Winterfell, The North, 288 AC

Harrion

Snow drifted steadily over Winterfell, blanketing the training yard in a thick, muffling silence. The cold bit sharply at Harrion's cheeks, each breath visible in the frosty air as a faint puff of mist. Around him, Winterfell's steady rhythms murmured beneath the snow—the clanging from the forge, the low voices of guards patrolling the walls, and the occasional creak of footsteps against stone. Yet here, in the yard, everything beyond the steady commands of Ser Rodrik Cassel seemed to fade into the cold air, leaving only Harrion, his brothers, and the weight of the wooden sword in his hands.

"Feet apart! Balance, lads. A strong swing is useless if you can't keep your footing," Ser Rodrik called, his voice ringing clear and unyielding in the cold air.

Harrion widened his stance, feeling the reassuring heft of the practice sword ground him. He kept his movements careful, almost too careful, concentrating on the rhythm of each swing. He wasn't like Robb, who struck with a natural exuberance that seemed to power each motion, or like Jon, whose focus was unwavering and intense. Harrion preferred to pace himself, choosing precision over power, but he felt the nervous tension creeping into his shoulders, the familiar urge to shrink into himself—an urge he fought to resist.

As Ser Rodrik moved along the line, his feedback came in his usual mix of guidance and critique. He clapped Robb on the shoulder as he passed, a faint, approving smile on his face. "Good energy, Robb, but rein it in. Accuracy over speed, lad. Control your swings, and save your strength."

Robb grinned, his breath puffing out in excited bursts. "Yes, Ser!" he replied, unbothered by the correction, his stance adjusting easily. His energy was undiminished, his confidence as bright as the snow around him as he resumed his practice with renewed vigor.

When Ser Rodrik turned to Jon, he found his student holding his sword with the steady grip of someone who'd spent countless hours training. "Good work, Jon," Ser Rodrik noted, nodding approvingly. "Keep that focus. But loosen your shoulders—you're too stiff, and it'll wear you out."

Jon nodded, easing his stance without losing his determination. Harrion watched as Jon adjusted, each motion deliberate, every swing of his sword precise. Jon trained with a quiet fierceness, as if every practice was a chance to prove something—to prove he belonged. Harrion knew that feeling all too well.

Finally, Ser Rodrik turned to Harrion, his gaze as sharp as the cold. Harrion's fingers tightened on the sword instinctively, anticipation and nerves making his pulse quicken. "Good, Harrion. Steady, measured," Ser Rodrik said, nodding slightly. "But don't overthink. If you wait too long, you'll be down before you've even struck."

"Yes, Ser." Harrion forced himself to square his shoulders, adjusting his stance, trying to keep his grip from tightening too much. The tension settled heavily in his arms, but he did his best to stay in the moment, blocking out the familiar worries that tugged at his mind. Here, in Winterfell, he could almost ignore them. Almost. But Riverrun… Riverrun would be different. Lady Stark's family would look at him and Jon and see not brothers, but bastards. The thought sent a faint shiver through him, as cold and sharp as the air.

A few paces away, Jon was already back to his drills, his movements relentless. Harrion noticed the rigid focus in Jon's brow, the way he put everything into his training, as if to channel something deeper into every swing. Harrion knew that weight too well—that unspoken reminder that, unlike Robb, they were something else. Something less.

Just then, Robb's voice broke through the quiet, brimming with excitement. "When we get to Riverrun, I'll challenge every Tully cousin I see!" he announced, his grin wide. "And none of them will stand a chance against me!"

Jon smirked, his voice barely more than a mutter. "You can't even best me yet."

Robb threw Jon an exaggerated glare, twirling his sword with a playful flourish. "That's because I let you win, brother. Wouldn't want to hurt your pride."

A chuckle escaped Harrion, though he felt the slightest hesitation before he replied, "Let him win? You end up flat on your back every time, Robb."

Robb flashed him a mock glare, his eyes glinting with challenge. "Care to test that theory, Harrion?"

Harrion forced a smirk, shrugging lightly. "I'll save it for Riverrun. Just try not to trip over your own feet when you're showing off to the Tullys."

Robb's grin widened, his chest puffing out with confidence. "Just you wait. When we get there, I'll be the one everyone's watching. Even the Tully boys won't know what hit them!"

Harrion managed a small smile, though his chest tightened slightly. Robb didn't understand. He didn't have to. Robb was Lady Catelyn's son, Lord Eddard's trueborn heir, and everyone knew it. At Riverrun, he'd be received as family—a Tully by blood, a Stark by name. But Harrion and Jon? They would be something else entirely, a reminder of a line that couldn't be crossed. He imagined the glances, the whispers that would follow them there, each one carving a deeper reminder of their place.

Jon, as if sensing Harrion's mood, glanced his way, a steady, reassuring presence in his eyes. Jon knew the weight of it; he always knew. The look Jon gave him seemed to say, We'll face it together. Harrion felt a flicker of relief at that silent understanding, the tension easing slightly in his chest.

But Robb, oblivious to the undercurrent between his brothers, only laughed, raising his sword with a flourish. "You both worry too much! We're brothers. We'll show the Riverlands what Winterfell's made of."

Harrion forced himself to smile, letting Robb's cheer lift his mood, even if only slightly. "Brothers," he echoed quietly, the word carrying a note of both truth and uncertainty. Here, in the training yard, with Jon and Robb beside him, it felt real enough.

As Ser Rodrik watched them resume their practice, Harrion let his attention settle back into the rhythm of each swing, grounding himself in the crisp, familiar movements. This, at least, was a place where he could almost believe he belonged.

