"You're overestimating their numbers," Domeric insisted, leaning further across the table as if the gesture would make Jon see his point. "I'm telling you, a thousand well-supplied Northmen worth their salt could hold Moat Cailin for eternity. The Tyrells would have to send their levies home in shame and defeat before they could breach the Neck."
Jon frowned at that and leaned further into the comfortable, high-backed chair he was sitting in. "You forget the Redwyne fleet" was all he said, prompting another heated argument from Domeric.
Robb watched them both from his stool near the fireplace. He had wondered aloud how the North would fare against the Reach, fanned the discussion with a few points of his own before volunteering to tend the fire. Jon and Domeric had taken over from there. He liked to listen to their animated discussions; they gave him new perspectives on old musings. Indeed, discussion and debate were favorite pastimes of the Heir of Winterfell and it was not often that Jon or Domeric were willing to humor him. Few people were, if he was honest with himself. It was as if any in-depth analysis of the North's more than eight thousand years of history had become a thing for the southron Maesters of the Citadel, and they alone, to discuss. When that had happened Robb did not know, but by the time of his own birth there had been few men of Winterfell interested in the history of the land they lived on beyond the odd historical fact such as, say, 'Winterfell was raised by Bran the Builder.' No one cared about the stories of men long dead and gone beyond truths collectively agreed upon such as that.
Brandon the Builder, legendary founder of an eight thousand year old dynasty and their seat, was not remembered for his life, but for the few deeds he had wrought that survived into modern times. If one were to ask most men they would say that Bran did two - perhaps three - great things; he raised Winterfell, he raised the Wall and, most importantly, he fucked some nameless woman and sired the first link in the great chain that was the House Stark.
Robb shook his head, suddenly acutely aware of the sour expression that had crossed his face. He should enjoy his two friends' heated discussion, not think of things that were sure to ruin his mood.
Domeric was leaning as far across the table as he could and was using a number of wooden dice as armies to support his point of view. It was times like these that made Robb forget how quiet Domeric normally was. The Dreadfort Heir had inherited many of his father's traits, from his plain face to his silent disposition, but traces of his mother were clear for anyone to see: his hair was lighter than his father's, a mousey brown instead of dark, and his eyes were a clear hazel as opposed to Lord Roose's pale, white orbs. Domeric lacked the cold cunning Robb had come to associate with Lord Roose over the course of the eight years he had been fostered by the man and his household. He wondered if they would have befriended each other as they had if Domeric had been more like his father. Lord Roose was nothing if not courteous and he had done right by Robb, but he was no father figure to him as Jon Arryn was to his father. The relationship a fosterling was meant to foster would have fallen decidedly short of his father's expectations had it not been for the hand Domeric had extended to him in friendship so long ago.
Robb smiled to himself then, feeling suddenly a pleasant warmth spread from his core to his toes and fingertips. It was hard to believe that he could once again call Winterfell his home. It had hardly been two moons since Lord Roose had put a firm hand on his shoulder, wished him a safe ride to Winterfell and sent him on his way. There had been little fanfare to mark Robb's departure; he had privately bid the people who mattered most to him in the Dreadfort farewell and though he knew he would miss Domeric terribly the Dreadfort Heir had assured him that the hundred leagues between there and Winterfell would mean nothing against their friendship.
"Even if Randyll Tarly takes White Harbor" Robb heard Domeric say with an emphasis on 'if,' "he still has to feed his host. The North will not stand for trespassers. His men will starve."
A rare smile graced Jon's northern features. "But you do admit that the southrons, not we, would be on the offensive?" Domeric, far from being defeated, began to explain how the long marches across the North would affect the imaginary Tyrell host all the while gesticulating wildly at the carefully arranged dice.
Robb had only seen Jon on rare occasions the past eight years, but their friendship had borne the burden amiably and the two half-brothers remained close. Back then Robb's departure left Jon with few children his age to bond with, save Theon Greyjoy who had not been kind to him until then. The two had skirted around each other for some time, but ended up making an uneasy truth that blossomed into a friendship over the years. They seemed an unlikely duo at first glance, but both of them were at the same time welcome and unwelcome at Winterfell, Jon as a baseborn son and Theon as a ward taken in defeat from Balon Greyjoy, self-styled Ninth Iron King of His Name. Robb had never asked either of the two exactly when their 'rivalry' became a friendship, but he could understand why. He himself had felt the bite of homesickness as only a child could feel it and his then growing friendship with Domeric had been a welcome support.
