A/N: To everyone who left their reviews, I greatly appreciate it!
ROBB
Robb raised his sword and snarled as he slashed against the practice dummy, hacking again and again and pretending all the while that it was the Smiling Knight he was fighting, and that the blade in his hand was Dawn. He imagined that he was no longer in the courtyard of Starfall, but instead on some indiscriminate path along the Kingsroad and that the waves crashing against the cliffs outside the castle walls were the shouts of battle. It was often the case on days when he had nothing else to do but dream, and in his dreams he was always the Sword of the Morning, saving the beautiful princess from danger.
He swung again and again until his muscles burned, then stopped for a moment. He wiped his forehead on his padded sleeve and frowned across the horizon, and the shimmering water that sat just in the distance. Somewhere out there beyond his sight was a ship coming to take him far away from Starfall, away from the only home he had known in most of his short life. He was to go North with his uncle Benjen, stay with him and learn the ways of the North, and in a few years, inherit Winterfell and assume his title as Warden of the North.
It was not a title he had ever wanted.
He heard footsteps, saw Edric hurrying over from within the castle proper, back from Lady Ashara's solar, and it looked like he'd run the whole way. Robb's sword swung out at the wooden figure and another devious bandit was cut down. Edric stood a few feet away, boyish cheeks flushed red, struggling for breath.
"What's got you so worked up?" asked Robb, lowering his practice sword.
"Aunt Ashara…" Edric struggled to talk and breathe at the same time. "She told me to come fetch you."
Robb smiled at the boy, shaking his head. "You didn't need to run all the way here,"
"I did," he insisted with a sense of urgency. "If I wait too long then Allyria will eat my lemoncake!"
He laughed, ruffled the boy's hair and sent him on his way before walking back to the armoury. He stood there for a moment longer, then put the sword up, removed his padding, and strode across the yard into the castle. He moved past the old library where he had taken all of his lessons with the Maester, where he had learnt of the various warriors and kings of Dorne, as well as what they had on the history of the North and it's Stark kings. The great hall where he would sit with Allyria and Edric as the various Dornish nobility came to talk with Ashara and enjoy in Starfall's hospitality. It was the display room where he lingered the most, a small and empty space that was the resting place of the greatest blade ever crafted by man. Yet the glass case was empty, Dawn resting in Ser Arthur's possession far away. Robb would come to the room and stare at the empty case for hours at a time, paying homage like a priest to some strange and beautiful god. But I'll never have it, he reminded himself forcefully. I am not a Dayne, despite how much I want to be…
Ashara stood in the doorway, watching him; a black shadow with the orange light of sunset filtering in behind her.
"I just came to say goodbye," he whispered.
"You've always loved this place," she said softly. He couldn't hear her footsteps, yet he could feel her warmth approaching. "Ever since the first day you came here, it was always this one room that bewitched you."
He turned to face her, the woman who had raised him and brought him into her home. It was often said that Ashara Dayne was the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, if that was so, then the years had done little to change her. Yet today her angelic features were marred by grief, her eyes red-rimmed with tears shed and unshed.
"The Sword of the Morning brought me here," he told her. "I come here to be close to my hero and seek inspiration."
Ashara's violet eyes regarded him carefully. "Have you ever found it?"
"Every single time."
She gave him a sad smile for a moment before turning to admire the empty case, as if she too sought inspiration and encouragement. He had hardly realised until that moment how much taller than her he had become. "Ever since that first time when Arthur brought you back to me, I knew that this day would come, sooner or later."
"I don't want to go," he said in an angry whisper. "I don't even know the North, why can't I just stay here and let my uncle have Winterfell?"
Ashara exhaled, shook her head. "You have a duty to the North and its people. As much as I wanted you to be a Dayne, you are a Stark and as your father's son; you need to take his responsibilities."
"But it's not fair! I never asked for any of it, why am I being punished for something that's not my fault?"
