276 C
Robb
"Father?" Robb asked from his bed, Rickard's silhouette visible against the ray of light coming through the door.
"Hello, son. How do you feel?" The Lord of Winterfell asked, taking a seat at the end of his bed. Robb could see his father had brought parchment and ink, along with a map of the North. He looked at him confused, but a raised eyebrow prompted him to answer.
"I'm fine. Old Nan thinks I'll be in fighting shape in two days. I'll be riding out the day after that."
"So, you're still intent on going north of the wall?"
"Father" Robb protested. "You said-"
"I know what I said." Rickard replied, his shoulders slumping. Robb felt a stab of sympathy for his father. He always tried to take everything upon himself. "Just… can you explain your reasoning?"
Robb let his gaze linger into the hearth, wood slowly burning. He let his mind wander, knowing that his father was the most patient man he had ever met, even more than Ned Stark had been in his alternate self.
"We found some Direwolves pups, returning from an execution one day. We took them to Winterfell and nurtured them, raised them, cared for them. And they repaid us by protecting us, more times than I can count. At the latter days, I could…I could enter my Direwolf's mind. All my siblings could. There is a connection, father, one that can't be denied."
His father sat tightly, digesting the tale. Robb saw him moving his fingers as if playing the Arp. Lord Rickard Stark had been as prodigious a child as him, with the Warden of the North excelling in music. He had commented him once that he had hoped to be a musician growing up, until his own father, William Stark, had unexpectedly inherited Winterfell at his elder brother's dead, crushing his father's dream and replacing it with the duty of the North.
"We do need protection," Rickard admitted, defeated. "These years have not been kind to our House. Neither will the coming years, will they?"
Robb shook his head. A heavy pressure had settled in the room, the light darkening slightly. If Robb tried, he could steel remember the bearded smile of the Wandering Wolf, or the larger-than-life figure of Brandon Stark, Lord Rickard younger brother. The sweet songs his aunt Branda would sing to him at sunset, his uneasiness settling at the sound. When he was born, there were eleven Starks of Winterfell, proud and strong.
"Benjen. Lyanna. Ned. You, mother. Me. And Old Nan. We're all the Starks left." Robb said with sorrow, his father's face tight with grief. "Mom would have died had Walys succeeded. And you-"
"And me?"
"You would have been burned to death by the Mad King, Aerys Targaryen. Your Heir, Brandon Stark, would have choked to death by your side. Lyanna would die of birthfever in a shitstain of a tower in Dorne. Benjen would have gone to the Night's watch, only to be lost in the Land of Always Winter. Only Ned survived. Tried to build back House Stark. His efforts gone with the swing that beheaded him, by orders of a bastard born of incest. His sons, dead. His daughters raped and broken or lost. And me, dying in a fucking wedding. Old Nan would have been the Last Stark." Robb said hysterically, his hands clenching in the furs of his bed. Tears fell from his eyes, and he felt he could barely breathe. The room had gotten unbearably hot, but he fell when trying to stand.
It was what his father needed to snap out of his musings and help him back to the bed.
"Robb…" Rickard whispered, and he shook his head, panting. As he talked, the full weight of everything hit him, and he had fell into desperation.
"I'm sorry, father. I should not have. I just…"
"You're overwhelmed, son. I understand." His father said with a smile, squeezing his shoulder, before scrunching his face in thought. "I know King Aerys Targaryen. Bit of a dick to his wife, and not really that smart, but I do not know if that makes him mad. And I do not know of any heir of mine named Brandon." Robb swallowed, but the knot in his throat remained. His father handed him a cup of water, which he downed like a dying man. With a shuddering breath, he replied.
"In the visions, I was Ned's son. You know this. In my place, there was a Brandon Stark. As far as I can figure…the life was the same. At least, the ages. He never found out Walys, and mom died." Robb was barely finished when his father had engulfed him in a hug, tight but without hurting him.
"You are my son, Robb. Mine. My Heir." Rickard growled. "Not that Brandon that never was." Robb nodded into his chest, recomposing himself. When they separated, even his father was calmer.
