On Robb's fifth name day, he's sent to Mikken's forge. Smiths don't usually trouble themselves with wood, but the big smith with scarred hands as big as a bear's paws hefts him easily to sit on the horn of the anvil, dusts himself off, wipes his face with the hem of his thick leather apron. Mikken hands him the wooden practice sword with a smile and all the ceremony he would have used for Lord Stark's own greatsword.
"Happy name day, little lordling. I hear you're big enough to swing it now."
Robb's mouth falls open. His very own sword! His first ever!
When he jumps down from the anvil, he staggers. Mikken catches him, laughing.
"It's heavier than you think, lad. Easy now! Both hands on the hilt, or you'll drop it on your poor toes…"
Hmmm. He might have to use both hands for a while. It's far heavier than the sticks he usually fights with. It's a proper sword, too – the blade might be wood, but it's shaped just as Ice is, and the hilt is wrapped in proper shark-skin from a great monster caught off Bear Island. Wait until Jon sees this!
Jon.
Jon is older, though not by much. His name day was three weeks ago, and Robb doesn't remember him being given a sword. Maybe if Father were here…but Father isn't here; he's fighting the iron men far away, and Mother says he won't be back for months. Not until the iron men give up and go home.
Robb frowns. He runs his fingers through tousled red hair – winter has just ended, whatever that means, and it's only recently that Mother has felt it warm enough for him to go outside without being bundled up in a hat and a cloak and rabbit-furred gloves and all manner of other things that are very boring to have to put on and take off all the time! - and a stubborn jut appears to his small chin.
"I'll share it."
Yes. They'll share the sword, at least until Father comes home. Then Jon can have one too, one that's only his alone, and then they can fight. They can be soldiers then. Or great lords, like Father. Maybe they can pretend to fight iron men together.