The yard fell silent as the boys finished their drills, each swing sending small puffs of snow up from the ground. After a few final adjustments to their stances, Ser Rodrik clapped his hands, his voice ringing out across the yard. "That's enough for today. I expect you to keep up these exercises before we leave for Riverrun—and remember, there's always room to improve."

He nodded to each of them, his stern gaze softened by a hint of approval. Robb, of course, was the first to break formation, grinning widely as he lowered his sword and rolled his shoulders. "Riverrun!" he repeated, the word full of enthusiasm. "I'll show them what a Stark can do. Maybe I'll even best Ser Edmure in a spar."

Jon smirked, adjusting his grip on his practice sword as he watched Robb with a bemused expression. "You'd need more than enthusiasm to best Ser Edmure, Robb. He's a knight, remember?"

"Knights can be beaten," Robb replied, lifting his chin. "And besides, I've been training longer than some of those squires. Just wait—I'll make Father proud."

Harrion returned Robb's grin with a faint smile, feeling his pulse quicken at the mention of Riverrun. Robb's excitement was infectious, yet for him, the thought of Lady Stark's family estate stirred a quiet apprehension. Riverrun wasn't home, and it wasn't Winterfell, either. It was somewhere else entirely—a place where every action would be observed, every step expected to meet an invisible standard he'd only heard about. He felt the weight of it settle in his chest as he adjusted his grip on his sword, imagining the great halls, the strange faces, and Lady Stark's quiet expectations that hung over all of them.

As if sensing his unease, Jon shifted beside him, his expression thoughtful as he considered their destination. Finally, he spoke, his tone careful. "Just remember, Robb—Riverrun is Lady Catelyn's home. I don't think she'd take kindly to any antics in front of her family."

Robb's confidence didn't falter, his grin only broadening. "Mother won't mind. I'll make her proud, too. I'll make them all proud."

Harrion forced himself to mirror Robb's smile, though his thoughts were less certain. Riverrun held so much for Lady Stark—family, memories, the legacy she'd brought with her to Winterfell. He knew he'd have to tread carefully, to avoid mistakes, to live up to expectations that weren't entirely clear. Every moment there would be a test he could feel, even if he couldn't name it.

"We'll see, Robb," Harrion replied quietly, keeping his tone casual. "Just don't trip over your own feet when they're all watching."

Robb shot him a mock glare but laughed, eyes flashing with amusement. "Careful, Harrion. I'll prove you wrong one of these days."

Jon, watching the exchange with a faint smile, spoke up. "Harrion's right, Robb. Riverrun won't be like Winterfell. It'll be… different."

Robb glanced at him, a question in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Jon hesitated, his gaze turning thoughtful. "I mean that they'll expect things from us—all of us. Things that matter to Lady Catelyn and her family." He shrugged lightly, his expression neutral but with a touch of wariness. "It just won't be the same, that's all."

Robb looked between them, his frown deepening as if only now realizing that Riverrun meant more than just sparring matches and adventures. He squared his shoulders, a hint of stubbornness crossing his face. "Then let's make them proud—Lady Catelyn, Father, all of them. We'll show them what we're made of."

Harrion exchanged a glance with Jon, the silent understanding passing between them. Robb's loyalty and confidence were unwavering, but Harrion sensed that Riverrun would test them in ways Robb might not yet imagine. But for now, he nodded along, allowing himself a faint smile at Robb's words.

As Robb strode ahead of them, his laughter bright in the crisp air, Harrion felt a knot of anticipation—and a quiet unease—settle in his chest as the snowy yard faded into Winterfell's steady hum once more.

The Great Hall was warm, almost stifling after the icy chill of the training yard. Harrion stood between Jon and Robb, the heat from the fire pressing against his back as he tried to keep his stance steady under Lady Catelyn's gaze. She was watching them with the same critical eye she reserved for household inspections, her mouth set in a firm line, her shoulders held high and rigid. Harrion could feel the weight of her scrutiny, settling over him like an invisible yoke.

"When we arrive at Riverrun, you will be representing Winterfell," Catelyn began, her voice even, but with a sharpness that cut through the warm air. Her eyes swept over the three of them, but they lingered longest on Harrion and Jon. "This is my family's home, and I expect you to conduct yourselves with nothing less than perfect respect. There will be no room for foolishness, and no room for error. The Tullys expect decorum, restraint, and discipline."

She paused, letting her words settle, and Harrion felt his pulse quicken as her gaze fell back on him, colder now. "I trust you understand what that means, Harrion."

He swallowed, nodding quickly. "Yes, my lady," he replied, though his voice felt too quiet, his posture too tense.

Her eyes narrowed, a faint frown creasing her brow. "Do you? Because I wonder if you've given enough thought to what Riverrun will expect of you." Each word seemed to carve into him, carrying an edge he couldn't ignore. Harrion's hands clenched at his sides, a quiet tension building in his chest as she continued. "Riverrun is a place of dignity, and I will not have any missteps. Show respect at all times, and consider your every action carefully."

Beside him, Jon shifted slightly, his shoulders tensing. Catelyn's look fell on him next, as pointed as her words had been for Harrion. "And you, Jon. Do not think the Tullys will overlook your behavior. They expect restraint. They value formality. There will be no place for carelessness or impulsiveness."

Jon held her gaze, though Harrion saw the faint tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his side. "Yes, my lady," Jon replied evenly, his voice as controlled as he could manage.

Her tone softened only when she looked at Robb, her shoulders relaxing just enough to show her approval. "Robb, as my eldest here, you have a duty to represent both House Stark and House Tully. Conduct yourself with pride, but with humility as well. You will be seen not only as a Stark but as one of my father's own blood."