"Aerys Targaryen goes mad." Robb said. "After the defiance of Duskendale, but if I remember correctly, he started decaying before that. Mayhaps he already is well on his path. Duskendale will happen soon, less than twelve moons from now."
"Why did I die? How did I come to be in a position to be burned alive, with this…Brandon, strangling himself beside me?"
Robb sighed, debating with himself. He was confused himself. He did not feel like the auburn King in the North who lost it before loosing his life, but neither did he feel like he used to feel.
"I-"
"It's okay, son. Trust me. Let me help you."
"Rhaegar Targaryen crowns Lyanna as Queen of Love and Beauty in a tourney." He began somberly. "Even when he was married to Dornish Princess Elia Martell. Moons later he kidnaps her." Robb took a moment to clench his jaw so hard he felt his teeth would break. His father growled beside him.
"Bastard." Rickard spat. Robb agreed.
"Brandon goes to King's Landing to demand Rhaegar's head, along with a handful of Northern Lords. He is imprisoned, and you are summoned to answer for his crimes. You ask for a trial by combat, and the Mad King burns you alive while Brandon killed himself, claiming his champion to be Fire."
"Go on, Robb."
"How can you be so calm!" Robb demanded. Rickard just sighed.
"My boy, even though you saw it, it hasn't happened." Rickard explained gently. "It won't happen. And you are no Brandon, who would run like a fool towards his dead."
"Oh."
"Indeed."
"Anyways, Aerys sent a raven to Lord Jon Arryn, asking for Ned's head because of your treason, and Robert's head because Lyanna was his betrothed and he was making some noise. And the Warden of the West raised his banners instead, rebelling against the crown."
"When Ned left, you told him that Robert would become his brother, and that Jon Arryn would be like a second father to him. Did you…"
"Did I saw that? No, not at the time. But I did saw Ned and Robert grow up to be brothers, and the amount of care Jon Arryn had for both. He has ben unable to have children, so in some sense, Robert and Ned took care of that. I was even named after Robert Baratheon, in that future. Although, that is usually what happens with wards."
"So, the North, the Vale, and the Stormlands raised against Targaryen?" Rickard asked, his hand on his beard in thought. Robb nodded.
"Yes, father. Ned fulfilled Brandon's betrothal to Catelyn Tully, bringing Riverrun to the fold. Dorne, naturally, supported the crown, as well as House Tyrell. I do not remember well if all the houses of the Reach followed them, because not all the Riverlords denounced the Targaryens, but I do remember that Randyll Tarly won the only victory for the loyalists. The Lannisters and the Westerlands remained neutral, a thousand humiliations made by Aerys repaid by Lord Tywin. There was a huge battle at the Trident, where Robert Baratheon defeated Rhaegar Targaryen, caving his chest in with his warhammer. After that, the war was basically over. The rebels won, but the Lannisters took King's Landing before they arrived to the city. Jaime Lannister killed the Mad King from the back. Tywin presented Robert with the bloodied, broken form of Rhaegar's other children, and his wife. Ned went south and had to kill half the Kingsguard in Dorne to get to Lyanna, only to find her dying. He took her son, a bastard born from Rhaegar's rape to Winterfell, because she pleaded him to do so, and claimed him as his own bastard to protect him."
"Tywin Lannister has always been an honorless, cruel man." Rickard said humorlessly. "But to stoop so low as to kill children…He has done it before, but House Targaryen is not House Reyne. I am surprised a new rebellion didn't start because of that. Is that it, son?"
"The shortened version."
"It is…quite something. What happened after?"
"Doesn't matter, I think." Robb replied, with a faraway look in his eyes. "Those events will not happen, at least not exactly, so what comes after them is already gone."
"What will you change?" Rickard asked grimly. "At what point will you intervene? Do we recall Ned, breaking the alliance, crippling the rebellion on the bud, leaving the Targaryens in the Iron Throne for generations to come? Or do we get to the Dornish and the Reachmen first, leaving King's Landing defenseless when the time comes? Is war even inevitable?"
