Robb (III)

The honorable young warrior strode confidently forward through the twisting alleys of King's Landing as the sun slowly set to the west, his Old Gods blessed lord father on one side and his awe inspiring brother Grey Wind to the other. Behind him lay an afternoon spent chatting amongst his comrades in arms as well as getting to know the salty banners of the new King. Those were an odd lot, a mixture of simple seeming sea lordlings, white blonde Targaryen dragonseeds, fiery heart badge wearing Queen's Men, and Free Cities sellsails. Each group apparently only grudgingly able to talk to each other but all eager to strike up a conversation with Lord Stark's son about storming the Red Keep, slaying the Lannisters, and using the victory to benefit themselves, each group in its own way. Being one of those to know that a secret passage had already been discovered into the Lion's den, he'd smugly felt superior, but nevertheless kept as quiet as a Silent Sister about it. And now ahead, a glass of wine, his pretty wife, and a warm snug bed lay a wait. 'What more could a man want?' he asked himself. Still, something kept niggling at him; an irritation demanding to be itched.

Finally, after several more minutes of walking in relatively sparse talk with his father, who Robb observed clearly had much on his mind, 'and why wouldn't he, stuck alone all that time with that cantankerous boor;' his youthful impatience go the best of him. "His Grace does not seem to care for me," he whispered, so that the eight grey clad, wolf's head badged Winterfell guardsmen escorting them back to their lodgings could not hear him publicly criticize the ungrateful King.

His father's tired and rapidly aging face grimaced briefly before returning to its usual stoic demeanor. "His Grace is a complicated man; living in even more complicated times," his father answered coolly, not bothering to much lower his voice.

'It'd have been a lot less complicated if you'd become King of the North, father,' Robb thought; an opinion he dared not say aloud, remembering the epic rant he and all 'his' lords had received from the snarling 'Old' Wolf that first evening in modest Castle Darry's cramped great hall.

"Sers, lords, northmen, lend me your ears! I come to bury the 'King of the North,' not to praise him. The treachery that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones. "How now, you secret, black, and midnight rogues! What is't you did? By the pricking of your honor, something wicked this way has come! This course, which has made a tomb of your virtue and honor, is but a walking shadow; a 'King of the North' that struts and frets his honor upon the game of thrones, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by a fool, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The Old Gods have given each of you a face, and you made yourselves another! Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful."

"If you Sers do not reverse your course, this foul deed shall smell above the earth, with carrion men, groaning for burial. There is a tide, a veritable flood, in the affairs of men, which taken with honor leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of our life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. Will we take the current as dutiful northmen and lords of the Trident, or lose ourselves in the swell of despair and the tempest of false pride?"

"So let it us bury this title, 'The King of the North.' An idea born of desperation and dark times, but shown ill-conceived in the light of day. To thy real King be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. Come with me and join the true King; for the golden age is before us, not behind. Hail Stannis!"

"Stannis," a few shouted.

"Who will join me!?"

"Stannis," more shouted.

"Who is our King!?"

"Stannis!" the entire hall yelled back more or less in unison, if not in utter enthusiasm, though the rare speech had clearly moved many.

Robb could admit to himself that the loss of his title and the end of his reign had stung his pride sorely. And Stannis' dismissive behavior now added salt to the wound. Though the arisen Lord of Winterfell's very public and very brutal condemnation of his royal ascent had cut the worst, even if in private his father had assured him that blame for the now upended scheme lay not with him but with the loudmouthed Greatjon and the other fickle great lords; 'a lesson there for you, son' he'd said sternly.

Still, he knew he'd done well as these fickle lords liege; calling and taming his banners (some of whom still frightened him a bit), winning at the Whispering Woods, relieving Riverrun, and rallying the Riverland lords to his side. However, the Young Wolf wouldn't deny that the heavy responsibility of kingship had frequently left a queasy feeling churning in his guts. 'I'd have made a fine King; Mother and Father taught me well,' he reassured himself. But married to both those thoughts was the memory of the enormous relief, the burden lifting off his shoulders, when he first again spied his confident, strong father. 'I'll make a find Lord too, when the time came; Old Gods let it be many years,' he prayed.

"Ahem!"

He looked over and caught his lord father staring at him. Robb promptly snapped out of his ruminations, red blooming on his cheeks. "My lord?"