Robb nodded, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. "I will, Mother. I promise."

The edge in her expression softened further as she looked at him, a hint of pride breaking through her stern exterior. "Good. I know you will." She gave him an approving nod, and Harrion felt a tightness in his throat as he forced himself to look forward, focusing on the flickering shadows across the floor to keep his face still. The difference in her tone when she spoke to Robb—he had felt it many times, but it stung just the same.

Catelyn's gaze returned to Harrion and Jon, sharpening as she spoke. "You will both bow deeply when introduced to my father, Lord Hoster Tully," she instructed, her words as precise as the gesture she demonstrated, her movements fluid and controlled. "Not a shallow nod. I expect you to bow fully, as you would before any lord paramount."

Her eyes fixed on Harrion again, assessing him with that same cool, unyielding scrutiny. "Now, Harrion," she said, her voice edged with doubt. "Show me how you intend to bow."

Harrion swallowed again, feeling the familiar pressure settle between his shoulders. He straightened, willing his body to follow the practiced motion, though every movement felt stiffer than it had in the solitude of his room. As he dipped forward, lowering himself into a deep bow, he sensed her gaze tracking every detail—every angle, every pause. When he rose, he met her gaze for a fleeting moment, only to see a glimmer of something disapproving in her expression.

"Is that the best you can manage?" she asked, her tone cold and clipped. "This is not some casual greeting, Harrion. This is Lord Hoster Tully, and I expect you to show the proper respect. Again."

His face burned, but he held his breath and repeated the bow, bending lower this time, pushing through the stiffness in his shoulders. His arms felt heavy, and his movements clumsy under her watchful eye, as if every muscle was working against him. When he straightened again, her face was still unreadable, but he could feel her dissatisfaction settling over him like a weight.

"Better," she said shortly, though her tone held no warmth. "But I expect you to bow without hesitation when we arrive. Any sign of uncertainty will reflect poorly on all of us."

"Yes, my lady," Harrion replied, struggling to keep his voice steady, though frustration simmered beneath his words. No matter how hard he practiced, he felt as though he would always fall short in her eyes, each movement under her gaze a reminder of her unspoken expectations.

Catelyn turned to Jon, her gaze just as severe. "Jon, I trust you understand the importance of this as well?"

Jon nodded, his expression controlled but tense. "Yes, my lady."

"Show me," she said curtly, folding her arms as she waited.

Jon's bow was smooth and practiced, his posture a reflection of the hours of discipline he had put into it. When he rose, his gaze met hers briefly, but she didn't soften; her expression remained hard, her lips pressed tightly together.

"Good," she said finally, though her voice was cool. "Remember, both of you represent this house, regardless of what anyone else may think. You are expected to act accordingly."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harrion saw Robb shift uncomfortably, glancing between him and Jon with a furrowed brow. Robb's mouth opened slightly, as though he might speak, but then he hesitated, a flash of confusion crossing his face as he registered the difference in her tone. He glanced back at Catelyn, but quickly lowered his gaze, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as if grounding himself.

Finally, Catelyn's gaze softened as it returned to Robb, her tone gentle once more. "And you, Robb. Remember, you represent Winterfell and Riverrun both. Speak of our family with pride, but respect their traditions. The Tullys value sincerity and humility."

Relief flickered across Robb's face as he nodded. "I will, Mother. I'll make you proud."

A faint smile curved her mouth, her gaze warming as she looked at him. "I know you will," she replied softly, and Harrion felt a knot of tension twist sharply in his chest. He forced himself to keep his face impassive, his eyes fixed straight ahead as he buried the frustration that burned quietly inside him.

As she stepped back, Catelyn's voice returned to its usual firmness. "Good. We'll continue practicing tomorrow, and I expect you all to take this seriously."

"Yes, my lady," Harrion replied along with Jon and Robb, his voice a touch quieter than he intended. Robb's gaze flickered to him, lingering for a moment with a mixture of uncertainty and discomfort. Harrion caught the questioning look on his brother's face, but Robb didn't speak, shifting uneasily as they were dismissed.

As they left the hall, Harrion felt the weight of her expectations pressing down on him, the feeling of her disapproving gaze still lingering on his shoulders. Each step toward Riverrun seemed heavier than the last, as if the pressure of her words had embedded itself into his very bones.

Jon

Jon pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he and Harrion stepped back into the training yard. The crisp evening air stung his cheeks, sharp and bracing after the cloying warmth of the Great Hall. Out here, beneath the open sky, he felt he could finally breathe again, the cold air washing away the weight of Lady Catelyn's critical gaze and the endless reminders of his own place—neither fully Stark nor fully outside of it, caught between the walls of Winterfell and something he could never quite name.

Harrion walked beside him, his head lowered, his shoulders hunched as if he were bracing himself against an invisible blow. The look on his brother's face was one Jon knew well—the tightness in his jaw, the way his mouth was set in a thin line, the tension radiating from him in waves. Harrion might not say it, but Jon could sense the frustration simmering beneath his silence, a frustration he himself felt all too often. It was the feeling of being caught in someone else's expectations, of trying to mold yourself to fit a role that had never been yours to begin with.

They reached the center of the yard, where the snow lay untouched, a blanket of white that stretched out beneath the dimming sky. The silence was vast and soothing, an escape from the tense formality of the Hall, and for a moment Jon hesitated, simply taking it in. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice light but sincere. "You know, your bow wasn't nearly as bad as she made it seem."