She pulled him into a hug, her embrace warm and protective. He felt like a boy again within her arms, a scared child in need of reassurance "Your father was a second son, a young lordling with no true prospects beyond that of serving his family. When we were together he even talked about coming to Dorne, living here as a humble knight in my brother's household." With an unsteady voice, she whispered into his auburn curls. "But then the rebellion happened, your grandfather and uncle died, and he was forced to take up their responsibilities. It was his duty, unfair as it might have been."
Ashara took his face between her hands. "This is your duty, and while I may not like it and you may not like it, it's what is bestowed on us."
He felt tightness in his throat, tears welling up in his eyes. In his years aspiring to be a knight Robb had trained and fought, thrown punches and received them, yet nothing was as painful as the thought of having to say goodbye to Ashara. "But….will I ever see you again?"
The lady of Starfall pressed her lips together, her violet eyes glittering like gems with unshed tears. She pushed back his hair, long and unruly, so that it didn't obscure his face and forced a smile. "We'll see each other again, in this life or the next."
"You might not have given birth to me," he said with a shuddering breath. "But you are my mother, and I promise you that when I am lord of Winterfell we will see each other again. I promise."
The ship from the North came three days later and with it a collection of burly northmen. All of them were tall and hard, with their armour and fur cloaks, looking more like bears than men. They looked about with extreme irritation and discomfort, no doubt annoyed by the heat that Dorne enjoyed when compared to the frozen wastes of the North. The leader of the group identified himself as Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms of Winterfell and the man who would continue Robb's martial education once they reached the North.
Ashara hosted them for a few days, trying with all strength to overcome the cultural differences in order to build some form of lasting ties between the two groups. Robb was aware of her efforts, and angered by it. Why should she bow and scrape? When I become Lord of Winterfell I'll treat with who I like, be they Dornish or Dothraki!
Despite the attempts to delay matters, to embrace the Northerners as friends and perhaps delay their departure, they resolved to set out as planned. There were tears from the children as Robb had to bid goodbye to Edric and Allyria, though with all his force of will, he managed to maintain his composure before the Northern men. Ashara looked as though she wanted to draw him within her arms, but thought better of it, and settled with a single kiss to the forehead and in a soft voice whispered, "My son."
He struggled with himself for a moment, trying to make sense of how his life was changing. He settled on giving her a nod, and turned before he started weeping and strode away down the docks to the waiting ship, the burly northerners following close behind.
The voyage at sea wasn't quite what Robb had expected.
It rained as they sailed about the edge of Dorne, an unusual and unwanted occurrence for a summer year. It wasn't enough to make anyone overly wet, but enough to make everyone squint and feel uncomfortable. Robb leaned upon the railing of the Queen Jaehaera, doing what most of the men aboard were doing; trying to disperse the bad weather through sheer force of will.
He frowned at the blue waters, at the waves and the distant coast of Dorne. From where he stood, the land itself appeared a red-brown colour that was made up of sand. I am trading sand for snow, colour for bleak horizons of white…
Fear was a major companion for him, fear of the unknown, but it was not the only one. Anger filled his heart and warmed him with every breath he took. It was a broad and vague anger that was directed at the whole world rather than any single person, a violent storm of emotion that he wanted to hurtle at Westeros itself. Yet he knew that for all his cursing and hatred, he could not change his circumstance any more than a fish could change the current it swam in. He felt well and truly powerless.
Head bent, eyes closed, he stood awhile in silent contemplation. Until someone stepped up to the rail beside him and spoke. "The weather is queer this far south," said Ser Rodrik. "Even this rain feels too warm."
"A day without snowfall during a summer year is considered normal to the rest of the world," Robb grumbled.
Ser Rodrik watched him for a moment, chewing on his thoughts. "You've never seen the snow I'd wager."
Robb said nothing, just locked his eyes on the coast of Dorne, as if he could keep from feeling homesick by staring at its red shores. So far it wasn't working at all.
"I can understand this must be an effort for you," Rodrik said after a long moment, his voice softer than before. "Leaving your home is never an easy thing."
"How can you possibly know what it's like?"