"I don't know." Robb whispered, his face scared. The flashes of his family's fate going through his eyes. His father burned to death. Lyanna, death in Dorne, giving her life for the son of a man who raped her. Ned, fighting a war alone, the grief of his family driving him. "I don't know what I should change. I don't know what I can change. We could make plan after plan, but there are other Houses, father. Other players. Is not like knowing what's going to happen will actually help us prevent it to happen. And what if I change things for the worse?"
"You have already changed things, Robb." Rickard reminded him softly. "Your mother will live beyond Benjen's birth. She is a strong woman. We may yet give you another sibling."
"You could have ended it at 'She's a strong woman'. You should have ended it at that."
"You shouldn't be ashamed of your parents' love, child." His father chided him. "Not everyone has a love like ours." He said proudly, and Robb let it go, aware of it.
"Father…there were rumors in that other life that you were planning things, with the alliances made with the Vale and the Stormlands and the Riverlands. I don't know if you have already thought about betrothing me to Catelyn Tully…but you did made alliances with the other two Kingdoms. Why? Are you planning something? Are you playing the game?"
"Yes." Rickard replied bluntly. "And no."
"Not at all confusing." Robb muttered, and his father laughed.
"I am planning something, Robb. But I'm not playing the game. I didn't make those alliances with the objective of bringing down centuries of Valyrian rule in Westeros. I made them with the objective of helping the North. Saving the North."
"Saving the North?" Robb repeated dumbly. Rickard sighed.
"Son, in the future you went to war. How many northern swords did you raise?"
"Twenty-thousand, or so close it didn't matter." He replied after a moment of thought.
"And do you know how many swords Ned took south with him, in that war of his?"
"I…believe he gathered a host of about ten thousand men, father." Robb said, uncertain. Rickard nodded.
"It should be around that number, because that is the number I could raise, should I call for my banners today. What would you do if I told you that when you were born, I would have barely been able to raise five thousand men?"
"What?" He replied in shock, jumping out of a bed. "Five thousand…what?"
"Robb." Rickard said gently. "The North is the most difficult place to live. And these past centuries there have been hundreds of problems. Wildling attacks increased, even a full-fledged war, and several Lords attempting to emulate their southern counterparts, assassinating and poisoning and Old Gods know what. Check the House genealogy, and you will find that ever since Cregan Stark, the Lordship has rarely gone to the eldest son, because they wind up dead before they take hold. The number of swords is a good indicator of how life is in a Kingdom. The Reach could raise a hundred thousand if push came to shove. The Westerlands, about fifty-five thousand. The Stormlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, up to forty thousand pushing it. Dorne, twenty-five. We? Ten thousand, maybe fifteen by leaving towns bare. It has been some harsh centuries. My father finally made order in the North, and I'm working tirelessly to bring a time of prosperity, but it's not so easy. Several greedy Lords stand in my way. It is also a result of the Targaryen's rule, son. Torrhen knelt with a host of thirty thousand men behind his back, and another host of fifteen thousand already gathering at Winterfell. King's Landing has been keeping a careful eye in the North, sometimes even facilitating strife and conflict."
"So that's why you've made those alliances?"
"Yes. The Vale for men, in case of a wildling attack. The Knights of the Vale would cut them down like flies. The fact that Robert Baratheon also became a ward of Jon Arryn was a stroke of pure luck. And the Riverlands I intended, for food and trade. I have been trying to come up to a way to make an alliance with the Reach, but other than betrothing Lyanna to a boy eight years younger than her, I do not see how I can. And don't be mistaken, Robb, the way things are going, we will need Reach food to survive the next winter."
Rickard gave him a moment to fully comprehend the situation, and Robb was glad for it. All his ideas, all his fears of changing things and not changing things. His worry of taking the right steps to avoid annihilation. It all seemed so simple at that moment.
"That's where we begin, father." Robb said with determination. "Really, that's all we can do. Make the North a powerhouse, comparable with the Westerlands at the very least. I have some ideas, and I would hear yours."