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Chapter Twenty-One: Honor
The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with laughter, music, and the clatter of tankards against wooden tables. Roaring fires cast flickering light across the high stone walls, and the rich aroma of roasted meats and spiced cider filled the air.
It was a rare night of celebration as the harvest feast is in full swing, and the Northmen embraced it with full hearts.
For the first time in centuries, House Stark had direwolves again.
To the Northmen, this was no mere coincidence—it was a sign. The old gods, silent for so long, had spoken, blessing House Stark with their sacred beasts. The sight of the massive grey wolf pacing beside Jon Snow earlier that day had only cemented their belief.
The North was thriving, its crops bountiful, its people strong, and now, the direwolves of Winterfell had returned.
At the center of the hall, Robb Stark laughed as he twirled Alys Karstark in an energetic dance. Alys was light on her feet, her dark curls bouncing as she spun, a grin tugging at her lips. Robb's own smile was wide, his face flushed from the heat of the hall and the thrill of the moment.
Jon Snow sat at the high table, watching his brother with amusement. Robb had been in good spirits all night, and it was easy to see why—he had long enjoyed Alys's company, and she seemed equally taken with him.
But Jon's amusement faded when he noticed movement near the entrance.
Torrhen Karstark, the youngest of Alys's three older brothers, had entered the hall, his face set in anger. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on his elder brothers, Harrion and Eddard, sitting a few tables away.
Jon watched as Torrhen stormed toward them.
He leaned forward slightly, his instincts sharpening. Something was wrong.
Torrhen reached his brothers and spoke in hushed, hurried tones. Whatever he said made Harrion and Eddard's faces darken with fury.
Jon's grip tightened around his goblet as he saw the three Karstark brothers stand abruptly, their expressions murderous.
They were heading straight for Robb and Alys.
Jon was on his feet before he even thought about it.
Harrion Karstark reached Robb first.
Without hesitation, he shoved Robb back, causing Alys to stumble to the side. Robb barely had time to register what was happening before Harrion drew back his fist, ready to strike.
Jon moved.
Faster than anyone could react, he stepped between them and shoved Harrion back with enough force to send the older boy stumbling.
The entire hall seemed to freeze.
But the Karstark brothers were too blinded by anger to stop.
All three lunged at Jon, fists raised.
Jon dodged with effortless grace, sidestepping Harrion's wild swing. Before the older boy could recover, Jon struck—one swift motion, a well-placed blow to the side that sent Harrion crashing to the floor.
Eddard was next. He threw a punch, but Jon caught his wrist and twisted, using the momentum to send him toppling over a bench.
Torrhen, the youngest, charged without thinking. Jon swept his legs out from under him, and he landed on the ground with a pained groan.
It had taken mere moments.
The Great Hall fell into stunned silence.
Hundreds of Northmen, men and women who had seen war, who had fought and bled on the battlefield, now watched in shock as a boy not yet fifteen had taken down three grown young men as if it were nothing.
Only Ned, Benjen, and Robb seemed unsurprised.
Jon stood over the fallen Karstark brothers, his breath steady, his expression unreadable.
Then the crowd parted ways.
Lord Rickard Karstark stormed towards them, his booming voice cutting through the silence.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. His sharp eyes scanned the hall before landing on his three sons sprawled across the floor. His face darkened. "How dare you attack the Young Lord of Winterfell in his own home!"
Harrion, still gasping for breath, tried to speak, but it was Torrhen who groaned from the floor.
"I heard a stableboy," Torrhen panted. "He said… he said he saw Robb Stark… having his way with Alys."
A murmur spread through the hall.
The implication was clear.
Ned Stark's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Enough."
The Great Hall fell silent once more.
Ned's grey eyes, cold as winter steel, settled on Alys Karstark. "We will hear the truth from the girl herself."
Alys, standing beside Robb, was red with embarrassment, her hands clenched into fists.
"Robb didn't do anything to me," she said firmly. "We went there together."
The implication in her words was clear—whatever had happened between them had been mutual.
Rickard Karstark exhaled sharply, his face turning even grimmer.
Ned nodded. "Then the matter is settled."
Rickard turned to his sons, his voice low and seething. "Get up."
Harrion, Eddard, and Torrhen scrambled to their feet, heads lowered in shame.
"You embarrassed our house tonight," Rickard growled. "You acted without thinking, based on nothing but hearsay." His tone sharpened. "And more importantly, you embarrassed your sister."
Torrhen flinched. Alys crossed her arms, her glare at her brothers fierce.
Rickard turned to Ned. "Lord Stark, a thousand apologies for my sons' behavior."
Ned inclined his head. "They are young. They will learn."
With that, he gestured for Rickard to follow him. "To my solar, my lord."
Rickard nodded sharply and followed, his sons looking as if they wished to sink into the floor.
Jon turned to Robb and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Without a word, he led his brother out of the hall, away from prying eyes.
The tension in the Great Hall lingered for only a moment before the music resumed.
The feast carried on as if nothing had happened.
But Jon Snow knew better.