Ser Rodrik looked off, distant for a moment as his mind went back years and years. He smiled sadly as he brought the memory to the forefront of his mind and fumbled in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a small silver pin that was carved into the likeness of a Stark Direwolf. "Your grandfather, Lord Rickard, gave this to your father on the day he left his home for the Vale. I still remember his face, he was no different from you," He looked at the silver pin for a moment more before handing it over to Robb. "No matter where you live, you're a Stark."
He considered the tiny pin, traced his fingers over the grooves around the direwolf's toothy maw. This is mine, he told himself as he squeezed the little silver sigil, its edges pressing so deeply in his palm that it engraved the shape into his flesh. This is who I am…
"Things will get better when we return to Winterfell," the old knight promised, clasping Robb on the shoulder once before going off to speak with his fellows below deck.
The ship was blessed with five days of clear skies after that, the sun bathing down upon them all and making the sea sparkle like a thousand, thousand diamonds. The wind was godly, and enough so that their ship cut through the sea with utmost speed. With each passing day Robb was becoming more accepting of his new role in the North, and even began to sit and share stories with the Northmen, hoping to gain more information about his new homelands.
Robb had only ever met his uncle Benjen a few times in his youth, and most of what he knew of him was from cold and formal letters. By talking with these men who served him, Robb hoped to gleam some more insights on his new guardian and mentor. But I will not forget Ashara, he promised himself silently with each new thing he learnt about the North. I will hold onto the warmth of Starfall, even as I enter the frozen halls of Winterfell…
On the seventh day of his journey Robb was woken from his tiny sleeping space below deck by the sounds of anxious voices all about him. The sun had not yet quite risen when he went above deck, the sky coloured an odd grey, thick with cloud and with the faintest chill in the breeze. Several of the men had gathered to the starboard side, pointing and arguing at a figure in the horizon, a tiny dark shape in the mass of grey.
He squinted at the shape, trying to make it take form. Still nothing. But then he managed to pick up what the crewmembers were arguing about, the words "battle" and "Ironborn" enough to help him grasp the situation well enough.
"What ship is it?" one of the sailors called over to the captain, who was watching the distant figure through his myrish glass with a deep frown writ across his wind burnt face.
"Iron Victory," the older man growled.
A horrible silence fell upon the men at that, lips began to move in quiet prayer. Others merely grit their teeth and fingered their weapons. Robb knew little about famous ships, but it was plain enough for him to see that Iron Victory was not a welcome site. He heard stories of the Ironborn, though mostly of rebellions long past and would-be kings put to the sword by the Targaryens. To see an actual ship of theirs approaching, even from a distance, was a curious thing.
Ser Rodrik was at his side, shaking his head. "The biggest mistake Aegon the Conqueror ever made was not wiping out the rest of the Ironborn when he killed Black Harren. Dogs like them will never learn."
"So they mean to attack?" Robb loosened his sword in its scabbard.
"This is no warship lad." He replied with a grim look. "In this case it would be wiser to run, try and slip past them and see if we can make land at the nearest port."
Robb stared at the man. "But what if they catch us?"
Ser Rodrik gestured to the men around them, the steel they carried, the bows and arrows that they were preparing. Their faces had been hardened, fear had been pushed aside by determination as they began to move, the captain howling orders at them. "It's little use to resist if we're run down," the master-at-arms grunted. "But a man's life should never been extinguished without a fight."
Eventually the shape of the Ironborn vessel grew clearer, ominous like the fin of a shark as it moved in for a kill. At its current distance Robb could make out the mast and the golden kraken on black; the sigil for house Greyjoy. A horrible feeling sunk into his stomach.
"Greyjoys!" The captain screamed, paling. "Put her about! See if we can't lose them in the shallows!"
The orders were obeyed and the vessel veered sharply and cut through the water in a mad attempt to reach the dusty brown shoreline, the captain striding back and forth, encouraging the oarsmen on with hearty roars, his face darkened red by sun and stress, his skin oily with sweat.
"What am I to do?" Robb asked Ser Rodrik as the men around them hurried to their duties. "I can fight."
Ser Rodrik gave him a weary smile. "Aye, I don't doubt it. But right now you're too valuable to risk injury, go below deck and barricade yourself in until I come to find you."
"But I-"
"Trust me on this count," he replied dismissively before turning to give orders to his northmen.