"Where is Theon?" Robb asked Jon over Domeric's explanation of the White Knife's tide and its effect on crossing southrons.
"Talking to Ser Rodrik about something or other," came the low reply, barely audible over Domeric's insistent voice. Jon was still not completely relaxed around the Dreadfort Heir, something Robb had tried and would continue to try and remedy. Jon got the short end of the stick in many things, but not in good and loyal friends if Robb had anything to say about it.
"We're riding out with father tomorrow, are we not?" Robb asked again, throwing a small piece of kindling at Domeric to make him stop talking. The young Bolton shot a dark look at his companion, but thankfully quieted down, sighing as he leaned back into his chair.
"Last I heard, yes," Jon nodded, then fell silent. For a time the only sound between them was the lazy crackling of the fire and Robb felt the weight of the day on his mind. It seemed that the thought had struck the other two as well, and soon they were on their way to their respective chambers.
8
8
It was a good day for riding, if one appreciated such things. Domeric did; the young Bolton seemed to have been born in the saddle as masterfully as he steered his black palfrey through the thick underbrush of the Wolfswood. Jon and Theon rode as men trained in riding do and even Bran - overly excited as he was to be out of Winterfell with his father and his brothers for the first time since arriving from Karhold - did not falter once on the old gelding he rode on. Robb watched Theon and Jon share a quiet jape and hated at once the former for his damnable charisma and the latter for having all the typical Stark traits that Robb lacked. Even Bran wore on his nerves then, far too chipper for the Heir of Winterfell's liking.
Gods how he hated riding. Horses did not take to him as well as they did most others and Robb had come to mirror their distrust. The animals obeyed him, albeit hesitantly, and that was enough for Robb. He would never be a renowned jouster or win a great many races, but that did not bother Robb as much as it once had. The pangs of jealousy he felt were unwarranted, he knew, even unbecoming, but it was one thing to know that and quite another to truly feel it.
The party consisted of himself, his father, Jon, Theon, Domeric and Bran, all accompanied by Rodrik Cassel and half a score of Lord Stark's sworn swords. The group had left through the Hunter's Gate soon after sunrise, chatting amicably amongst themselves. Theon, Jon - and Robb to a lesser degree - had bickered and bantered, with Domeric occasionally offering a perceptive comment. Greyjoy and Snow were warming up to the newest addition to their group, but it was a work in progress. Theon often would lead the talk to women, clearly hoping to bond with Domeric over their extra years relative to Jon and Robb, never knowing that it only served to alienate him to the Dreadfort Heir. It was not easy for Robb to cover for the Bolton's telling silence on the matter.
It was not long after midday when one of the guards, an outrider, came galloping back to the group, making a beeline for Lord Stark with reports of a lone Crow, a man of the Night's Watch, making his way south on the open plains near the edge of the forest. The route made sense to Robb; it was close enough to the Kingsroad that one might follow it, but not so close that the man would risk discovery by the travelers there. indeed, had it not been for his father's excursion into the woods that day there was little chance the man would have been discovered before he reached the Neck. Descriptions of deserters from the Watch were sent south from the Wall, but men were hard to find in the North. To say that it was bad luck for the oathbreaker was an understatement.
Their father called Bran to his side as the group made its way to the Crow's last known location. They traveled at a leisurely pace; the outrider and two other guards had been sent to detain the man already.
"Men of the Night's Watch swear to watch over the realm of men until their death," Robb heard his father explain in that low, calm baritone of his. "That this man travels south without leave makes him a deserter and oathbreaker both. It means his life is forfeit. Do you understand, Bran?"
Bran nodded seriously, of course, but Robb doubted that he truly understood. The younger Stark was a child still and he had not yet experienced death first hand. Their father was an honorable man, a just man Robb knew, but justice was not always just and in Westeros it was bloody more often than not. Eddard Stark nodded approvingly back at his son, but the scene still left Robb feeling uncomfortable, and he was glad to see it when Jon steered his horse up beside his father's and half-brother's. Bran and Jon were not as close as Robb would have liked, but the dark-haired Snow's stoic presence had a calming effect, Robb knew from experience.