"Give the King time, Robb. You've already proven yourself a knacky general, lad. Soon enough events will allow his Grace to judge your loyalty with his own eyes. He spent most of Robert's reign trying his best to serve a broken realm in this pit of lies that others call King's Landing. Forgive his Grace if the experience has left so bitter that he finds talk of honor and promises mere words; one day your actions will speak louder to him."

"Yes, father," Robb whispered. 'But no one's acted more loyal to him than you, and the sour fart doesn't seem to like or trust you much either; even less so when you came out of your meeting. Why won't you tell me what you talked about?' He was a man now with the battle scars to prove it and resented the times he felt himself still treated as a child.

"Ned," his mother called happily.

"Robb!" Roslin squealed delightfully.

Immediately, warm feelings swamped him. "Sweetling!" he cried back. He hadn't seen his love since early morning, and now his heart beat faster as she rushed her slender body into his arms. Something else within him beat faster too as he looked forward to quickly completing his family obligations here in the apartment's main salon and taking his bride back to their cozy bedroom so they might perform more intimate obligations.

"Yuck!" Arya barked, watching the pair embrace. She was sitting in a corner, sharpening her Needle with a whetstone; and while her eyes left the deadly sharp blade, her steady measured strokes over the slender steel never wavered.

Though fully engaged savoring Roslin's feel, scent, and promise of much more, the young man still took a moment to stick his tongue out at his youngest sister.

His mother snorted in amusement, though he wasn't sure whether it was because of his childish display or that Grey Wind was rubbing his furry snout between their legs looking for his share of affection.

"What?" Roslin murmured in the crook of his neck where her chin rested.

"Nothing, dear heart," he whispered back tenderly.

Regardless of whether his words soothed her or not, his lady wife slipped out of his embrace, but kept a grip on one hand. "Come, Robb, I've been working with my goodsister and Lady Jeyne on a new shirt for you to wear to the King's coronation."

Now it was the Young Wolf's time to snort his amusement. "Didn't you know, Roslin; Stannis has already crowned himself."

"Oh pooh," his sweet wife spouted. "We heard. That hardly counts," she scoffed.

"I see gossip still flies faster than Raven wings," his father chuckled.

"Do you think the King would forgo having a grand ceremony before the Iron Throne where all the lords in their finest pledge him their fealty?" his mother asked with perfect reasonability. "Especially once his queenly wife, her Grace Selyse, arrives?"

Knowing the benefits of a feigned retreat in the presence of a flanking attack, Robb held his tongue as to what he thought Stannis 'prickly arse' Baratheon would or would not do. 'I wonder what kind of hag the Queen is, if he's only ever gotten one child on her,' he thought. 'Or is his cock as temperamental a beast as his prickly arse?'

"Now go with Roslin," his mother cajoled, most likely so she could have a few private whispers with father, "and see what she's embroidering with Sansa and dear Jeyne."

Robb plastered on a smile and let his adorable lady wife lead him to the other corner, opposite Arya, of the candle lit room, where the pair of tortured girls, best friends since childhood, currently hid from the world. A snow white silk tunic lay draped over their laps and the intricate outline of a direwolf's head was taking shape on it.

"Hello Sansa," he said gently; undoubtedly over emphasizing the kindness, and thus drawing unnecessary attention to them. 'Damn you Joffrey, when will I act naturally again with my own sister,' he swore to himself. "Hope you haven't stabbed … uh jabbed yourself too badly on my account with all this fine stitch work," Robb japed with false cheer.

Roslin furtively stepped on his foot at the verbal blunder.

What little color glimmered in Sansa's blue eyes flickered out. And she tucked her chin down into her neck, trying to hide her disfigured face and broken soul.

'At least she didn't break down crying like she would've just two days ago,' he thought, looking for any positive from the situation. Then the Young Wolf gasped. "That's … amazing! Where did you get that yellow? It practically glows!" He grinned and turned towards Jeyne's almost equally vacant face. "I swear I'm looking right into Grey Wind's eyes!" he said with enthusiasm, edging closer to the girl. "May I?" he asked, hand outstretched to the tunic.