Standing on the deck, Robb watched the enemy ship skimming lightly over the waters, and though he was the furthest possible thing from a sailor, it was apparent to him that they couldn't outrun such a vessel. The bearded rowers grunted, heaved at the oars while their muscles knotted, their skin shiny with sweat. Every breath they collectively breathed was a war cry of human effort against the elements, yet it was for naught. Robb could see the sail had hung limp as the wind fell, all the while Iron Victory crept closer.
He could see the details of the enemy ship plainly now. Standing on deck in plain sight the Ironborn stood, bodies covered in various assortments of armour, swords and axes drawn. On a raised platform stood a massive figure dressed in full iron plate, a golden kraken engraved into his chest, face obscured behind a helm fashioned into the likeness of the multi-limbed beast. He looked nothing human, and the colossal axe in his grasp held grim promise.
There was a distant cry from the other ship, and arrows fell in a rain all around Robb, rowers crying out as their thick and muscled hides were pierced. Despite their wounds the men continued to heave with a devil's strength whilst Robb stood in awe. Gods be good! How can they be this strong?
"What are you still doing up here?" Ser Rodrik's hand was firm against Robb's wrist. "Get below deck, now!"
With extreme reluctance he went into the darkened depths of the ship, breathing heavily and heart thumping in his chest. Above him screams were echoing, loud and screeching, they sounded like demons rather than the men they were. Robb found the small cabin and barred the door by pushing an old chest up against it, and to help reassure himself, drew his sword and muttered a silent prayer like he had once seen Ser Arthur do.
Be brave Robb, he urged himself, fingers clenching around his sword's grip. It was a blade that had been forged at Starfall and gifted to him by Arthur during one of his infrequent visits. While it was no Dawn, it was still a finely crafted weapon that could kill a man just as good. I can do it; I have to do it…
The noises above him grew fiercer and suddenly closer. Heavy thumps of bodies hitting the deck, bloodcurdling screams as men gave their terminal breath, chanting and laughing as Ironmen cut down their foes. Taking a shuddering breath, Robb closed his mind to most of it and pressed his back against the cabin wall, sword held out. Footsteps slowly creaked against the wooden boards as men approached, slowly and steadily, like predators coming for wounded prey.
A thud rocked the wooden door as someone on the other side tried to push it open only to budge an inch. There was a curse swiftly followed by a harder thud, then another. "Whoever's in there better bloody let me in before I get angry!"
Robb swallowed his fear, moved into a fighting stance and braced himself.
Two more heavy thuds came before a brief silence settled over everything. It was shattered a moment later when chips of wood went flying as an axe blade cut into the door. Another swing of the weapon managed to punch a small hole in the wood and expose a crusty looking iron islander's face on the other side. He grinned savagely and then pulled his blade free and swung again, this time taking out a far larger chunk.
Wasting no time, Robb thrust forward into the man's face and was rewarded by a shrill scream and bloody blade as he yanked back. The series of vulgar curses that followed told him that the man was still alive and still very much full strength. The axe chopped into the wood even harder, ripped free, then struck again, over and over until the whole door was tattered. With one last grunt the Iron Islander smashed through; sending splinters flying as he toppled down over the nearby chest. Robb knew that it was the right moment and brought his sword down from overhead, lodging deep into the man's unprotected skull.
"Well, I'll be…"
Robb's eyes shot up as two other ironmen slowly descended the stairs, grinning at him like he was something delicious. Covered in a man's blood, the screams of the shipmates all about him and sword tightly held with his grasp, Robb had a grim epiphany as they approached; he wanted to kill them just as much as they did him.
There was a moment where none of them made a single move, merely stared at each other and took in the situation. The two ironmen were not especially tall, both around the same height as Robb despite them being twice his age, and their faces seemed haggard and hard, the skin stretched back over their skulls like tight leather. Yet they wore vicious smiles upon their faces and held swords with practiced ease.
