Robb was grateful that the King's party had taken to assembling outside the walls of Winterfell, because it seemed to him that the whole of the inhabitants of the Castle had shown to see him and his Brother off. His Father had even managed to pry his Mother away from Bran's bedside, though Robb could tell being just mere steps away was still difficult for her. Sansa, stood to the right of Arya, who was flanked on her other side by Rickon.
Behind the Starks stood Jory Cassel, who would be accompanying he and Jon to King's Landing for the duration of their stay. They would also be bringing two servants, a mother and daughter, who worked in Winterfell's Keep.
The smallest Stark was the first to approach, and when he got close enough, Robb reached down and lifted him so they were eye to eye.
"I expect you to behave while we're gone. Focus on your studies with Maester Luwin, and listen to Father and Mother."
"I will, Robb," Rickon promised, as he squirmed to be put down. Robb obliged and ruffled the boy's shaggy hair. Next came Sansa, who somewhat stiffly embraced him. Robb sensed some regret in Sansa's face that he was leaving, but there was still a part of her that was angry that he was the one going to the Capital and not her. However, he had little chance to dwell on his sullen Sister, as the younger one wrapped her arms around his middle.
"I'll miss you," Arya mumbled into his cloak. "Two years is a long time."
"Aye," Robb agreed. "I expect you'll be a proper lady by the time I return."
"You could be gone a fifty years, and that still would not happen," she huffed.
"No, I doubt it would," Robb agreed, unable to picture his adventurous Sister in a frilly southern dress. "If you want to be a great warrior then, by all means you should be. Maybe Father will ship you off to Bear Island to Lady Mormont. She would make a fighter of you."
"If it would get me away from Sansa..."
"One thing," Robb interrupted, "just one thing I ask of you while we're gone, is that you not fight with Sansa. She's your blood, and it bothers Father and Mother to no end. They have enough to worry about with Bran still unwell. Promise me?"
Arya grumbled, but nodded. "I promise."
"Good." Robb let his Sister move on to Jon, and then saw his tearful Mother approach. She had done her best to look presentable, but the grief over Bran was still clearly discernable on her face. Robb felt her fingers brush the stubble on his cheeks as she held his face in her hands.
"Robb...," She managed to strangle out before was forced to collect herself. "Please be safe. I can hardly bear the thought of something happening to another one of my children."
"I will Mother."
"Do not let King's Landing or the Lannisters corrupt you. Remember that you are the Heir to Winterfell, and do not trust anyone. There are many an ambitious man who would seek to use you for their own gain."
"I promise I'll be vigilant. We understand what we are heading into." His Mother nodded reluctantly before placing a final kiss on his cheek. She stepped away without sparing a glance for Jon, though Robb was not surprised. Finally, his Father approached, the Lord of Winterfell wrapped tightly in his cloak of furs. The man wore a grim look on his face, exposing his true feelings with present events.
"I know I don't need to harry you boys about the need to be careful and keep your wits. You've Stark blood running through your veins and you've been raised to be good men. I have no doubt you will represent our House well. Stay close to Jory, and if problems arise that are beyond your control, then you seek out the King and no one else. Keep us abreast of happenings in King's Landing and anything out of the ordinary. Remember that you may be in the southern lands, but the North is always standing behind you."
"We will Father," Robb responded, bowing his head.
"Yes, Lord Stark," Jon echoed simultaneously from his side.
"Good," Robb's Father stated, reaching out and placing a solid hand on each boy's shoulder. "Now I have something for you both." Robb has barely noticed Mikken, the castle's blacksmith, approaching his Father from behind. The old, white-haired man carried what were clearly two swords in his arms. He handed them to Robb's Father who turned and held one out to each of his sons. Robb held the broadsword in his hands and immediately noticed its relatively lightweight. The sword was shorter than the one his Father normally carried, but Eddard Stark was broader where Robb was leaner.
He admired the fine craftsmanship of the blade as he slid it from its sheath. His fingers sank into the supple leather strips that wrapped around the grip, and then twisted his hand to get a feel for the movement.
"It's a fine blade, Father," Robb praised, slipping the sword back into place, and letting it rest against his side.
"You should be thanking Mikken. I only gave him two days to make them." At his Lord's praise, the gruff blacksmith simply nodded his head and turned back in the direction of his forge. The reality of the pending separation swiftly returned and Eddard held out a hand and embraced each of his sons quickly. "You best mount up. If I know Robert, he has already started riding south.
Robb offered his family one last smile before attaching his new blade to his horse's saddle and climbing on. He immediately ran his gloved hand over his black courser's mane, before looking to see that Jon was mounted and ready as well. Jory was already at the gate, and the cart carrying the two servants and their baggage was already joined with the King's party. Robb took a final look around the Castle, wanting to have a lasting image in his head of his home, before he encouraged his horse on through the gate.
"So instead of heading north with Uncle Benjen like I had planned for years, I find myself riding with the King to the Capital. Could you tell me again how that happened Stark?" Jon had quickly caught up with him and immediately renewed his complaints that had not ceased since Robb shared the news of their impending journey.
