Robb

He was a man of many talents, Prince Rickard. Robb finally realised this, watching the Prince at his sword work in the training yard. And it was not the view of his sparring that hammered the fact home, but the way the men about them in the training yard. Those who had come up with him from the capital watched him as though this were their favourite sport, and spoke in hushed whispers to one another, observing his movements, every stroke of his sword, twitch of the blade, and the quality of his thrusts and lunges.

It was erratic, Robb noticed at first, the way the Prince fought. Sometime he was slow, others fast. He might start with a bought of limp and meagre thrusts to stab, before suddenly bulling forward and flattening his open when they were off guard. Once he might fight one opponent using only one hand, his blade flashing like a serpents tongue, quick, sharp, with every flourish and twitch of his wrist deflecting his opponent or outflanking their guard. Then he would knuckle down with two hands on the hilt, and strike not a once, using his footwork to try and trip over his opponent and wear them down to a sweating pulp. Rickard smiled all the time too: He laughed and grinned, sometimes unabashed, genuinely alive with humour and joking, others it was with narrowed eyes which caused Robb to be remined more of Grey Wind than a Prince of the Realm.

No one of the men of the Capital openly flattered the Prince either. And while the like of Ser Rodrick Cassell and those of Winterfell, he grew shy and seemed only to be humouring their praises as a point of politeness. Robb could tell this was as much praise as Rickard was willing to take from strangers.

"Come on, Harrold," Rickard said, smiling as he walked in a circle around Hardyng, teeth flashing and sword dragging behind him, the point making a groove in the dirt. "You'd have thought you couldn't handle your drink from last night."

"I can't," Harry admitted, clutching his stomach as it squelched and bubbled in his guts. The squire then took along breath and stomped forward with his sword swinging.

Rickard's flashed silver in the sun, flicking up dirt as it lashed out and parried the blow, then he stepped out the way of the second, "Footwork, Harry," The Prince chastised, as the former came back round with another swing, only at the words he suddenly shifted and sidestepped, suddenly lunging. Rickard drew his sword close to him and met it in clang and then the scrape of steel on steel as the two faced off like butting stags pushing against one another. To seize advantage, Harry suddenly kicked as Rick's leg, then stomped on his foot. Rickard swore out loud, before dropping to a squat, but rather than fall down or draw backwards, when Harry raised his foot again the Prince shunted forward with his shoulder catching his opponent in his own, who falling back himself at the shock was then struck in the chest by Rickard's elbow. Harry gasped, and steel scraped a final time on steel, as he and his sword fell away and he landed with a thump on his back.

"Dirty footwork, Harry," Rickard noted, leaning on his sword for a moment.

But the Squire form the Vale was smiling through every pant as he spoke, "Trick… I learned… from you, Rick."

"Isn't that the truth," he replied, answering with a grin of his own, before offering his friend a hand to his feet. "That's enough for me," Rickard announced, before his eyes lingered on him, "unless you fancy a round, Robb?"

"Not yet for me, Rickard. Let's yielded the filed to someone else. Ser Rodrick?" Robb looked to the Master-at-Arms, who nodded.

"The younger ones. Bring the wooden swords and the padding." He declared, as Prince Tommen and Bran were brought and kitted out to do their drills.

Rickard approached himself and Theon, Harry by his side, as they buttoned and belted themselves back into the surcoats and jerkins. Unlike his brothers, Rickard shared the livery of his father, the Baratheon's traditional Stag, black on gold. While Tommen and Joffrey had theirs slashed with Lannister scarlet and a Lion to twin with the Stag. Hardyng had no sigil, but wore his house colours of red and white.

"You fight well, my Prince," Theon told Rickard, handing him a skin of water which he in turn passed to Harry, who pressed it straight to his lips and drank heavily.

"Thanks, Greyjoy. Only wish you and Robb would have graced us with your own talents on the field."

"Later," Robb promised, "first lets see if our brothers can foreshadow ourselves."

There was no revered silence for Bran and Tommen as there was for Rick and Harrold. The yard came to life with shouting over the tumps and grunting of the boys as they went back and forth, himself and Rick leading on the cheers for their own brothers.

It was less impressive than Rickard and Harry, Robb had to admit. Prince Tommen was portly enough, like his father, and in the extra layers of padding and leather over the top he looked more like ball than a Prince. Bran looked little better, and was soon panting just as hard amidst the weight and effort of swing his wooden sword to perform his drills.

