The maps had ceased to make sense a long time ago, leaving Robb staring blankly at the lines in growing frustration, trying to make himself think about what they meant. He prodded the map with a finger, turned it sideways, stood up and walked around it, hoping to find something that would magically make it make sense.

It wasn't working. He was too tired. His head throbbed and he didn't want to be doing this.

("S'going to be hard, remembering to say 'your Grace.' Knew you when you were still half my size."

"Still am," Robb pointed out, mildly.)

It was because of the Smalljon he was here. Or really, the Greatjon, who had been puzzled when Robb refused a cup of ale automatically, and roared aloud with laughter when he learned that Robb had hardly had more than a drop of drink in his life.

And promptly ordered his son to go and get their King properly drunk.

("Well, yes. But that's that way with everyone. Taller than most now."

"Not taller than you, though. Is there supposed to be a point to this?"

"Are you jesting? No. You haven't even finished your first cup.")

And of course, the Smalljon couldn't just go to the stores in Riverrun and get some ale. No, he insisted, they had to do it properly for his first time too, in a tavern. Wouldn't be right, otherwise. And while Robb didn't quite follow this logic, he didn't particularly want to go back to his maps, and, well – it wasn't as though he were a child.

So he went. But he hadn't expected it to be this loud. Robb stared at the liquid in his earthenware cup and took a gulp. It burned on the way down and made his eyes water. He nearly swore. "—and you like this?"

"It gets better," Jon assured him, gesturing the bartender to give him another – Robb tried not to think about how many his companion had had. "Trust me." Robb made a face and finished his glass, let himself be topped off.

"If you say so." He was relieved to have left Grey Wind behind. He'd been jostled more times than he could count already – likely because the Smalljon had thought to warn him to wear old clothes. "Just in case," he said, reassuringly, clapped Robb on the shoulder so he sank a little into the mud, and said nothing about what 'in case' might mean.

Not that he was nervous. The Smalljon could turn over a table onehanded. No one was going to pick a fight with him. Robb had some more of his glass. Jon looked over and shook his head. "Starks."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Robb accused. Jon grinned.

"Not at all – Your Grace. Sorry. Umbers just have ale for blood, or so my father says, anyway."

Robb frowned, a little. "My father never drank much, and never ale," he said, slowly. "He liked wine. White wine. I thought it smelled funny." He realized that the Smalljon was giving him a slightly odd look, and stopped. "What?"

"Nothing. Your Grace. Sorry. Have more and drink it faster, I'm supposed to get you drunk not – whatever it is you're doing right now."

"Is this some kind of tradition? Getting new kings drunk?"

"Wouldn't know," said the Smalljon, without concern. "But I think it's a good one. The King in the North!" He raised his cup, and Robb felt himself blush and drowned it in two quick gulps that nearly made tears run from his eyes.

"Does all ale taste like this?"

"No. This is cheap. It's the best kind." The Smalljon nodded sagely. "And it's cheap. That's good too."

"You're repeating yourself," Robb pointed out.

"I know," Jon said, and shoved another brimming cup into his hands. "C'mon, Stark – Your Grace, sorry. Maybe if you're really good we'll find you a lady too." Robb felt his face flame and his jaw drop, and the Smalljon guffawed. "Only jesting! Only jesting, gods, Robb."

Robb glared at him. "I will – dump this on your head if you do that again," he said, lifting the cup, in dire tones.

"That's my boy," Jon said, with a grin. "Drink up, Robb. Your Grace. Sorry."

~.~

The world seemed to have angled slightly sideways, at some point. That was probably why he was leaning on Jon Umber the Younger, who was still very much straight. Why did he get to be straight? That wasn't fair. Not at all.

Robb scowled up at him. "You should be tilting too."

To his chagrin, Jon guffawed and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Umbers don't succumb that easily. Someone has to keep an eye on you."

His gaze wandered. "…that girl," he said, slightly dazed, "I can see her-"

He realized what he was saying before it made it out of his mouth and felt his face go beet red.

"All right. That's probably enough. Don't want Your Grace getting into too much trouble." Jon heaved Robb to his feet, where he wobbled precariously, feeling as though his legs had turned all to mush.

"I think my legs went all mushy," Robb informed Jon, seriously, and frowned at his feet. "Don't really like that." He thought the Smalljon might have shaken his head a little, in very slight and mild amusement or exasperation. It was kind of hard to tell. Everything was moving everywhere. "I don't think buildings are supposed to do that," he added, conscientiously, in case Jon hadn't noticed.

"Your Grace, you make an awfully dignified drunk."

"Dignity's important," Robb agreed. "But not like honor. S'more important."

"Keep walking, Robb – sorry, Your Grace. Don't want our King passed out in a snowbank. You're going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow."

"A what?"

"Never mind." The Smalljon patted his shoulder firmly and he sank into the mud a couple inches. Jon uprooted him and half carried him to the cobblestones that led to the castle itself. "We'll worry about it later."

"Why not now?" Robb complained, trying to dig in his heels. "If there's something to w'rry about I wanna know what it is."

The Smalljon opened his mouth to reply, closed it, shook his head, and gave up. "Sorry, Your Grace," he said, ruefully, and slung his King over his shoulder to take him home.