"You'll have to get used to it at some point Jon," Robb sighed. "It's not as if we're going forever. The Wall will still be there when we return. And think of all the distinguished fighters we'll have a chance to meet in the Capital. Better to refine your skills with quality men then on the Wall with thieves and rapists."
"He's right Jon," Jory added from Robb's left. "Just think you'll be walking the same halls with the likes of Barristan Selmy. Few outside of Jaime Lannister could match swords with that man and live to speak of it."
"You should have stopped at the mention of Barristan the Bold, Jory. I could have done without the reminder that we're to be surrounded by Lannisters," Robb griped.
"No disrespect intended, my Lord, but I would not be doing my duty if I didn't caution you against voicing your displeasure so openly. We've left the safety of Wintefell, and there are eyes and ears everywhere." Robb nodded at Jory's counsel, sufficiently chastised for his carelessness. While there were Kingsguard and those bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon, it was the red armor of the Lannister guards that was most prominent in the procession making its way down the Kingsroad. He knew that he needed to regard each one as a potential enemy.
As the day passed a band of summer snow and cold rain descended upon them, slowing their march. The King had hoped to make it to Castle Cerwyn, which was less than a day's ride from Winterfell, but the road quickly became soft and the horses and cart were slowed to a trudge. As soon as the first hints of darkness showed in the sky, the decision was made to set up camp for the night. They settled to the west of the Kingsroad, between the western tributary that fed the White Knife and the Wolfswood.
Robb chose a spot on the eastern edge of the camp closest to the Kingsroad. They had two tents, one large enough for he, Jon and Jory, and a smaller for the two Winterfell servants. He and Jon made quick work of constructing them, eager to get out of the wet weather. Robb was just getting his makeshift bed arranged for the night when another figure appeared at the mouth of the tent. Robb immediately knew it was no solider because the man was weedy and looked like a strong breeze would knock him over. He wore the King's sigil on his cloak so Robb guessed he was a servant or even a squire.
"Is there something you needed?" Jory asked, while Robb was busy surveying the visitor.
The dark-haired man wiped dripping rainwater from his brow before he answered. "His Grace has requested that Lord Stark dine with him in his tent. If you would follow me, I will escort you."
Robb looked back at Jon, who merely shrugged and motioned for him to go. They both knew it was not an invitation for the both of them. He took a step toward the entrance to the tent, but stopped when he saw Jory pick up his sword. "Jory, stay here with Jon."
"But my Lord-"
"It's fine, Jory," Robb assured the conflicted solider. "The Kingsguard will be standing watch. There's no need for you spend your night on your feet. Plus, someone should keep Snow out of trouble." Robb didn't stop to see Jon's reaction to his comment, but he didn't miss the sound that could only be described as one of disbelief that left his brother's throat. He also didn't allow Jory another chance to object before he was back outside.
The icy drizzle assaulted his face like hundreds of tiny pinpricks. Most had already sought shelter in their tents for the night, but a few still braved the weather. The Baratheon messenger led him through the maze of tents until they reached what was clearly the King's. Two Kingsguard, one short and fat and the other with a scruffy red beard, stood on each side of the entrance. As Robb approached, the two men, in their shining white army, stared down at him harshly, doing their best to intimidate him. Robb simply brushed passed and pulled aside the entrance to the tent.
He had expected that the King would be dining with his family, or at least some of his bannerman and retainers, but instead he sat alone at a table, papers and platters of food laid out in front of him. Even though a pitcher of wine rested by him, the King looked as sober as Robb had seen him, staring down at unfurled piece of parchment. The King only tore his eyes away from the missive when he realized that he was no longer alone.
"Ah, Robb, glad you could join me. Come take a seat and pour yourself a drink. I'm afraid we went through most of the quality drink on the journey North, but this will do the trick just the same."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Robb moved further into the tent and took a seat across from his host. He reached for the pitcher and began to pour when he noticed that the King's attention had once again been pulled towards the parchment.
"You'll have to excuse me, son," Robert sighed, as he noticed Robb's curious stare. "I thought leaving the Capital would get me away from the headaches of ruling for a time, but it seems I was wrong. Bad news will find you no matter how far north you ride it apparently."
"What sort of bad news, if I may inquire, Your Grace?" Robb took a drink from his cup and realized that the King had exaggerated the substandard quality of the wine. It was still better then most of the vintages that they imported to Winterfell.
"The worst kind of trouble," Robert growled at Robb's curiosity. "Targaryens...across the sea, trying to regain their strength. I warned your stubborn Father that this would happen. Now one of them is off and married to a Dothraki. This was precisely why I needed Ned. I may be a drunk King, but those silver-haired devils all have a madness inside them that needs to be eradicated."
Robb had remained silent as the King let his obvious frustration out. "I am truly sorry that my Father's decision to remain in Winterfell disappointed you, Your Grace. The Starks and Baratheons have been close allies, and I wouldn't see any strain in those ties. Whatever service I may offer you, Your Grace, I gladly do so."