Theon then tapped Robb on his shoulder, and pointed away from the youngsters as he said, "The Royal Arse has arrived."

Robb looked, and sure enough, Prince Joffrey had slithered into the yard, clinging to the outside of the yard and taking up an uninterested stare at the match, neither shouting encourage to either side or abuse at the other. He was totally un interested. He came to rest against a stretch of wall with a group of Lannister retainers, which seemed to please them.

Rickard followed his line of sight, spotted his brother and swore. "Didn't think he'd show up."

"You… invited him?" Harry asked, who by now had too glanced the Crown Prince.

"In a fashion. I expect he's got some plan to humiliate someone."

"You?" Robb wonder aloud, but Rickard simply shrugged and kept a careful eye on his elder brother.

"Well, we can't have that," Harry said, voice full of determination, whipping his long hair from blowing in his face, "we'll turn the table on him when he rears his head."

"Enough!" Ser Rodrick shouted. Bran had sent Prince Tommen to the ground, and the lad was now on his back, squirming to get back up again. The Master-at-Arms approached him and loaned him a hand to get him back on two legs, before ordering squires to get both boys out into normal clothes again. Then he looked around, spotted the Crown Prince and said with a bow of acknowledgment, "Prince Joffrey. Would you go a for a bout with Lord Robb?"

He needed no further excuse, shrugging away Rick's hand on his shoulder, chest swelling at the opportunity as Harry and Theon approved and offered their encouragement.

"It would be an honour," he said sweetly, bowing to the Golden Prince, "to cross swords with you, My Prince."

Joffrey moved from shadow into the light. Robb could immediately see that Joffrey seemed no more interested in fighting Robb as he had watching Tommen. It only infuriated Robb more to see this indifference when he spoke, "I think not. I'm sure Robb is fine with a tourney blade, but I would not want him to overreach his mark."

A loud shout of 'Ha!' pierced the yard, yet Rickard seemed to have nothing else to say at this declaration.

Ser Roderick on the other hand stroked at his wizen beard and considered the other Prince's words for a moment. "What are you suggesting?" he asked him.

"Live steel."

"Done," Robb declared.

Yet the Master-at-Arms was not done. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."

Joffrey shook his head, and Robb began to speak his protests, but his voice was soon drowned at by the rasping growl of man thick with scars and burn marks to his face, "Are you training maids to fight here? Or men?"

Robb quickly recognised the man as Sandor Clegane, the Hound. He stepped forward into the clearing, and cast a shadow over the yard as he entered the Prince's corner. He pointed at Robb, "This one seems man enough for live steel to me."

"I am," Robb urged Ser Rodrick, speaking quickly, "Lemme, I can beat him."

But the old man would not be budged on the matter. "Then do so," he said, "with a tourney blade."

He bristled furiously again. Not only at the sudden intransigence of Cassell, but he saw Joffrey grinning smugly wide like a cat. His temper was rising, the blood pounding in his body and the temperature of his face. Then there were footsteps behind, and a hand was on his shoulder.

"Never fear, Robb," Rickard told him, "if Ser Rodrick will not let you wield steel, then I shall in your proxy. How 'bout it, Joff?"

Beneath his breath, Robb said, "Don't need your help."

Rickard didn't reply.

Harry and Theon had stepped forward as well by now, each volunteering themselves to fight Joffrey in his stead. And Robb wished none of them had bothered. He was too angry accept any right now. At that moment all he wanted to do was a sword to knock Joffrey down with.

Clegane rasped, "The more the merrier."

Rickard suddenly laughed, put a hand on one hip and gestured at his brother and the Hound. "Look at this: the Dog speaks and his Master barks."

The others in the yard all started laughing – except those in the centre.

Once more Clegane spoke, "Always the funny boy." And drew his sword.

"Indeed," then turned to his brother, motioning once more, "now put a collar on your Hound, Joff."

But his brother took his turn to laugh. "Why, Dick, first sight of steel and your water fails." Once more the yard erupted into laughter, but it suddenly died away as both Rickard and Harry marched forward, before Clegane swung in front of them to block them from tearing off the Prince's head. Yet they neither retreated nor failed to hold their ground.

Rickard scowled, as Harry announced, "Rickard Baratheon fears no man!"

Clegane licked his lips before he spoke, "He should."

