A Warm Winter - Chapter 8
Neither Friday nor Saturday, the chapter ended up being posted today, Sunday 😅
“How many are speaking of the succession?” she asked. “Few. For now.” Jon frowned. “No one has cause.” “Causes can be invented,” Robb said. “You presented as an alpha, you have the Stark look, you are a few months older than I am, and you are bonded to Sansa. For certain men, that is enough to begin a story. It is not an organized cause yet. That is precisely the danger. No one knows what shape the division will take.” He knew some of those men. They had taught them both to stand watch, pitch a tent, and hold a shield beneath the rain. When Robb passed, they straightened and called him “my lord.” When Jon passed, the respect came before the title he did not possess. Envy came unbidden. Robb had been prepared for Winterfell since childhood. He had sat beside Ned while stewards recited the costs of grain and horseshoes. He had learned which houses owed men for the patrols, which bridges needed repairs before the thaw, and how long a wall could wait for new stone. He knew levies, harvests, marriages, debts, and the small disputes that could grow until they demanded blood. Jon had trained with the same men and walked the same yards, but had never been summoned to audiences as the heir. Even so, certain soldiers looked at him with a certainty Robb never received without the weight of name and rank. Jon needed no record to look like a Stark. He did not need to sit at Ned's right hand for men to follow him across the yard and listen when he corrected a stance. Robb did not envy his chains, his bastardy, or the wounds still bleeding beneath Luwin's cloths. He envied only that, and felt shame enough to know it was true.
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