It was like the wind changed then, the slightest of things and time resumed. The men advanced with blades at the ready. Robb managed to parry the first strike, move aside for the second and used the momentum to cast his sword across and slash at one of his attackers' lightly armoured side. It was perhaps not enough to seriously harm, but it drew blood and that was all the encouragement he needed. Battle made everything simple, reducing the world to single, clear sounds; the scrape of steel on steel, the creak of wood beneath boot, shrieks of rage and pain.
There was a roar of frustration, and the man on Robb's left brought down his sword in an unstoppable arc towards the Stark's unarmoured head. With the other poised on the right, there was nowhere to go but back, almost stumbling over the corpse he'd left behind him. The slice missed his face by a finger, the force causing the blade to bite into the floor, the wood holding it there just long enough for Robb to punch his sword straight through the Ironborn's throat.
He yanked his blade free just in time to guard against the remaining man's next slash. The pirate hacked and wove his blade through the air in killing arcs, and Robb found himself slowly being pushed back into a corner. His opponent screamed obscenities with each movement, spit flying through the air, eyes wide and full of hate.
Their blades met, parted, met again and all the while Robb couldn't help but think back to all the times Ser Arthur had spoken of the rhythm of battle, the ebb and flow of things as the sword became a part of one's body. Things almost seemed slow as each blow was met and sent back, Robb could almost anticipate the other man's movements like steps in some gruesome dance routine. It appeared that Robb was better versed, and spotted an opening the man's defences and struck out quick as a snake. Arterial blood sprayed across Robb's face as the man's head toppled from his shoulders.
With a shaky hand he wiped away the sticky crimson that coated his face and took a shuddering breath. I'm still alive, he told himself as he went about patting his body down as if to reassure himself that he was still intact. By the Gods, I'm still alive!
His jubilation was short-lived as something heavy struck against his sword, knocking the blade across the room and jarring his entire arm with recoil. Robb managed to duck as the next flying weapon was hurtled at him, the throwing axe lodging itself firmly in the wall beside him.
The assailant gave a husky laugh at his expense. "You're lucky boy; that was my last axe."
Despite his arm aching and his heart pounding in his ears, Robb couldn't help staring at the young woman standing a few feet away from him. Despite wearing typical Ironborn armour it was apparent that she cut a lean figure, long legged and well-muscled from years of hard work, she looked like Queen Visenya come again. Yet what struck Robb the most was her smile. It was equal parts fearsome and alluring, her raven eyes a shade darker than her hair, shinning like polished onyx in the dim light.
"My lady, I have no wish to quarrel with you," his voice betraying his uncertainty.
"My lady?" she gave a snort of laughter. "When did I become yours? Surely I would have remembered…"
He blinked in confusion for a moment trying to think of something smart to say in response when suddenly she leapt at him, dagger in hand. The tip of the blade raked across his cheek before the woman curved her arc around lower in an attempt to slit his throat. He brought his hands up and managed to catch her wrists just in time, struggling to stop her action. They wrestled together for a while, until Robb lost his footing and tumbled over one of the nearby corpses, dragging them both to the floor.
Her breath was hot against his face, sickly sweet through gritted teeth. Tightening his hold around her wrists, he began to feel her relinquish the blade as he slammed their hands hard against the wooden floor, again and again until it finally fell free. No sooner did the blade hit the ground did Robb feel the woman bring her knee to his groin, hard. All strength left him as he weakly coughed in agony, struggling to find breath again.
The animal part of his mind screamed at him to get up and defend himself against the killing stroke that would surely follow, yet pain overwhelmed such thoughts. All he could do was wait and hope the end was a quick one.
Yet the blow did not come.
Opening his eyes weakly, he saw the young woman kneeling over him, dagger poised to sink into his heart, yet her gaze was focused on something higher. With a quick hand she reached out and tore the silver pin from his collar, examined it closely then looked down at him, this time her dark eyes were full of curiosity.
"You're Ned Stark's son," she said incredulously.
A stampede of footsteps echoed about them as several heavily armoured men made their way below deck. "Princess Asha," one of the voices called. "Is everything alright?"
Asha Greyjoy stared down at Robb for a long moment before answering, taking his silver pin and tucking it away. "Everything's fine. I've just found myself a new thrall."