With dedication to DirewolfSummer.

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The King in the North was troubled.

Within the dimly lit stone walls of Winterfell, Robb Stark sat at the Great Hall's high table. His hands were clasped and his head was bowed, the fire inside the hearth behind him silhouetting the figure of a broad man who didn't want to be where he was.

The crown that sat atop his head - an open circlet of hammered bronze which was surmounted by nine black iron spikes - was heavier than it had been on the day he was crowned, a mere six weeks ago. He had overseen several minor trials in that time, and given the offenders their just punishments without difficulty, but this one was different. None of the others had been his friend, his brother in every way that mattered.

His mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, sat to his left in the seat that, one day, would be filled by his wife. He dared not look at her. He couldn't stand the look he knew she had on her face. How can she be pleased about this? How can she hate him so? He is family. Father embraced him as a son, yet she refuses to do the same.

To his right, Robb's Sentinel - the King's advisor - shifted in his seat and spoke into his ear in a hushed, gravelly voice, "Justice demands it, your Grace. The boy has committed treason."

Robb sharply raised a hand, and Ser Brynden Tully fell silent. He didn't need to hear again what his mother had already said a dozen times.

Justice demands it - the words echoed in his ears. Justice demands it. Honour demands it.

He looked up. Before him were two Rangers, clad in black fur cloaks, beneath which they wore brown leather tunics over grey long-sleeved shirts. They stood with their hands wrapped around the wands that were holstered at their sides. Like I need protecting from him, of all people, Robb thought bitterly.

Between the Rangers, the prisoner, his friend, his brother, knelt before him, dignified in spite of the tattered rags which hung loosely from his body. You can take everything from him, but never his pride. Long, damp black hair hung limp, covering his face, and he was shivering. Two days in an ice cell will do that. The King wanted so desperately to rise from his seat, round the table and cover the boy with his cloak, but he refrained.

"Rise," he said, shocked at how hollow his voice sounded.

The boy obeyed at once, and struggled to shake his hair out of his eyes. Untie his hands, damn you. He's no threat to me.

"Uncover his face."

One of the guards stepped forward and swept his hair back over his head. Robb winced at the sight. He was deathly pale, and the hazel eyes that Robb's eldest little sister was secretly infatuated with were sunken and bloodshot, and totally devoid of the spark that had once been there. Robb stared into those eyes, just as they stared into his. He always felt oddly intimidated by that gaze, the gaze of a boy of fifteen years.

"James of House Potter…" he began, careful to mask the intense surge of sorrow he felt. "You stand accused of the attempted murder of a Ranger."

James blinked slowly. He was exhausted.

"How do you answer this charge?"

Silence. James blinked again, and again. He said nothing for several long, agonising seconds, and nobody bothered to hurry him along, though he knew his mother surely wanted to, but held her tongue out of respect for her King. Another moment passed - Lady Catelyn gave an impatient huff - and Robb wondered if James had even heard him. Then, James Potter smiled.

"Guilty, your Grace."

His voice was hoarse and weak. Robb cringed internally at the sound, and at the answer. James was guilty, of that there was no doubt, and yet some small part of him still refused to believe it.

"You admit to your crime?" Lady Catelyn said, and there was a giddy undertone to her voice.

"Aye, milady. I'm guilty of my crimes."

'Crimes', Robb thought. Plural?

"Your crimes?"

James nodded, "Yes, your Grace. I'm guilty of the first charge, but I'm also guilty of another. Failure, your Grace. I'm guilty of failure."

Ser Brynden cleared his throat, "Explain yourself, boy."

"That attempted murder should have been murder. But I failed."

Robb didn't fathom the words. James wasn't a killer. And what was more, he idolised the Rangers, longed to be one before his banishment to Castle Black. He hated Alliser Thorne, it was true, but never had Robb believed he would act on that hatred. He had seen only the crime, not what came before it. What had Thorne done to provoke such a response?

"Very well."

"Who's going to do it?" James asked. "Who's going to take my head? Not him, I hope."

"No-"

"Why don't you do it, Ser?" James continued, speaking so casually, they might have been talking about hunting, or Arya's most recent tirade. "I'd rather die at the hands of someone I respect."

"Enough."

Robb didn't speak loudly, but there was force enough to silence James. Robb inhaled deeply, thought 'Honour. Duty. Justice. Honour. Duty. Justice', exhaled, gathering himself to do what must be done, then slowly rose from his seat.

"James of House Potter," he said again, speaking quickly, lest he hesitate and lose his resolve, "for your crimes against the Kingdom of the North, I, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King of the North, hereby…"

'...sentence you to die', he should have said, but looking upon that face of his closest of friends, and seeing the shame and fear and sadness that hid behind his mask of a smile…he just couldn't do it.