"Father?" Bran asked so quietly that Robb that to lean forward to hear him. "Could he not be sent back to the Wall?" He felt a pang of sadness for Bran then. It was good to see tangible proof that the cold climate of Karhold and the Karstarks there had not unduly hardened his younger brother, but as Lord Rickard had undoubtedly told Bran there were things in life that mercy would not solve.
Their father put a gloved hand on his younger son's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "I cannot do that Bran," he said with a slow shake of his head. "There are laws in this land that we must all answer to, lords and kings as well as the smallfolk."
"I understand," was all Bran said in response, but once again Robb doubted his words.
8
The deserter was the perfect example of the slow, but steady decay the Night's Watch had experienced since the time of Aegon's Conquest. Ten thousand swords served the Watch in those days, but no longer. If his uncle Benjen's cautious tales were anything to go by Robb estimated that the Watch could field perhaps a thousand men if every green boy and old man was given a sword to swing. The Watch had become little more than a convenient place that unruly lords and criminals could be exiled to.
The Crow lacked the most of both ears and had more scars than Robb could count on both hands. He looked old, perhaps fifty, yet haunted beyond his years. Lord Stark had tried to speak to the man, but nothing came of it. The only words the deserter would share were panicked warnings about a creeping evil, an unstoppable wickedness descending upon the realm of men from the frozen wastes that were the Lands of Always Winter. More than that he would not share, and perhaps it was for the best; words would not buy him his life.
The beheading was swift and clean. Theon held the wolf-pelt scabbard Ice usually rested in while the Lord Stark passed the sentence and swung the sword. Robb heard Jon advice Bran to look closely while his father fulfilled his duty as the lord of the land. It was sound, if tough, advice and Robb did not miss the conflicted look that crossed his father's face when he saw Bran fight the urge to look away. It was a struggle Robb remembered having himself when he was scarcely older than Bran.
After they had packed away the man's head and buried the body Robb's father came to speak with him.
"This will be your duty someday, Robb," he said seriously while the group mounted back up. "I know Lord Roose did not spare you the realities of crime and punishment, but that does not make a grim duty such as this any easier to come to terms with."
Truly, it had not. Lord Roose had punished lawbreakers with an iron fist, but no amount of executions had hardened Robb as they did most others. Instead he had only become more critical and contemplative in the face of such bloody business as the years passed.
"I will not fail in my duty, father," Robb assured the Stark patriarch as the group started on the trek back to Winterfell.
"I know you won't, Robb."
8
They were hardly an hour into the woods when they came upon the stag. Wyl, one of the younger swords sworn to House Stark, was the first to catch sight of it during his forward scouting. He came riding back in a gallop and led the party to the carcass. He insisted the animal was the biggest he had ever seen of its kind; he had counted near fifty points on its antlers and that was with a large section of the left horn missing. Robb privately doubted that any creature of even the Wolfswood could fell a stag like that, even large packs of wolves would pick their prey with care. A stag was hardly worth the fight, lest it was near their den. When he caught sight of the animal, however, the young Stark immediately regretted his disbelief.
The stag was spread across the forest path, partially disemboweled as it was. From the look of the pool of clotted blood around it Robb guessed it had lain there for perhaps half a day. Long gashes ran down its flanks and a large section of the animal's left antler looked, indeed, as if it had been torn off by force. Domeric, quiet as he had been throughout the morning, dismounted his black palfrey and went to examine the stag up close. He kneeled before the animal and removed a glove to run his hand over its bristling skin.
"Whatever creature killed this animal is one men would kill to hunt," he said under his breath as Robb dismounted his horse and came to join him. "These claw marks are not those of a bear, and they are too wide and deep for a wolf, lest it is a very, very large one." Robb grimaced at the thought. A wolf like that would undoubtedly attract a large pack and roam the Wolfswood for prey. If the creature was as large as Domeric implied it could even grow bold enough to lead its pack against the large flocks of sheep that found grazing land on the plains east of the forest.