Harrion gave a short, humorless laugh, his lips curving into a faint smile that faded as quickly as it appeared. "Not bad, maybe," he muttered, his voice edged with frustration. "But not good enough. Nothing ever is."

Jon nodded, understanding all too well. Lady Catelyn's standards were impossible, a bar that seemed to rise higher the closer you came to meeting it. He had felt it himself, that weight of never quite measuring up, of always falling just short of some invisible line. "It's not about what you did wrong," he said quietly, his tone gentle but firm. "Sometimes, I think it's just… how she is."

Harrion let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Maybe," he murmured, though his tone held little conviction. "But whenever she looks at me, it's like I'm already failing. Like… like she's just waiting for me to prove her right." He paused, his gaze distant, a shadow passing over his face. "Sometimes, I wonder if she is right."

Jon felt a pang at Harrion's words, a stab of empathy that ran deeper than he could easily put into words. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You belong here, Harrion," he said firmly. "You've worked harder than any of us, and when we're at Riverrun, they'll see it. You'll prove it to them."

Harrion's mouth twisted into a small, bitter smile. "Maybe," he said softly, almost to himself. "But Riverrun isn't Winterfell. It's her family's home, and she'll be watching even closer there. Every step, every word… it'll all feel like a test."

Jon nodded, a quiet resolve settling in his chest. Riverrun would demand much of them both, but he wouldn't let Harrion face that weight alone. He would be there, a steady presence beside him, and together, they could face whatever expectations Lady Catelyn and her family had for them.

"Maybe it will feel like that," Jon said softly, his voice calm but certain. "But you don't have to face it alone. Whatever happens, we'll face it together."

Harrion looked at him, a glimmer of relief breaking through the tension in his gaze. "Thank you, Jon. That… that means a lot."

Jon nodded, and without a word, he moved to the weapons rack, selecting two wooden practice swords and handing one to Harrion. "Come on," he said with a faint smile. "Let's practice the basics. I could use the extra work, and it's good preparation for Riverrun."

Harrion took the sword, holding it with a tentative grip, but as he adjusted his stance, Jon could see him settle, the familiar weight of the sword grounding him. They began to work through the basics—stances, footwork, the rhythm of each movement. It was simple, repetitive work, but Jon found a strange comfort in it, a rhythm that allowed him to lose himself in the motions, to shut out the unspoken weight of expectations.

"Good," Jon murmured, watching Harrion's movements closely. "Stay balanced. Keep your weight steady."

Harrion nodded, his movements deliberate but tense, each step precise as though he were measuring himself against some unseen standard. Jon saw the strain in his eyes, the frustration that tightened his grip on the sword with each adjustment, and he recognized it as the same frustration that often crept into his own thoughts. Lady Catelyn's criticism lingered like a shadow, a constant reminder of the line they were always skirting, never quite crossing.

As they continued, Harrion's movements grew stiffer, his jaw set, his face a mask of concentration that bordered on anger. Jon could feel the tension building in him, each swing a little too hard, a little too forceful, as if he were fighting something more than just his stance.

Finally, Harrion stumbled, his face twisting in frustration as he caught his balance. He let out a huff of breath, dropping his arms with a look of defeat. "Why can't I just get it right?" he muttered, his voice thick with anger. "Everything feels… off. I can't… I can't just get it right."

Jon lowered his own sword, watching him closely. He had seen Harrion frustrated before, but this was different—a frustration that ran deeper, something that had been simmering beneath the surface, waiting for an outlet.

"Harrion," Jon said softly, stepping closer. "You don't have to be perfect. You've already done more than anyone expected."

Harrion shook his head, his face etched with a frustration Jon knew all too well. "It doesn't matter. No matter what I do, I can feel her just… watching, waiting for me to fail. It's like she's already decided I don't belong here, and she's waiting for me to prove her right."

Jon felt the weight of Harrion's words settle over him, an ache that he couldn't ignore. He understood that feeling, that quiet desperation to prove yourself in the face of someone else's judgment. He felt it every time Lady Catelyn's gaze lingered on him, every time her voice held that cold edge that reminded him, in no uncertain terms, of his place.

But what place did he truly have here?

Winterfell was his home, but it felt, at times, like a home with walls he could see but never fully touch. He was a Stark by blood, but without the protections of the name. The name dangled just out of reach, close enough to be part of his world but far enough to never be his to claim. He had learned long ago not to question it, to keep those thoughts buried beneath the surface, but now, standing here in the cold yard, they rose unbidden, and he felt the quiet weight of them pressing down like a familiar shadow.

Sometimes he wondered if the North itself would ever claim him. He loved it fiercely, the way Winterfell's stones held a cold that felt like strength, the way the vast, open spaces gave him room to breathe. And yet, Lady Catelyn's watchful eyes were a reminder that he would never be fully accepted, that he was tolerated but never welcomed. She looked through him, he knew, as though he were an unwanted memory she would rather forget.

But he shook off the thought, keeping his expression calm as he turned back to Harrion. He wouldn't let those doubts show now, not in front of his brother. Whatever he faced, he would face it with his chin high, if only to prove to himself that he could.

Harrion looked up at him, his earlier frustration softened, and Jon felt a quiet strength settle in his chest. Riverrun would test them, but they would stand together. And maybe that would be enough.

"Come on," he said, raising his sword once more. "Let's try again. This time, focus on your balance. Just take it one movement at a time."

Harrion took a deep breath, nodding as he raised his sword, his stance more relaxed this time. They moved together in silence, each step measured, each movement steady, and Jon felt the tension in Harrion's frame ease with each swing. They worked in rhythm, the steady back-and-forth of the practice becoming almost meditative, a reprieve from the weight of expectation.

