(Robb Stark’s POV)


    The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the clamor of steel and the low growl of angry voices. Robb sat at the high table, his father’s seat now his by grim necessity. The weight of the crown—a circlet of bronze and iron—felt foreign upon his brow. King in the North. The words should have been a triumph. Instead, they tasted of ashes.


    Father is dead. And I will have justice.


    The lords of the North stood before him—Greatjon Umber’s booming voice, Roose Bolton’s quiet menace, Lady Maege Mormont’s steel-eyed resolve. They had come for war. And then—


    The doors opened.


    Jon Snow stood in the threshold, clad in black, his face gaunt and weathered. But it wasn’t just exhaustion that marked him. His left arm was gone, the sleeve of his Night’s Watch cloak pinned uselessly at his side.


    Robb’s breath caught. Gods, what happened to you?


    "Jon," he said, rising. His voice was steadier than he felt.


    "I came as soon as I heard," Jon said simply.


    A murmur spread through the hall. The lords shifted, eyes narrowing. A deserter from the Night’s Watch stood before them, and worse—a cripple.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Robb ignored them. "Your arm—"


    "Doesn’t matter," Jon said. His voice was calm, but there was something in his eyes—something Robb couldn’t place.


    Lord Karstark scoffed. "What matters is that the boy’s an oathbreaker. The Watch is for life, or did the Starks forget their own words?"


    Jon didn’t flinch. "My watch has ended."


    "By whose decree?" Maege Mormont demanded.


    Jon met her gaze. "By the only one that matters."


    Robb’s fingers tightened around the armrest of his seat. Jon had always been solemn, but this—this was different. There was a certainty in him now, an unshakable resolve. And yet, he offered no explanation.


    Greatjon Umber laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Did the cold freeze your wits, boy? Or did you just tire of freezing your balls off at the Wall?"


    Jon didn’t rise to the bait. "I didn’t come to argue. I came to fight."


    "For who?" Roose Bolton’s voice was a whisper, but it cut through the room. "Your brother? Or yourself?"


    Robb saw Jon’s jaw tighten. For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—not anger, but something deeper. Something like grief.


    "I came for House Stark," Jon said. "The dead don’t care about oaths."


    A strange choice of words. Robb frowned. The dead?


    But before he could speak, the Greatjon slammed his fist on the table. "Enough! We’ve no time for broken men and riddles. The Lannisters—"


    "—are not the only threat," Jon interrupted.


    Silence.


    Robb studied his brother. There was something Jon wasn’t saying. Something no one knew.


    "Later," Robb said finally, his voice brooking no argument. "We’ll speak later."


    Jon gave the barest nod.


    As the war council resumed, Robb’s thoughts churned. Jon had changed. Something had happened at the Wall—something worse than a lost arm.


    And whatever it was, Jon believed it was worth breaking his oath for.