"Bold words," Robb said suddenly, moved to stand by both his friends and Theon followed him, not about to loose face now. "Especially when you have a sword to hand against four of six-and-ten."

"Now back off, dog. Or be prepared to follow through on your threats." And they all stood defiant against that enormity of Sandor Clegane.

A roar of protests went up then. Rodrick Cassell was bawling for peace and amity, but the crowd around way baying for blood and cheering on the thought of it, so they shouted him down. Behind the Hound, Joffrey raised his hand and took in a breath.

"Dog-"

Thwack!

"Argh!"

But the command never came, and Robb suddenly blinked as something whipped passed his vision of Sandor Clegane with great speed, causing the man to flinch back by how close it was. The four of them went stumbling into one another two, Robb looked around to see where the thing had landed and saw an arrow buried into the dirt at the feet of some of the onlookers. They all pushed and shoved one another back a couple paces as they regained their footing, and the Hound did the same, almost flattening Joffrey.

Thwack!

When they were all back on easy footing, they all saw another arrow in between them and the Hound and his master, marking a dividing line.

"Tyrek," Rickard said at once.

Sure enough, on the balcony above Ser Rodrick, stood Tyrek Lannister stood with a longbow, quarrel at the ready and a quiver at his hip. "I think training is over." He told them all, and when the Hound made movement toward him, he trained his bow on the burned man, "make a move, Sandor, and it will be your last," and when Joffrey went to speak as well, he shifted his aim, "speak, then prepare for eternal silence."

Next to him, Rickard whispered, "do it," and the three of them all glanced at him, but the Prince kept his gaze firmly on his cousin.

Yet Lannister do not loose another quarrel, his point firmly made and threat duly proven. The dust settled quickly after that: the yard was in a hurry to empty, Joffrey grandly sweeping his cloak behind him, with Sandor Clegane and a gaggle of Lannister retainers at his heels. Robb managed to avoid a condemning look from Ser Rodrick long enough for him to leave too, till the yard was empty of all but himself, Harrold Hardyng, Theon Greyjoy, and Rickard who was now ponderously watching Tyrek Lannister approaching them.

Theon was the first to address him.

"Fine shot, Lannister," he noted, nodding at the arrow that acted as the boundary, before smugly adding about the first quarrel, "though I'm surprised you managed to miss even that ugly thing."

"I didn't miss," Tyrek replied coldly, "Hitting him was not my intention."

"Then what were your intentions?" Hardyng asked, sidestepping around the archer, in a way that reminded Robb of Grey Wind sniffing and circling Ghost whenever the two direwolves met.

"To avoid bloodshed."

This rumpled a few feathers, most of all his own. He shared a glance with Theon, who only looked half as angry. Harry's face was a picture of questions, that soon turned to one of betrayal. All except Rickard who was paused thinking, stoking at the fibres of hair that constituted his beard, before he spoke.

"I suppose we have to thank you for that."

Now the outrage bubbled forth in himself. "How can you say that? We were so close to the brink, they were calling us out: your brother and the Hound!"

"Exactly," Rickard growled, clenching his fists, and seemingly angry with no other person than himself, "and I was calling their bluff!"

"Bollocks," Harrold said, circling round to face Rickard, placing a hand on his shoulder and trying shake some sense into him as he spoke, "we could have taken them, Rick. Four on two, they didn't stand a chance."

"No we wouldn't have. What would we have fought them with? Ser Rodrick wasn't about to loan us swords after driving Joffrey into a quarrel. And Clegane wasn't about to do the knightly thing and down his."

"With all those witnesses, he'd never dishonour himself." Theon argued, only for Tyrek to shut him down.

"Cleganes know no honour, anyway." But Theon merely scoffed at this.

"Ty is right!" Rickard exclaimed, temper flaring, "That bastards brother is the worst thing the Gods put on Earth! And they don't call him the Hound for nothing. He's a rabid dog as well. You all heard the stories about what Gregor Clegane to Elia Martell, and Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys? Well they aren't just stories," he went on, darker and darker still, "he's done worse. Just happens the ones he did it to weren't High Born. And Sandor shares the brother's bad blood."

"So," Robb said haughtily, in equally foul temper, "Rickard Baratheon does fear something."