By the time the light began to fade, their breaths hung in misty clouds, and the snow around them was trampled and uneven, marked by the rhythm of their steps. Jon lowered his sword, his muscles warm from the effort, and looked out over the yard, feeling a sense of peace he hadn't expected.

He put a hand on Harrion's shoulder, his touch firm and steady. "Whatever happens at Riverrun," he said quietly, "we'll face it together. I promise."

Harrion looked at him, a small, grateful smile breaking through his earlier frustration. "Thank you, Jon. I don't think I could do it alone."

Jon nodded, feeling the weight of his own words settle over him like a vow. They would face Riverrun together, whatever trials it held, and even if they returned with nothing more than a sense of their own strength, perhaps that would be enough.

Robb

The snow crunched beneath Robb's boots as he crossed the yard, his breath misting in the cold air. Winterfell was blanketed in fresh snow, the entire castle quiet under the dimming sky. Robb's steps quickened when he spotted Jon and Harrion up ahead, moving in practiced rhythm. Though they weren't sparring, each of his brothers moved with precision, wooden swords in hand, focused on the footwork Ser Rodrik had drilled into them.

"Still practicing?" Robb called, his voice cutting through the stillness. Jon turned first, lowering his sword with a faint smile, and Harrion followed, pausing to wipe his brow, his cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion.

Robb grinned as he reached them, his breath fogging in the air. "Didn't think you'd both still be out here! It's freezing."

Jon chuckled, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in them. "You'd be surprised how warm you get when you're actually practicing, Robb."

Robb scoffed, folding his arms. "Practicing! You mean moving your feet and waving sticks in the air?" He gave them both a mischievous look. "Not sure that counts as real training."

Jon rolled his eyes, but Harrion let out a small laugh, a flicker of amusement brightening his expression. "If you think you can do better, join us," Harrion said, a glint of challenge flashing in his eyes.

Robb accepted the wooden sword Jon offered him, gripping it with an easy swing. It felt lighter than his usual practice sword, but it would do. He slipped into the familiar rhythm of the training alongside his brothers, mirroring their footwork, the steady rhythm of movement grounding them all in the cold, quiet yard.

"So," Robb said as he settled into the steps, "are you both ready for Riverrun? It's a grand place—you'll see. Bigger than Winterfell, with the river running right through it." His grin widened, his voice brimming with anticipation. "And the feasts! Uncle Hoster brings out his best wine, they say, and the hall fills with lords and laughter."

He looked over at Jon and Harrion, expecting to see his own excitement reflected in their faces. But Jon's expression had grown thoughtful, and Harrion's smile faded, a flicker of unease in his eyes that Robb hadn't noticed before.

"Mother says it'll be our chance to show them what we're made of," Robb continued, his voice taking on a note of pride. "To show them Winterfell's strength. I'll show them I'm a true Stark."

Jon and Harrion exchanged a look, one Robb couldn't quite read. There was a heaviness in Jon's gaze that Robb wasn't used to seeing, a guardedness in Harrion's face that made Robb's own excitement feel somehow out of place.

"It's different for us, Robb," Jon said quietly, his tone careful.

Robb blinked, his enthusiasm faltering. "What do you mean?" he asked, frowning. "We're all Starks."

Jon hesitated, then looked over at Harrion, who seemed to brace himself. "We're not Starks, Robb," Jon replied softly, his voice steady but resigned. "We're Snows."

The words stung, and for a moment, Robb could only stare. He opened his mouth to argue, to tell Jon and Harrion that they were his brothers and that made them Starks, but the certainty in Jon's eyes and the guarded look on Harrion's face held him back. He thought of his mother's instructions that morning, how she had looked at Jon and Harrion as if assessing them, her voice sharp as she reminded them to bow deeply before Lord Hoster, her gaze colder and harder than usual.

"But… you're my brothers," Robb insisted, feeling a spark of defiance rise within him. "That makes you Starks."

Harrion looked up, his expression softened by gratitude, but a sadness lingered there, a quiet resignation. "Maybe to you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But that's not how Lady Stark sees it. She… she never lets us forget what we are."

Robb clenched his jaw, discomfort prickling under his skin. He remembered how his mother's gaze had lingered on Jon and Harrion, her instructions precise and exacting. And yet, Robb had felt the warmth in her eyes when she looked at him, the pride that softened her voice, a tone he hadn't noticed missing until now.

"She's… she's strict with all of us," Robb said, though the words felt thin even as he spoke them. "She only wants us to make a good impression."

"Is that what it feels like?" Jon asked quietly, his voice laced with something Robb couldn't quite place. "To me, it feels more like… proving ourselves."

Robb frowned, struggling to reconcile Jon's words with the way he saw his mother. "What do you mean?"

Jon sighed, his expression resigned but unflinching. "You're expected to be strong, to show Riverrun what it means to be a Stark. For you, it's a matter of pride." He glanced at Harrion, his voice softening. "But for us, it's a matter of being allowed to be there at all. And every time we fall short… your mother's there to remind us of what we aren't."

Harrion looked down, his face tightening. "Sometimes, it feels like she's just waiting for us to fail."

Robb felt the words settle over him, heavy and unyielding. Winterfell had always been his home, a place where he felt safe and certain. It had never occurred to him that for Jon and Harrion, it could feel like something else entirely. Riverrun, which to him had always been a promise, a dream of family and honor, seemed to carry a different weight for them—a weight that looked far heavier than anything he'd considered.

"I… I didn't realize," Robb murmured, feeling an ache in his chest he hadn't expected. "I know she's… exacting. But I thought it was just because she wanted us to be… you know… proper."