Jeyne smiled shyly and lifted the partially embroidered shirt up to him. Robb took it from her, their fingers lightly touching for the barest instant, and then Jeyne's hands promptly crashed back into her lap; arms quivering in fear at memory of contact with some other, some lascivious, evil man's flesh.

He'd suspected more than once through the years that Jeyne carried a torch for him. Looking at the sunken eyes in her once lively face, he felt pity for the still pretty but rape broken girl. No matter what his father swore, no reputable house would willingly join even a third or fourth son to such damaged goods. He felt Roslin gently squeeze his fingers and he turned to look into her big brown eyes. 'Well, many'd say ill of the Freys too. I suppose there's hope for her.' "Thank you ladies, this is a gift beyond words," he said with an exaggerated smile, suddenly feeling all false again. "I shall wear it proudly not only on King Stannis' 'true' coronation, but any time I attend court in the throne room."

Roslin at least appreciated his sentiments and squeezed his hand encouragingly yet again. An urgency swept over him. The Young Wolf could hardly wait another moment to cover her lithe body in hot kisses and feel her sweaty, naked skin plastered against his. "Have you eaten," he whispered to her.

She nodded, an understanding playful smile revealing the tiny, adorable gap in her two front teeth.

The Young Wolf felt the beginning of a cock stand. "If you will kindly excuse us, dear family, but it has been a rather long day, and I feel like retiring for the night."

Arya snorted. "I know what you want to retire for," she muttered under her breath from her own corner of the room, away from Sansa and Jeyne.

"Ahem."

Robb looked at his father, who'd cleared his throat. "Yes?" he inquired, noting with concern the paleness and small sheen of sweat on the Old Wolf's face.

"I would have private words with you and your lady mother, Robb. In my chamber," his father said gravely.

'Old Gods damn you, Stannis Baratheon. What did you say to my father today!' he raged in side. "Of course, father," he promptly replied, letting go of Roslin's hand and not even noticing his erection shrivel up.

Grey Wind refused to enter the room. He sternly pointed a hand through the open door into his parent's bed chamber. The direwolf let out a low growl expressing a difference of opinion. "Grey Wind," he complained. His pack mate spun half around, aiming his huge body down the hall back towards the common room; but keeping his head turned to keep questioning yellow eyes at Robb. "Now," he commanded. The beast almost whimpered, a sound the Young Wolf hadn't heard Grey Wind make since he played hard with his five litter mates as a pup. "Come," he growled. The direwolf took a tentative further step away. "Stupid dog," he murmured in frustration, knowing he was about to give up on this battle of wills. From experience, Robb knew that making his four legged brother do something he didn't want to usually wasn't worth the trouble. "Go on then. Find Roslin, Grey Wind. Find Roslin."

The beast's tail instantly popped up in evident relief and off he trotted.

'You may only tolerate father now,' the Young Wolf thought, 'but at least you approve the wife he choose for me.' Robb smiled. He approved of his father's choice too. He still couldn't understand how such an angelic creature could have been born out of anything that spurted from Walder Frey's bitter shriveled old cock.

He entered the room to find mother seated delicately on an overstuffed settee that threatened to swallow her and his father standing by a window back to him, glass of wine in hand, staring out into the night's sky. "What did the King tell you, father?" he demanded angrily.

"It's very pretty," his father muttered, ignoring his question if he even heard it.

"Father?" Robb asked, quite confused.

"Ned?" his mother asked.

"The Red Comet," he answered, still gazing through the window. "The Dragon's Tail. The Red Messenger. The Sword that Slays the Seasons. The Bleeding Star." His Father took a long gulp of the wine.

As alarms erupted in his head at his father's suddenly odd, almost melancholy tone, thoughts of Stannis slipped out of it, though he suspected the prickly arse was the cause for his father's change in mood. "It's an omen," Robb responded hesitantly, not knowing what to say.

The Old Wolf laughed, back still turned. "It's a gigantic ball of ice and rubble with a high ferrous content flying through the void that heats up as it passes near the sun and pushes out a cloud of iron colored gas. But an omen of what?" he concluded.

"Your return," his lady mother proclaimed proudly, though her clearly worried eyes locked on to her son's.

"The fall of the Lannisters," the Young Wolf said fiercely, trying to will the gathering storm clouds away. The indistinct clarion cry in his mind warped and took on the eerie tune his anxious, drunken father had sung the night before Sansa's return: 'On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at …'

"That, and much more too," his lord father stated darkly.

