned, Lord Robb arrived. It was early morning, just the fragile rays of the sun breaking through, when Robb arrived with his party of men.

Ned was awakened by the noise in the castle. He walked out with Eyron into the courtyard to see what it was up to.

It would be a dozen. Their horses raised little clouds on the frozen grass. Gwain led the way. It was Robb's horse, a pinto stallion with wild eyes and a peculiar gait. The animal stretched its front legs forward as it ran, and it was impossible not to make out that horse even though Ned had seen it long ago at the siege of Frostfangs.

The last time Eddard saw Robb was about three years ago, when the boy was bathed in blood during battle. Robb was quite young in those days, just a boy with red hair and a smug smile. He remembered that the young man had proudly presented how many rebel men he had killed, much to Ned's annoyance. A man shouldn't be proud of how many he killed. That was not chivalrous at all, nothing worthy of a knight.

However, now, the one leading the retinue was not a child. He was warlord. Ned saw Brandon with reddish hair on top of Gwain and did not know how to react to that sight.

Robb brought the horse to a halt and looked around the courtyard with serious blue eyes before stopping at Ned. This done, he dismounted from Gwain's saddle and walked towards them. Ned thought that Robb, as a good vassal, would address him first, but he didn't.

Robb, ignoring everyone, knelt in front of his sister.

"I'm home, my lady. I bring you success," he said, head bowed so that his long hair fell to the sides of his face like a veil. Sansa touched his head, then his cheeks, with a tenderness that seemed all too strange to Ned. Sansa gave him her right hand, which was thinly bandaged, and he placed a wide kiss on it. "Get up, my strong lord, worthy descendant of the Weirwood Ancestors," she replied, in the same tone of a lady giving her blessing to her beloved, "may your land be mine and may you find well in she".

Robb slowly got to his feet.

Then Sansa wrapped him in an embrace, too close for two brother though. The lord of Winterhold then turned his attention from her sister to Ned, giving him a rather wide smile that seemed entranced.

"Uncle Eddard, I didn't think I was going to get back to you for a long time!" The redhaired young man spoke, and there was a sincerity in his tone that took Ned by surprise. Before he knew it, the redhead was hugging him too.

Ned, hesitant for a few seconds, instinctively hugged him back. He had almost forgotten that this was Robb. Serious and expressionless but affectionate with those he believed to be his family. And to think that Robb, despite everything, considered him his family made Eddard Stark soften a little for the first time since he arrived.

When he departed from Winterfell, he did so mentally prepared knowing that he would meet lords that he must discipline and put in his place. Just that. But now, with Robb's effusive showing, the worst is over.

He stopped seeing them as the adults they were, the adults they had become since they were ten years old after their banishment from Winterfell, and began to see them as something more. Like his nephews, like Brandon's kids... like the children he loved like his own blood.

He felt ashamed that he had forced himself to think of them as rebels. No, Ned had acted blindly instead of thinking with his head as Jon Arryn advised him to act in matters of importance longs years ago.

"I heard you were busy, Robb," he said as they broke the hug, his gray eyes assessing his nephew's blue ones.

Robb nodded solemnly, his smile giving way to a solemn face. "Aye" it was the answer, "I don't think they will commit crimes again against the good people who inhabit our land".

Ned looked at him appraisingly for a few seconds. For a few moments, Robb was once again the man who wrote his reports. The ruthless and efficient warlord, the Red Wolf, who was accused of creating a heretical religion and ideas of rebellion. However, when Robb became affable again, the idea almost disappeared.

"Steffon is very interested in seeing you, Robb," he said, patting him on the shoulder, "do you remember your cousin?"

Robb's face, the same one that had looked at him with pure hatred when he was expelled from Winterfell, seemed surprised before he smiled again.

"So Jon is here?"

"Jon?" Ned asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's the nickname we gave our cousin" was the young man's reply. "It's a long story but I'll tell it to you under the fire in the hall. I'm freezing to death and starving! Then we can go hunting, before the woods freeze completely."

Eddard allowed himself to be guided but at all times he continued to think.

The reports warned of the emergence of a split within the believers of the Old Gods, with traditions that claimed to be old and pure, and a kind of messiah who carried a supposed legendary sword. The reports spoke of a Windfather and the rise of the skalds, alleged representatives of the gods. The reports spoke of conversions of many lords and peasants that went from strength to strength, and also spoke of the blind loyalty of the far northerners. There was talk of cruelty and poverty being repelled by the Red Wolf.

The way things were going, it was best to put a stop to it. Ned thought it best to set the record straight now that they were on time. However, his original plan had vanished and it was time to think of another less crude way of punishing those boys who were victims of his own weakness in not knowing how to deny Robert's wishes.

Harma

.

.

.

The shields of Ramsay's women were impregnated with shipyard pitch to resemble the black shields of the hordes of free folk, whose long, sharp-prowed ships pirated the northern shores before the sea froze. While almost the entire Free Folk fleet had been destroyed by the Manderlys, who could have denied the advance of Free Folk who disembarked in frozen boats and headed inland to pillage and depart?