"Proper?" Harrion's voice was low, almost bitter. "It's not about being 'proper' for us. It's about showing her we even belong here, that we're worthy of being part of this family." He looked down, his hand tightening on the hilt of his wooden sword. "Sometimes, it feels like she'd rather we weren't here at all."

The quiet bitterness in Harrion's tone sent a chill through Robb. He opened his mouth to protest, to say it wasn't true, but the words caught in his throat. A memory flashed before him—his mother's face as she looked at Jon and Harrion, the subtle frown that deepened the lines around her mouth, the careful way she seemed to hold back her words. Had she always looked at them like that, and he simply hadn't noticed?

"But that's not how it should be," Robb insisted, his voice stronger now. "You're my brothers. You're Starks, as far as I'm concerned. And we'll prove it to them—all of them."

Jon gave Robb a small, tentative smile, though the shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes. "That's not how they'll see it, Robb. Riverrun isn't Winterfell, and they'll see us as we are."

Robb's chest tightened. The idea of facing Riverrun alone, without Jon and Harrion at his side, felt wrong in a way he couldn't quite put into words. He had always imagined his brothers beside him, sharing in the honor, the pride of representing Winterfell. But now, he saw Riverrun through their eyes, a place where his family's pride came at the expense of his brothers' confidence.

"Still," Robb pressed, feeling the quiet determination swell within him. "We'll show them that Winterfell is strong, that we're all worthy of it." He looked between them, his gaze steady. "I don't care what they think, or who tries to remind you of what you aren't. You're my brothers, and that makes you Starks."

Harrion lifted his gaze, a spark of hope mingling with gratitude, though Robb could still see the hint of doubt lurking behind it. Jon nodded, his expression thoughtful, though he looked as if he wanted to say more but held himself back.

They stood in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Robb's vision of Riverrun as a place of family and laughter had dulled, the weight of his brothers' fears settling into him. He felt the heavy press of his mother's words, the way her expectations loomed over Jon and Harrion as though daring them to slip. He loved his mother fiercely, but seeing her through their eyes left a bitter taste he couldn't quite ignore.

"Come on," Robb said, his voice softer, gentler. He raised his wooden sword, gesturing for Jon and Harrion to join him. "Show me what you've been working on. Together, we'll make Winterfell proud."

Jon and Harrion exchanged a look, then fell into step beside him. They moved together, the rhythm of their steps and the familiarity of their practice steadying them all. The snow muted the sound of their footfalls, the silence between them carrying a weight Robb hadn't felt before, a new understanding of his brothers' burdens.

As the light faded and they lowered their practice swords, Robb felt his earlier excitement give way to something else—a sense of purpose, tempered by the quiet determination he saw reflected in Jon and Harrion's eyes. He couldn't let them face Riverrun under the shadow of his mother's expectations, couldn't let them go without feeling the same pride he did.

I need to speak with her, he thought, a quiet resolve hardening within him. His mother would have to understand. Jon and Harrion were his brothers, and he wouldn't let anyone—least of all Lady Catelyn—make them feel like anything less.

They were his family, and together, they would face Riverrun as one.

Catelyn

The fire crackled softly in Catelyn's solar, casting a warm, golden glow over the stone walls and rich tapestries adorning the room. Scenes of the Riverlands—the Trident, the towers of Riverrun—woven into the fabric of her tapestries stirred an ache in her chest, a quiet longing. Soon, she would be there, introducing her family to her childhood home. But this journey was more than a reunion; it was a return to Riverrun as Lady Stark, with all the weight of Winterfell's honor on her shoulders. She could not allow any lapse, any misstep.

Her gaze drifted to the parchment in front of her, her checklist of supplies. Cloaks lined with thick fur, sturdy boots for the children, carefully rationed provisions, and a small vial of balm for Sansa. Sansa was barely a year old, still delicate and prone to fits of restlessness. Catelyn's heart tugged with worry—Sansa was so small, so vulnerable. Yet leaving her behind, especially with Ned remaining in Winterfell, was unthinkable. Her mother would meet her granddaughter for the first time, and Catelyn could not deny her that joy.

Her fingers paused on a line she'd scrawled in the margins, Ned will not be coming. A familiar ache settled in her chest, a quiet regret. She had asked him, even pleaded, to come with her, to stand at her side as they introduced her children to Riverrun. But Ned's response had been gentle yet unyielding, reminding her of the Stark words: "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Those words, ancient and heavy, had silenced her protest. She respected his resolve, but his absence left her feeling unmoored, like a ship without an anchor. This duty fell to her now, to lead their family south and to carry the honor of Winterfell as well as the Tully name.

Her fingers drummed absently on the desk as her gaze moved to a different list, written with far more care. This wasn't a list of supplies but a set of instructions—expectations, specifically for Jon and Harrion. Each line outlined how they were to act at Riverrun: the deep bow they were to make before her family, the deferent silence they were to maintain unless spoken to, the restraint she expected of them in both word and action. They would travel with her, yes, but they needed to understand that they were not her trueborn children. Riverrun would not see them as equals, and her family would not tolerate any lapse in decorum. The honor of both her families demanded that Jon and Harrion observe boundaries.

As she reviewed the list, a memory surfaced unbidden, the echoes of her mother's voice drifting back to her. "A bastard is a shadow, Catelyn. They carry the shame of their mother's choices or the father's weakness. They cannot stand among the trueborn without casting doubt upon the honor of the house." Lady Minisa had spoken these words with such calm certainty, instilling a sense of rightness in them that Catelyn hadn't questioned, even as a child.