The hackles raised on the back of Robb's neck. His father had changed since his return from … 'Well, wherever it was he returned from," the young man thought. And while his father at first could hardly remember the names and faces of the men and banners who'd served him all of Robb's sixteen years, his father, the Old Wolf and wasn't his face older and more lined than before, knew things, important things, which no single man could ever possibly have discovered. His father had held this knowledge of the Old Gods close. 'Perhaps now, at last?' Robb cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. "Tell us, father," he asked.

The Old Wolf slowly turned away from the window, his body no longer blocking the faint glow of red trickling through the dark glass. He stared a moment at Robb. He stared a moment at Robb's mother.

Robb shivered, he swore his father's icy grey eyes faded away to a flinty green while he held their gazes, weighing their souls, judging whether they were worthy or not of his blessed confidences.

"You thought it unfair of me to have left Theon behind in Riverrun," his father said, ending the stare and the seemingly prolonged silence. He took another sip of wine.

The bald, unexpected statement and the grey returning to the Old Wolf's eyes struck Robb like a blow. He glanced nervously over at his mother. Her face revealed surprise too. "Uhm, yes father. Theon … is my friend." He started to feel confident in his reply. "Theon fought beside me in the Whispering Woods and at Riverrun too. He deserves a place of honor here with us, not practically locked up in grandfather's keep, watching how moldy old Utherydes stewards."

"Balon Greyjoy is calling his longships. The ironborn intend to attack the North."

Robb sucked in a breath. His mother gasped audibly.

"Tell no one," the Old Wolf commanded sternly. "We cannot afford to have our banners return North until Renly and the Tyrells are tamed or defeated."

A painful fire started to grow in Robb's belly. "How long have you known?" he asked in wonder.

"Since I woke up in White Harbor," he answered softly, then swirled his glass before taking another long draught.

"But we have Theon," his mother said with confusion. "Surely his father won't risk …"

"Balon Greyjoy is mad," the Old Wolf cut in harshly. "And he wants revenge against me from his last rebellion. Besides, he thinks Theon half wolf already."

"Ha!" Robb barked with harsh irony. He well remembered the many years his father kept a desperate for attention Theon at arm's length. Then a new, terrible thought struck him. "You told Stannis already! Didn't you?!" he accused angrily, bitter that his father had confided in that … that … self-righteous … ungrateful … King-come-lately.

"That, and much more, son," his father answered.

The Young Wolf childishly stomped a foot, feeling betrayed, belittled.

"Robb!" his mother cautioned him.

"Mother, why?!" he asked plaintively.

She swallowed. "Think like a war leader, Robb. Think like a great lord. Where is our fleet?" She jabbed a finger vaguely in the direction of the Blackwater. "Our fleet lies there and its admiral's name is Stannis Baratheon."

Now it was Robb's turn to swallow. Swallow hard.

"My lord husband," his mother continued. "Does the Kraken only intend to ensnare wolves?" she asked with a slight tremor.

His father cracked a sardonic grin. "Thankfully no. He does mean to try and make an Iron Kingdom out of part of the North by taking Moat Cailin and the western seats, but most of his might will be sent against the richer plunder in the Westerlands and the Reach."

Possibilities crackled inside the Young Wolf's clever brain, dousing, for the time being, the anger in his heart. "Lord Helman, he has near half a thousand men at the Twins. They could go guard Moat Cailin."

His father's wry grin started to turn into an actual smile. "Exactly. What else?" he prodded.

"Stafford Lannister is training a new army near Lannisport. He won't dare move against us once word reaches him of longships off the Westerlands' coast."

"And?"

"If … if the ironborn come soon enough, the Tyrells will need to shift much of their strength back south." His voice brightened. "We could even send some sort of secret, believable warnings to their banners right now, especially the Redwynes."

His mother practically beamed at him. "Cleverly thought, my son." Then her face turned serious and she addressed her lordly husband. "But there's worse, isn't there Ned? More than just the ironborn or Renly and the Tyrells?"

His father sighed heavily, "Yes," and took another mouth of wine. "Lord Commander Mormont has taken most of his best men on a great ranging beyond the Wall. A new king has arisen among the wildlings, uniting them, and is bringing them south; all one hundred thousand of them. Mormont hopes to break Mance Rayder's army," he said sadly.