Ramsay told them that the people of the moor had rebelled against the Red Wolf and that their religion (alien to the belief of the Old Gods and closer to the blasphemy that was the Faith of the Seven) taught them to fear warriors with black shields.

It was a well-concocted tale, and Harma might have believed it if she hadn't eavesdropped on Ramsy's conversation with Craster the day before. Commander Ramsay promised them if they did their duty well, and then warned that tonight's massacre would have to remain secret as they were to inflict punishment without orders from the Good Lady Sansa. That was not surprising, considering that as commander of the Winter Wives, Ramsay Snow's mission was to bring peace.

On the way to the moors, deep in a frozen forest, they found an ancient shrine built under an oak grove, and Ramsay made them swear an oath to secrecy on pain of death.

They fell on the Karstark settlers at night, under the cry of "death to the dogs".

It was a horrific massacre, and children were killed there. Northerners were killed.

She felt sick, disgusted.

It all ended relatively quickly.

The town was suddenly empty. Only the dead remained, those who were dying and a few who tried to hide. They killed everyone they found. Also to animals. They burned the carts they used to carry coal from the valleys. They caved in the turf roofs of the huts and trampled the orchards and looted the village for valuables. A few arrows fell from the horizon, but none hit.

In the cabin of the head of the colony there was a vat with coins, gold ingots and silver bars. The tub, Harma hated herself, was to be sent directly to Lord Robb according to the tattooed symbol. It was the largest dwelling, twenty feet long, and inside, by torchlight, they saw the chief dead, lying on the ground with his face yellowed and his belly cut open. Next to him lay two girls and the pregnant wife, whose womb was cut open and pieces of the fetus spilled out.

Harma felt her tears threatening to spill out. She instinctively thought of her mother and her little brothers.

There was yet one more girl, dead under a piece of blood-soaked leather. Harma thought the girl was waving her hand when a female soldier bumped into her. As they left the house, Harma approached her. The girl's eyes were open, and she noticed her.

Harma moved her head to the sides of her and placed the best leather around her to cover her completely.

She heard the cry of another creature as it was found in her hiding place and impaled on the sword.

They left before dawn.

The valley was leveled, engulfed in smoke and drenched in blood. The wasteland stank of death and the wails of widows and orphans echoed everywhere. Ramsay, grinning wide, handed a gold ingot, two silver bars, and a handful of coins to each of the participants.

She thought the right thing to do would have been to refuse but, swallowing her pride, she accepted the reward.

That same night, Ramsay appeared in his chambers. She was completely naked, her generous breasts inviting Harma with the sight of her, and before she knew it they were both on top of a mattress. Ramsay bit her lip hard, drawing blood, and she let her guilt and pleasure mingle.

Take me. Eat me. Devour me. Cum... on me, on my mouth, on my fingers... on my body. Make me feel my body burn. Make me forget who I am. Make me forget my guilt. Harder. Give me all.

I hate you, fucking monster. So one more time... Fuck me.

Well, I hope it was entertaining! What are your appreciations of the chapter? The truth is that it was fun to write although I had a hard time doing it because there are so many POVs that I would love to cover but that would be a problem.

Ramsay has already appeared, a female version, and we see her completely different from the canon: a person who enjoys many favors and trust who, even being a bastard, has a fairly large position in Winterhold household. Her actions, always motivated by her own benefit, show that she is a person willing to commit too risky actions if she gets a benefit. And that will probably bring too many retaliation for Robb to deal with. And about Harma, what do you think about this poor chick?

Ned met with the twins and we know what his opinions are and what his faults are, and how he plans to address the issue of his nephews will be a lot to talk about. And there is the idea of a religious reform that is devouring the whole world and the political manipulations that are springing up on all sides to shut things down.

And then there is Prince Steffon, alias Jon, who is a person who is educating himself on everything that is happening in the North and has a very crude way of thinking about life. Why does he affectionately refer to Stannis and Cersei as his parents, especially Cersei? What will this Cersei and this Stannis hold for us?

In the next chapter, between the POVs, we'll see Shireen's POV, the one person from King's Landing and Catelyn's POV about the twins' opinion... and maybe we'll see more of the reasons why the Twins were expelled from Winterfell.

Reviews:

Fenrir44: Thanks for your review and I'm glad you liked the story! I hope you like this chapter as well! Actually I've been thinking about multi pairing but I'd like to do a poll among my readers to see what they think about it.

As far as being pretty pro First Men, Robb has been raised in the Far North and has taken a very different view than the Starks of Winterfell. His customs and ways of thinking are cruder and more direct than what Ned could imagine and it is quite worrying. The North suffers abuse from the king and sees Ned as guilty for accepting all of this, so someone 'ideal' like Robb is highly praised.

Sparky She-Demon: I'm glad you liked the chapter. I have quite a complex lore developed for this storyline that will slowly unfold. The Westeros of this story is more technologically and culturally backward than canon, and therefore more violent and ignorant. In future chapters we will see the POV of other characters both northern and southern, especially Stannis.

Fesr: here is the update! I hope you like it!