Another memory followed, one of Septa Merianne pulling her aside in the godswood one crisp autumn day, after a household boy had come to deliver a message. The septa's stern face, framed by her wimple, was seared into Catelyn's mind. "Remember, Lady Catelyn," she had whispered, her tone stern, "bastards may appear loyal, but they are not bound by the same blood. Treat them kindly, but kindness is not trust."

The words had rooted themselves within her, becoming part of the foundation of her beliefs. Now, as she thought of Jon and Harrion accompanying her to Riverrun, she felt that same conviction settle over her. They had their place, and she would make sure they understood it.

A soft knock on the door broke her reverie. She looked up, a slight frown of curiosity crossing her face. "Enter," she called, expecting one of the servants.

The door opened, and Robb stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him. His expression was unusually somber, his face set with a purpose she hadn't often seen in him. He crossed the room carefully, each step measured, as though he were bracing himself for something significant. She inclined her head, gesturing to the seat across from her.

"To what do I owe this visit, Robb?" she asked, her tone gentle but curious.

Robb hesitated a moment before taking the seat. He clasped his hands together, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze as he looked at her. "Mother," he began, his voice steady but laced with tension, "I wanted to talk to you… about Riverrun. And about Jon and Harrion."

At the mention of their names, her expression cooled slightly, the warmth in her gaze fading to a more neutral, guarded look. She inclined her head slightly, waiting for him to continue, though a flicker of caution crossed her eyes.

"I know how much Riverrun means to you," he said carefully, his gaze unwavering. "And I want to make you proud, to show your family the strength of Winterfell. But… I think Jon and Harrion feel differently."

"Differently?" she repeated, her tone calm but firm. "How exactly do they feel, Robb?"

Robb took a deep breath, his gaze steady as he met her eyes. "They're afraid, Mother. I think… they feel like you're holding them to a different standard. Like you're watching for them to make a mistake, as if they'll never be enough."

Her mouth tightened, her fingers pressing lightly against the edge of her desk. "They are fortunate to be coming at all, Robb," she replied, her tone unwavering. "The opportunity to stand beside trueborns at Riverrun is not something they should take lightly. I would think they understand that."

"They do understand," Robb replied, a note of frustration entering his voice, "but to them, it doesn't feel like an opportunity. It feels like a test. They think you're judging them for what they aren't, rather than seeing who they are."

Her gaze sharpened, though her tone remained composed. "Riverrun is a place of honor, Robb, a place where tradition and respect are paramount. If Jon and Harrion feel pressure, then perhaps it is because they need to understand the importance of proper conduct. Riverrun will not make allowances for them."

Robb leaned forward, his brow furrowed, his gaze earnest. "Mother, they're trying. They just want to feel like they belong here, with us. Every time they're reminded of what they aren't, it drives a wedge between us. They're my brothers, and it hurts me to see them treated like they're something less."

She held his gaze, her expression unyielding as she felt her mother's teachings settle firmly over her. "A shadow," Lady Minisa had said, "a reminder of choices that cannot be undone." She kept her voice cool, controlled. "They are not my sons, Robb. You are. My duty is to you, to ensure that you fulfill the legacy of Winterfell. Jon and Harrion may be your brothers in affection, but that does not erase the truth of their birth. They are not Starks. They are not Tullys."

Robb's face softened with disappointment, his brows drawing together, and he looked down, as if gathering his thoughts. "But they're loyal to you, to Winterfell. They care about this family as much as I do. Why can't you give them a chance to prove themselves without reminding them of what they aren't?"

Catelyn's gaze grew colder, and she drew herself upright, her posture unyielding. "Because the world will not give them that chance, Robb. Do you think the lords and ladies of Riverrun will see them as anything more than wards? They must understand their place, and they must behave accordingly. That is all."

A shadow of frustration passed over Robb's face, and he leaned forward, his tone quieter but laced with urgency. "And what about here? Why must they feel like outsiders even in their own family?"

She inhaled slowly, her face composed, though she saw the flicker of hurt in Robb's eyes, the plea he didn't speak aloud. "Family is duty," she reminded herself, repeating it as though it were a shield. "There are roles we each must fulfill, Robb. Jon and Harrion have theirs, just as you have yours. They must accept their place, even if it is not the place you wish it to be."

Robb glanced away, his mouth pressed into a hard line, disappointment clear in his gaze. "You expect them to act with honor, to represent Winterfell… but how can they, when they don't even feel like they belong?"

Her face softened briefly, just the faintest hesitation, but she steeled herself, her tone quiet but resolute. "Their honor lies in accepting the role they have been given. That is all I ask of them."

He looked back at her, his expression resigned but tinged with bitterness. "Then let me stand beside them," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "If they cannot stand as Starks, then I will stand beside them as they are, Snow or not."

Catelyn's mouth tightened, her patience fraying. "You speak out of loyalty, Robb, but also of naivety. One day, when you carry this legacy, perhaps you will understand the weight of tradition, the burden of honor. Perhaps then, you will see why certain boundaries cannot be crossed."

He swallowed, his gaze clouded with a mixture of sorrow and determination. "And maybe when that day comes, I'll know what it truly means to put family first."

He lingered a moment longer, a trace of hurt in his eyes, and he bowed his head before turning to leave.

When the door closed, Catelyn let out a slow, steadying breath. His words echoed in her mind, stirring something deep and unbidden. She turned her gaze to Sansa's cradle, where her youngest lay sleeping peacefully. She felt her resolve falter, just slightly, as she thought of Robb's plea and Jon and Harrion's quiet loyalty.