"...banish you from these lands."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Brynden look sharply up at him.

"Robb…" his mother gasped.

"Your Grace," urged Ser Brynden, "his crime is treason."

"I know, Uncle," Robb gritted his teeth. Damn it all. "My decision is final."

The false smile faded slowly, almost comically from James' face. In its place, Robb saw horror.

"Your Grace…" James croaked. There were tears in his eyes now. Robb hadn't seen him cry since the night his father died, and that was six years ago.

"You will leave at first light. Should you return, you will be executed."

James opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw worked furiously, "I…no."

"No?"

"Kill me."

It was Robb's turn to gape, uncomprehending.

"Kill me, your Grace," James pleaded, desperate. "Don't send me away, please!"

"Don't presume to make demands of your King, Potter," Lady Catelyn seethed, spitting the name.

The heavy oak door at the far end of the hall heaved open, and with its opening came Arya, darting over the threshold.

"Don't!" she cried, running at full pelt towards them. "Don't kill him!"

Lady Catelyn shot from her seat, "Arya! Leave this instant!"

One of the guards moved to block her path, "You must leave, Princess."

"Leave her," Robb commanded. He wouldn't have them lay a hand on his youngest sister. "Leave, Arya. Now."

The guard stepped aside, but Arya pursued, and pushed against him with all of her strength, moving him away from James.

"Leave him alone!" the she-wolf growled. "Get away from him!"

Lady Catelyn rounded the table and made to approach Arya, fury playing plainly on her face, but Robb forbade her, and bid his mother to take her seat.

Powerless and perplexed, the Rangers backed away. Arya turned to scowl at Robb, a heated look which shocked him. He had never seen her so enraged.

"Arya, please-"

"Shut up!"

James' head was bowed, as though he wanted so desperately to be invisible, but his magical cloak was desperately out of reach. He didn't react to any of what happened, not even when Arya moved to stand in front of him, her arms outstretched protectively.

"He didn't do nothing wrong! He wouldn't!"

Robb closed his eyes and prayed for patience, "Arya, I am your King, and I command you to stand aside."

"Can't…" Arya's voice was suddenly thick, and there were tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "He's my brother."

As am I, little sister. Your real brother, Robb thought, and yet he found himself wondering if Arya would throw herself in front of him if he were in danger, like she did for James.

It was treasonous to disobey the King, but Robb knew he must be patient with Arya, as his father would have been. She had been inseparable from James before he left for Castle Black, and he had known, since the moment James was thrown in the ice cell, that his sister would take all of this harder than anyone, himself included.

In a way, Robb admired Arya for what she was doing. The sigil of House Stark was a Direwolf, and for that reason they tried to behave as wolves would where their pack was concerned. But none truly embodied the wolf like Arya. She was fierce, and fiercely loyal, most especially to James. She would die for him, he knew, without fear or hesitation, if it were necessary. It was fortunate then, that it wouldn't be.

"It's alright, Arry," James said. His voice was soothing and light, like Robb heard it whenever he found James comforting Arya after one of her regular quarrels with Sansa. "I've done a bad thing."

"No you haven't!" Arya spat, turning on a small heel to look up at him. "Shut up!"

Robb remained silent, and made certain his mother and uncle did the same. Arya wasn't to be calmed by anyone, save for her father and James. James raised his head ever-so-slightly to look at her, and Robb saw the ghost of a smile, and this time it was real. Then, he looked at Robb, a silent, but evident request.

Robb nodded, "Untie him."

His mother tensed beside him as the Ranger obeyed, removing his wand from its holster and uttering a quiet incantation. The ropes that bound James' hands behind his back fell away. At once he dropped to one knee.

"Listen to me, Princess," he said gently, his hands coming to rest on her narrow shoulders, "I'm guilty of a terrible crime. If I were anyone else, would you try to stop my punishment?"

Arya was quiet for a moment, and the room with her. The only solace from a suffocating silence was the crackling of the fire in the hearth. When she answered James, it seemed all of the fire and strength had left her, and she sounded timid, which was most unlike her.

"But you're not anyone else."

A fair point, Robb thought. Despite his fervent belief in justice and doing one's duty, he couldn't say he wouldn't try to prevent the punishment of someone he loved, no matter how guilty they may be. If he had not been King, he might have even helped James escape capture.

A strange look passed over James' features, and then Arya was in his arms, and he was hugging her tightly. Arya's skinny arms snaked around his neck and squeezed. The scene strengthened Robb's resolve. No, he wouldn't sentence James to death.

Because Arya would surely kill him.