"Perhaps it simply has abnormally large paws," Robb ventured quietly, earning himself a deadpan look from his friend, who opened his mouth to retort when he was interrupted by Jon and Theon's shouting.
"My Lord Stark," Jon called from further into the thicket in a formal tone that made Robb scowl. "You'll want to see this, my Lord." The Stark patriarch had never asked that Jon called him anything but 'father,' yet his lady wife and household had not been so lax with that they considered a bastard's due to his sire. Snow had rebelled against it at first, but with some help from the more courteous Theon he had come to accept that unless he was amongst friends, and friends only, he was expected not to be too familiar with his own father. It was a status quo that made Robb more cross than even riding.
His father led the group to Jon and Theon, ordering two men to stay with the horses. It was a short, but treacherous walk down the muddy hill the two misfits of Winterfell had traversed before them, but any curses were quickly stifled at the sight of the duo's discovery: a direwolf, near the size of the stag they had found only minutes before, lay dead at the foot of the hill with the broken off left antler of its prey jutting from its throat. The beast was magnificent, larger than any wolf Robb had ever laid eyes on, but it was not nearly as interesting as the bundle of writhing fur Jon was kneeling beside.
"I had thought it just a freak of its kind," Theon said from his position beside Jon, looking completely disinterested in what he had to know was a nigh impossibility south of the Wall. "Yet Jon tells me that it is a direwolf." Many of the men grumbled disbelievingly, but Lord Stark silenced them with a mere gesture before venturing closer to the fallen beast and kneeling beside Jon. Bran followed his father like a shadow and he was the first to pet the bundles of fur that lay shivering against their dead mother's belly.
"There are five pups, my Lord," Jon said loudly enough for the men to hear him. "Direwolves were not to be found south of the Wall, and now there are five." There was an unspoken question there.
"Where will they go?" Bran asked as he stroked the small forms gently, his voice reverting to the kind tone that had appealed for a deserter's pardon. "Their mother is dead."
"They don't belong here," Ser Rodrik commented, an air of finality about him. Robb's father nodded at that.
"Better a quick death," he said, denying his son for the second time that day. "They won't last without their mother." He rose then and despite Bran pleading for the puppies' lives Theon moved to fulfil the implied command, but before he could take a step Robb put a hand on the Greyjoy's shoulder, shaking his head. The direwolf was the sigil of House Stark, surely something could be done. Before he could voice his concerns, however, Jon spoke.
"Lord Stark," he began, gaining his father's attention. "There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House." He paused, but despite looking for it Robb saw no trace of bitterness or jealousy in his eyes. "They were meant to have them."
Robb regretted the envious thoughts he had had of Jon's Stark traits then. As a baseborn child Jon had little and less to look forward to, even as a son of the Warden of the North, yet he had selflessly excluded himself from the count without hesitation. Robb respected Jon, he always had, and those words only strengthened his belief that Jon should bury the thoughts he had of joining the Night's Watch. It was a fool's errand. Robb hardly heard his father acquiesce, nor the stern warning about responsibility he gave to Bran and him. It was only when Theon went to help Jon get the pups back to the horses that he was shaken from his train of thoughts. The rest of the group was already making their way up the hill, Bran with one of the pups now safely tucked into his chest.
"That was a kind thing you did, Jon," Robb said. "You're a good brother, and an honorable man." He had meant to commend him, but Robb did not miss the grimace that crossed his brother's face.
"A good half-brother, aye, and an honorable Snow." Ah, so he did feel some dejection. Robb suppressed the sad smile that tugged at his lips. Jon was a good man, but a man nonetheless.
"You will earn your way, as we all must. Snow or not, you have friends who know your worth." Even with two direwolf puppies in his arms Theon still clasped Jon's forearm and smiled that warm, roguish smile of his. "No direwolf will change that."
"But it certainly won't hurt your chances," Domeric said suddenly from behind Robb, startling the young Stark. He turned to berate his friend, but instead found himself staring into a pair of blood red eyes. He opened his mouth to question Domeric, but the runt licked his face before he could.
He would have to thank Domeric for this later.
White as Snow, indeed.