Yet her mother's teachings loomed large, the words that had defined her sense of family and honor for so long. She had her duty to uphold—boundaries that must be respected. Jon and Harrion were different, and no words could change that.

With a sense of finality, she returned to her preparations, her resolve once again hardened, her duty to her family clear.

Harrion

Once again, Harrion found himself alone in the godswood.

The trees loomed around him like silent sentries, their twisted branches casting dark shapes against the bruised sky. Snow lay thick underfoot, muffling his steps as he moved deeper into the quiet. Here, beneath the boughs, the air felt colder, the silence heavier, as though the godswood itself were waiting, watching him with some ancient patience.

He slowed, his gaze drawn to the heart tree, where the face carved into the bark stared down at him. Trails of red sap ran from its hollow eyes, frozen yet gleaming like fresh blood in the fading light. The gaze seemed sharper tonight—more intent. The air hummed with something unspoken, and Harrion felt it pulling at him, urging him closer, as if something waited for him here, something that wanted to be seen.

The world around him blurred, and a chill swept over him. He blinked, but the godswood fell away, replaced by somewhere else—somewhere vast and unknown, yet gripping him with an intensity that felt real.

A wild sea stretched out before him, waves rising dark and jagged under a storm-heavy sky. Ships loomed in the distance, sails taut and straining in the wind. He thought he saw a shadow twisting on one of them—a sigil, dark and curling, monstrous—but it was gone before he could make sense of it. The clash of steel rang in his ears, mingling with the crash of waves, and the air thickened with salt and smoke. The taste of blood burned on his tongue, sharp and metallic, as he watched shadows struggling against the dark water, figures locked in some desperate—

CRACK.

The godswood slammed back into focus, the vision ripped away mid-thought. Above him, a splintering branch broke loose from the tree, hurtling toward him.

He barely thought—just flung up a hand, as though to stop it. And something inside him surged, fierce and electric, pulsing out with an intensity that shocked him.

The branch stopped mid-fall, suspended as though caught by an unseen hand. It hovered for a heartbeat before jerking sideways and crashing harmlessly into the snow.

Harrion stared, his hand still raised, his pulse pounding as the forest settled back into silence. He looked down at his hand, feeling a strange warmth lingering there, pulsing faintly before it began to fade. His chest rose and fell in short breaths, and the weight of what had happened pressed down on him as the last of the heat slipped from his fingers.

The heart tree's face seemed to watch him, its eyes dark and gleaming, the red sap glistening like fresh blood. It looked… aware. As if it had seen what had just happened. The fragments of the vision clung to him—shadowed ships, the crash of waves, that twisting sigil. Though the images were broken, he felt certain they were no dream. It felt like a warning, something vast and inevitable just beyond reach.

He could still feel the chill of the sea air, smell the salt and smoke hanging thick in his nose. And that strange, dark sigil—the brief glimpse he'd had of it still lingered, as though burned into his mind, curling and monstrous. What did it mean? And why had he seen it? The weight of it pressed on him, and an unfamiliar fear stirred in his chest. He had heard the old tales of the North, of signs and portents in dreams and strange powers in the godswood. Was this vision meant for him? Or had he simply stumbled upon something beyond his understanding?

A dozen thoughts flickered in his mind. He could tell Ned, he thought. Or Jon. Or even Lady Stark. But a shiver ran through him at the thought of her cold gaze, the way her eyes seemed to harden whenever they fell on him, as if he were something lesser, something barely belonging in her world. He remembered, without meaning to, the last time she had caught him near Jon's quarters; her hand had tightened on the bannister, and she had looked at him with a faint, unreadable frown that sent a chill through him even now.

The idea of explaining it all to her—the vision, the strange power, the branch that had stopped midair by some force that had come from him—filled him with a strange dread. How would she react? Would she see it as something dark, as something to be wary of?

He stepped back from the thought, suddenly uneasy. The vision had felt ancient and fierce, the magic wild and raw, and the idea of trying to put it into words—to see the suspicion it might bring to Lady Stark's eyes, or worse, the worry in Ned's—unnerved him. He didn't want their questions, didn't want to feel her scrutiny on him, didn't want Ned looking at him as if he, too, were searching for an answer to something that might not have one.

The urge to tell them faded as quickly as it had come, leaving a hollow, uneasy silence. It was better to keep it to himself, he decided. Whatever this was—the vision, the strange power—it felt like it belonged to the godswood as much as to him. Here, away from watchful eyes, he could almost believe he was more than just a boy at the fringes of Winterfell's world. It was something old, something secret, something perhaps meant to stay unspoken.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, the last warmth seeping from his fingers, leaving a faint tingle in its place. His eyes lingered on the heart tree, its carved gaze intent, fixed upon him as though it could see beyond the flesh, into whatever force had surged within him just moments before.

He took a step back, each movement slow and deliberate, the silence of the godswood pressing close. The taste of salt and blood lingered on his tongue, an echo of the strange vision, shadowed ships and twisting shapes haunting his mind like secrets waiting in the dark.

As he turned to go, a gust of wind stirred the branches above, scattering snow from their limbs, the sound soft and whispering, almost like a sigh. Harrion paused, a chill slipping down his spine, and, almost without thinking, he reached out to brush his fingers over the heart tree's rough bark, grounding himself in its ancient strength.

Its red-streaked eyes watched him, fixed and knowing, like a witness to something unspoken, something he was only beginning to grasp.

With a steadying breath, he left the godswood, its silence trailing behind him, lingering like a promise—or perhaps, a warning.

A/N: Sorry about the wait. Hope you guys enjoyed. All reviews are appreciated. Definitely thinking about reducing the number of POVs per chapter for simplicity.