He caught a glimpse of sudden movement from the Prince, and they were suddenly face to face, with the latter now holding his pent up fist in his other hand, breathing out a heavy sigh. Robb realised that Rickard had only just restrained himself from hitting him.

"No," he then shortly uttered, "I don't." He then looked at the spot where Joffrey had stood so smugly, strutting like a rooster, "But that is the first time I have known Joffrey to be unafraid of me."

"What?"

"Joffrey has never made a move like that. Not against me," he shook his head as he went on, "Joff sticks to japes, mocking me, snide remarks, and hides behind other men. Even in the nursery, he'd set nurse maids off between us. Cooks, and servants too. Even…" he paused, took in a slow breath, still holding his fist that trembled in a buried rage, "parents." He let the breath out shortly after holding it, and no one dared interrupt as he took it all in, "But it was always because he was scared of me: cleverer, stronger, more popular, more like father, more like mother. Less like himself, the twisted little…" He shook his head twice, looked down at his fists which no longer shook, "And to see him there, like that – there was no fear in his motive. So it worries me now, thinking on it…"

Robb now nodded, understanding, or at least beginning to, "What has made him unafraid?"

"So, you see," Tyrek Lannister now said, adjusting the bow that now hung from his shoulder, "that's why I stepped in. Because I do fear Clegane and Joffrey – most of all I fear someone with no reason to have conquered his own."

Harry looked slightly dumb in thought as he spoke, "Okay… But then Joffrey will call you out again, maybe? Then next time we'll be ready."

"There will be no next time," Robb declared, thinking of what almighty consequences may well be in store from his father and mother should Ser Roderick tell either of them what had occurred, or the King and Queen should they find out, "we'll never get away with that again."

"Certainly not in Winterfell." Theon amended, only to be glowered down by him for the hopeful tone in his voice.

"No and not anywhere," Rickard ordered, throwing a warning look at Harrold, "not until we know why Joff's suddenly the epitome of courage – or he's afraid of me again."

Robb shrugged, "With the Hound stamping about, I wouldn't hold your breath." To which they all, some more begrudging than others, agreed to.

"We keep away from them: Joffrey and the Hound. Give neither of them an excuse to try that again. Joff isn't like to be so bold for a while after today, but we give him neither reasons to nor an opportunity. Stick together," Rickard put his arm around his and Harry's neck, drew them in close to him, beckoning Tyrek and Theon closer, "we're better than those fucks."

Seemingly, no one had any rush to inform Lord Eddard or Lady Catelyn, or King Robert or Queen Cersei – not ever Ser Rodrick. Or if anyone did, neither the Starks nor Royals seemed to care, which Robb found difficult to believe of his own Mother and Father. Of those who were there in the yard, Robb seemed to notice that there had been an immediate collective wind wipe had undergone them. Nobody mentioned it, there was not even a whisper to be heard, as the five of them strolled passed people in the corridors of Winterfell, laughing, joking. By the next morning, even to him the event seemed far from his memory, like some distant dream and the events always slightly blurring at the edges when he recalled a detail of yesterday, although that might have been tiredness.

They were all up at the crack of dawn. His Grace the King had declared last night that he wanted a boar for the evenings feast, and had insisted strongly with Robb's Father that he would hunt one himself. So they were all out early: Robb, Rickard, Theon, Tyrek, Harry, Lord Eddard, the King, the Kingsguard, Uncle Bejen, Jory and Ser Rodrick Cassell, a battery of the King's squires (all cousins of Rick and Tyrek), the Hound, and even Rickard's uncle, the Imp Tyrion Lannister.

It was the first hunt for the royal visit, and King Robert was especially eager. He invited Robb to join his party, but knowing that Joffrey would be riding up front with them, he declined. He instead lied that he had already pledged to ride in a group with Rickard. The King looked disappointed at first, then slightly gruff at the mention of his son's name. Robb caught glimpse of his Father looking concerned at his old friend, in trepidation of what his response might be, yet in the end agreed and Robb swore to ride with him next time.

In fact, it was a relief for Robb to ride with Rickard and his Party. They were the youngest, all in all, besides a few of the squire that had gone with the King, but best of all for Robb was that without the Kingsguard to protest, Grey Wind was allowed to tag along as well. He was already as big as any of the other hunting dogs in Winterfell, and so confident was Robb in him that they had no other and his direwolf seemed to enjoy this fact, lolloping ahead at the lead, sniffing the ground always, happy to leave Winterfell for the first time since they had rescued him.