The excitement and outrage in his belly collapsed into cold ashes. "Jon," he whispered.

His mother frowned at mention of his bastard brother.

"He's gone on the ranging," the Old Wolf confirmed. And again the man's eyes fluttered between grey and green as he seemed to stare up at the ceiling or into a private vision. "He … should live. More likely than old Mormont."

Robb gulped. "Tell no one?" he asked softly.

"Of course," his father snorted. "The Umbers, the Karstarks, and many many others would leave the instant they heard so many wildlings threaten to swamp the Wall and storm their homes."

Robb and his mother both nodded agreement.

"Worse," the Old Wolf continued, "We are going to have to convince our banners to let the Free Folks live among us in the North."

"What!?" Robb spluttered in outrage.

"Ned, you can't be serious," his wife gasped, even a southerner understood the unending enmity between the so called 'free folks' and the Houses of the North.

"Yes. Yes, I'm deadly serious," the Old Wolf snarled. He swung back towards the window and pointed at it. "Out there, the Red Messenger, the Dragon's Tail. Do you know what it's an omen of? Do you?! I'll tell you. The return of magic. The return of the Others."

Robb's hackles returned at mention of the Ancient Enemy. He felt ice form in his blood. "No. no, it can't be," he whispered; but his father would never ever make such a claim without dead certainty.

His father turned back around, face pale as snow. "It is," he said in a husky voice. A flicker of a smile whispered over his lips. "Fear of the Others and the undead wights they animate is driving Mance Rayder and the wildlings to pass south of the Wall. The magic of the Wall stops the Others, but not their wights, from entering the North. Unfortunately the King-beyond-the-Wall has discovered a magic to collapse the Wall, and he'll use it unless they're let through."

"It can't be true," his stunned mother murmured. "It can't possibly be true. No, no it can't."

"Despite our hate for them Cat, do we dare risk letting the Wall fall? The North is vast. There's room enough and more for them. It won't be easy." He laughed at his own understatement. "Few are the lords they willingly bow to, and only those who've earned it by their strength."

His mother promptly uttered, "Greatjon."

His father nodded. "If he'll take them, I imagine they'll have little problem bowing to him, or to Lord Rickard either. Even so, it definitely won't be easy," he repeated. "At least there's time to get ready." The Lord of Winterfell began ticking off fingers as if counting to himself. "Things move slowly, very slowly in that frozen vastness beyond the Wall," he whispered as if he were Roose Bolton. "Seven, maybe eight months for Mance to arrive if the boo … visions hold true. Longer before the Others ... do …" the whisper died out.

Robb cleared his throat, trying not to sound like a drowning man hacking up his lungs. "Can the Others be fought?"

"With Valyrian steel, wildfire, or dragonglass, an Other may be killed," the Old Wolf announced, though with a hint of doubt. His father now cleared his throat. "The King will allow us to take pyromancers back North after Renly is dealt with. And in a few days he will let a small fleet of ships depart here for Dragonstone. The tunnels beneath his castle have a wealth of dragonglass. Arrowheads and small blades can be shaped out of the obsidian. One boat will head for Eastwatch-by-the-sea, another to White Harbor, and the third back here to King's Landing." As his father described the effort to get the Other slaying rock off of Dragonstone, an enigmatic, but definitely smug, look overtook his face, which he eventually hid behind another sip of wine.

"I could use a glass too," his mother announced. "Robb, would you?" she asked.

He nodded and stepped over to the table where the open bottle and several glasses lay.

His father walked up next to him and set his now empty glass down. "Fill mine too, if you please … son."

Robb nodded and poured. Finished, he handed the first glass to his mother. Father had already picked his up, and the Young Wolf then did likewise. The rim poised at his lips, the aroma of an Arbor Red, admittedly from a bad year, second pressing, or an inferior vineyard, he felt the need to say something, anything. "Winter is coming," he toasted and at last let the grape nectar slide over his palate.

When he lowered the glass, Robb found the Old Wolf gazing at him And for the third time that night he got the eerie sensation that his father's eyes were more green than grey.

"Do you dream as Grey Wind, Robb?" his father suddenly asked.