He goes but they are interrupted

Jon clenched his jaw, tension rippling through his muscles. Avoidance had kept Robb at a distance for weeks now, a deliberate shield against the unpredictable **** churning inside him. The bastard of Winterfell wrestled it down, forcing calm into his veins even as it pulsed with eager energy.

Caution demanded precision in every syllable. One misplaced word could warp reality, twisting Robb's fate beyond repair.

A polite but faint smile curved his lips as he met the servant's gaze. With a nod and a subtle gesture, he signalled his intent to seek out Robb, words held firmly in check.

The servant dipped his head in acknowledgment and departed. As Jon walked, footsteps echoing down the stone corridor, a sudden idea struck. "I know if I can undo the changes made with my words," he whispered to himself.'

His thoughts surged outward in an instant, flooded by layers of intricate understanding that built to a definitive barrier. The answer crashed through no reversal possible.

Fresh alterations could steer events toward the past as Jon recalled it. Yet actual history and his memories of it clashed, rendering any such mimicry unreliable at best.

Frustration coiled tight in his chest, a sharp curse flashing through his thoughts at the revelation's sting—though the probe itself had yielded crucial clarity worth the risk.

Attempts at recreating what he had changed to the way it was carried more risk than remedy, he realized, likely unravelling matters further over time.

Every response to Robb would require meticulous crafting, guarding against the power's accidental release.

Stone floors gave way under his boots as Jon exited the kitchens, his path winding toward the courtyard's training yard. Shadows from the Library Tower stretched across his route.

Swords clanged in unison where guards executed their drills. A glint of auburn hair drew his gaze farther out—Robb stood apart. Jon closed the distance to his trueborn brother.

Sweat beaded on the heir's brow, yet no weapon gripped his hands. He leaned against the armoury wall in the courtyard's northernmost corner, eyes scanning the space. That position signalled intent: Robb awaited him alone. Jon swallowed a curse, the realization hitting hard—his brother treated this matter with unflinching seriousness.

Across the training yard, Jon locked eyes with his brother, the rhythmic clash of guards' blades dulling to a distant hum. Robb straightened from his lean against the armoury wall, damp auburn curls clinging to his forehead from the session he'd cut short.

Robb's blue eyes sharpened as he folded his arms, coming to a stop midway across the yard. "Jon," he greeted, "I feel as if you have you been avoiding me?" he asked directly, his voice hushed to stay private, an edge of hurt weaving through it.

The query settled like lead in the air. Jon held still, weighing his response.

"Didn't Lady Stark prefer I keep distance from my trueborn siblings?" Jon framed it inquisitively, though a sharp edge seeped through, unintended.

Robb's brows knitted together as he shook his head sharply. "You took a seat at the royal table last night—next to the Queen and the Princess. If avoidance looks like that, you've missed the mark."

A casual shrug rolled through his shoulders, the inner **** stirring subtly within Jon. He tamped it down. "Refusing a royal summons—feasible for me?" His gaze held firm on Robb's.

The heir inched closer, tone dipping to a murmur. "But why single you out? The Queen showing preference to Father's bastard strikes me as peculiar. What drew her interest?"

Jon hesitated, fingers twitching at his sides before he offered a made-up reason, his tone steady. "Perhaps my resemblance to Lord Stark caught her eye?" He offered.

Before Robb could even open his mouth to reply to a distinct voice to slice in from the yard's perimeter—authoritative, infused with a southern cadence.

"Because my father so frequently extolled the virtues of the honourable Ned Stark." Jocelyn approached, Sandra trailing at her heels, the hem of the princess's gown brushing softly against the frost-veiled ground. "I desired a counterpart in myself, or minimally, to evaluate if the man had forged his sons in a similar vein. Robb Stark... your appearance falls short of his likeness, at least to my discerning eye."

The Princess then turned her gaze from the heir to Jon, "Jon Snow, on the other hand? Mirrors the honourable Ned Stark without flaw" The words landed harshly, pricking at the insult to his brother. Jon pressed his lips together, muscles in his jaw flexing against the impulse to retort.

Jon felt a stab in the gut as he knew he did not resemble Ned at all.

colour mounted in Robb's cheeks, igniting a flare of rage in his grey eyes. He clamped down on the sharp words rising in his throat, containing the boil of frustration just below his composure.

Jocelyn drew to a stop before them, fixing her emerald stare on the heir with measured politeness. "Robb Stark, if you'll pardon the interruption, I need Jon Snow to join me. I'd like him to guide me through the godswood."

Frustration carved sharper furrows across Robb's brow, his jaw set in a rigid line, but he dipped his head stiffly and stepped back. "As the princess desires."

With that, Jocelyn pivoted toward Jon, her expression warming into a genuine curve of the lips. "Consider it arranged."