With such a servant, they all enjoyed an otherwise leisurely ride through the forest, talking. Theon was kept spellbound by tales of their Prince by Tyrek and Harry, while he and Robb followed after Grey Wind.

"I don't believe it. Skinning, maybe. But you mean to say a Prince knows how to butcher and carve up his own kills."

"Well, maybe not exactly his own kills." Harry interrupted, suddenly looking sheepishly at the back of Rick's head.

Tyrek delicately supplied, "Rickard's a fucking awful shot. Safest place behind him when he's a crossbow in hand is either behind it or in front of the target."

Even Rickard laughed, as he shot back, "That's why I keep you around, Ty!"

Harry retrieved the former narrative, "Anyway, its true. Skinning, butchering, carving, the lot. Give our Prince a decent knife and he'll serve you up any catch or kill. Comes in handy on a long day."

"Bollocks," announced Theon once more.

"Greyjoy," Rickard then called, holding up a coin purse for the others to take note of, "ten gold dragons says that if we make hunt a kill before noon, I will have it skinned, butchered, cooked for us all as a midday meal. Sound fair?"

Despite Tyrek's moaning of 'oh no, not gambling' and Harry's warning of 'don't do it, Theon' he still agreed. They went tearing off down the forest then, Grey Wind leading them on the charge, now purposefully earning a scent in his nostrils. It felt good: the bounce in the saddle, the laughter training behind them, crashing through brush and branches, their mount's hooves kicking dirt behind them. Eventually, short of a clearing, Grey Wind stopped, ears fixed up in alert staring out at it.

They were all panting heavily as they drew to a halt, and he named, "Deer." As their quarry. It was only a small heard, perhaps fifteen, possibly twenty, altogether. Mainly doe, the odd one nursing a fawn, and at the perimeter bucks rutting with one another.

"Excellent," Theon announced, "these won't be trouble, my prince?"

"Not at all," Rickard panted, his eyes looking over each deer, "but my preference would be for a doe. Less waste that way."

Robb laughed as he saw Theon and Tyrek each roll their eyes for different reasons. It was then he realised that the Prince and his cousin seemed to have easily slipped back into their former roles as of yesterday, where as before since they all met, they had seemingly gone out their way to avoid one another. Whatever their quarrel had been over, he surmised that Joffrey had to his own disservice forced an armistice. Robb liked things this way, Tyrek not being at all bad for a Lannister and seemed to bring better out of Rickard than before.

It was a short chase. Between the lot of them they easily isolated and speared one of the younger does which Tyrek impressively shot in one of the hind legs from the saddle. Then as promised they gathered firewood, and Rickard went to work. He skinned the animal fair enough, beneath a nearby tree, disembowelling it and handing the giblets to Grey Wind who Robb had to hold by the nape to stop him devouring their meal. Then Rickard hung it from a branch and went to work. He used a breastplate that one of the squires had wore as a pan and dropped pieces of fat from the deer onto it, then chopped mushrooms and garlic that Harry had picked from the deeper in the forest, before the Prince dropped a finely cut slice of venison in the mix.

Instantly it sizzled as it hit the heated metal, and left as he stuck his knife in the bark, wiped his hands on a cut of cloth torn from his own cloak, and used Theon's cleaner knife to turn the meat appropriately. The smell had there stomachs growling, and even Grey Wind turned his blood covered nose up from his meal to take account of the new scent. Theon gladly parted with the gold as his mouth watered at the Prince's cooking, only able to feebly jest, "Lord Stark should take you on as a cook."

They sat in the clearing, the five of them and the squires that had followed, all partaking of the venison, with Rickard even allowing people to start choosing which cuts he took and from where. Harry and Tyrek seemed the most content, and with what must have been long experience left Rickard to it, as he took his time over his work with the meat. Tyrek and Theon tested one another with their bows, seeing who could strike which tree at the opposite side of the clearing, while Harry and he tried to reclaim some of the sword practise that they had lost yesterday.

The sun shone, and it was remarkably warm how far North they were. Under this, and the near utopian atmosphere, Robb called over his shoulder, "Rick! I'll come South!"

They shared a grin, and it was the last thing that Robb could recall of that day before Grey Wind gave his terrible howl, and the sound of his Mother, Sansa and Arya all, wailing, when they returned to Winterfell.