The King laughed loudly as Robb finished his last word, and he thought to be offended before the man reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "My god, if you don't sound like a younger version of Eddard Stark." The King's chuckles tapered off before he became serious again. "That is the greatest compliment I could offer any man. And I promise I'll put you to good use when we reach King's Landing. I already trust you more than most people I deal with on a daily basis."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Robb replied. He was finally starting to feel a trace of excitement that he wouldn't be idle during his time in King's Landing.
"It's nothing. You're doing me a great favor, coming to King's Landing. Few names have as much meaning in the Seven Kingdoms as Stark. Maybe-" Whatever the King had been about to say was suddenly cut off by the sound of shouts from outside the tent.
"What the hell is that?" The King stood from his chair, and Robb quickly followed. "Trant!" the King yelled towards the tent entrance.
At the King's call, the bearded Kingsguard stepped into the tent, gleaming sword drawn. "Raiders, Your Grace," the Knight shouted.
"How many?" the King asked.
"It's hard to tell, Your Grace... twenty-five or thirty, maybe. They came from the woods."
"Wildlings," Robb interjected.
"What the fuck are wildlings doing this far south?" the King cursed. "Trant, make sure my family is protected." The sentry exited the tent and immediately shouts of commands went out to the soldiers outside. The King walked across the ten and pulled his sword from the sheath where it was housed. "Remind me to send a raven to the Lord Commander after this is settled. As if don't have enough to manage, last thing I need to worry about now is wildlings invading. How are you with that sword, boy?"
"Well enough, Your Grace," Robb responded, as he pulled his Father's gift out from his side. His palms were wet with the anxiety of the moment, but he kept the sword tight in his hand. There were more screams from outside the tent, many of which were those of agony as steel ripped through relenting flesh. The yells came closer and closer until the clang steel on steel was just feet away from where Robb stood.
Robb's attention was focused on the mouth of the tent, but suddenly it shifted when he heard the ripping of fabric behind him. Three swords pierced the tent and tore away large swaths. As soon as the openings were big enough, three figures stepped through. They were undoubtedly wildlings. Each had long, straggly hair and were dressed in a jumbled mixture of cloth and furs. Their blades were jagged and the farthest thing from castle-forged steel.
The first man through wasted no time and charged at Robb. His enemy's blade flared at his head, and Robb just barely managed to duck under it, but as he did he took the chance slide the edge of his own blade up the man's side. There was a howl of rage, and the man swung around, throwing another strike. The swing came from Robb's left, so he swung his own sword as hard as he could to block. The wilding was knocked off balance, and he stumbled forwards onto his knees. Robb only hesitated for a moment before he lodged his sword into the man's neck, ripping apart the artery and causing dark blood to spurt into the air.
The realization that he had just ended the man's life punched him in the gut, but the sound a loud growl from the King force him to push the feeling aside. The two wildlings had the King cornered, but they looked like they had not done so without injury. When it seemed that both were going to make a move to rush the King, Robb lunged forward and skewered one through the back and out the belly. The other wildling looked over to see what halted his companion, which gave Robert Baratheon plenty of time to move. The once-great warrior gripped the wildling's sword hand in his own large one, then drove the tip of his sword up through his jaw and out the top of his head.
For a moment everything in the tent was silent, except for his and the King's loud breaths of exertion. Then suddenly, without warning, the King let out a hearty laugh. Robb tried not look at the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms as if he thought him mad, but he wasn't sure he managed. The King continued to chuckle as he pulled his sword from the dead man's skull. "God, I've missed this," he sighed. "There's nothing like an attempt on your life to make you feel alive. Fighting side by side with a Stark... now I just need a drink and a pretty young maid to grace my bed, and it would truly be like old times." The King's reminiscing of his days of rebellion with Eddard Stark was cut short when the two Kingsguard entered the tent, sword raised and looking for targets.
"Are you hurt, Your Grace?" the one named Trant asked, when he realized no danger remained.
"No, I'm not bloody hurt," the King muttered, grabbing the pitcher of wine from the table and imbibing deeply. "No thanks to you useless fools. Are the savages dead?"
"Most, Your Grace," The shorter Kingsguard answered. "The rest took off running back into the Wolfswood."
"Is my family safe?"
"Yes, Your Grace. They never got close to them."
"How many dead?" The King asked, taking a seat.
"A handful, Your Grace," Trant answered. "More than that injured."
"Could have been worse, I suppose," the King replied. "Get everything packed. We're going to push on to Castle Cerwyn and get attention for the wounded. Put the majority of the guard between the woods and us. I'll have no more surprises tonight, or I'll take your empty heads myself." Robb knew it took both of the sworn swords everything they had not to let their true emotions show on their face as they exited the tent. Once they were gone, Robb turned back to the King.
"Your Grace, do I have your leave to check on my Brother and guard?"
The King merely made a shooing motion with his hand. "Yes, yes. I'll be fine." As Robb made it to the tent's entrance, the King's voice stopped him. "You did well, Robb. It's never easy killing your first man." Robb noticed the look of true understanding on the man's face.
"No, Your Grace," was all Robb could manage. The reality of the night's events hadn't truly penetrated his mind yet, though he could still feel his hands shaking slightly.
"The important thing is you didn't hesitate when it was time to kill your second."