3-I
Two days before the king is to arrive, Lord Eddard calls Robb into his solar. Jon is already there, and Catelyn has been waiting with him since after breaking their fast. Robb, his once wild red hair and beard now cropped much closer at Catelyn's insistence, gives all three of them a glance, gives them that charming grin that he's owned since he was a boy, and says, "This is about Jon?"
"It is, Robb," Ned answers. Jon did tell them that Robb seemed fixed in his opinion about him joining The Watch. That truth is plain to Ned now, and he wonders if the decision they've made is the correct one, if his son will be able to handle the truth about his "brother."
Robb, for his part, only nods, stands up straight, hands clasped in front of him, accentuating his heavily muscled shoulders and arms, and begins. "More than any other Northerner, I know the lands beyond the Wall. I can speak the Old Tongue, and I've conversed with the King of the Giants. More importantly, I have seen what the Night's Watch has become. If Jon goes there it will be a waste. Let him be my advisor and champion, as he was ever meant to be." He turns to Jon. "Stay. Be my right hand. I need you by my side, brother. Lands, a Keep, Titles, whatever you wish for within my power I will grant." Back to Ned. "Surely he has earned that for his deeds on The Sisters, father. He belongs in Winterfell, he deserves the Stark name…"
Lord Eddard holds his hand up, cutting Robb off. "He does deserve all of those things, Robb, and he will get at least one. The king comes for his own purposes, but three years ago, at your mother's request, I asked the king to legitimize Jon once he earned his knighthood. He will fulfill that request when he arrives. As to the other issue," he turns to Lady Catelyn and then to Jon and sighs, "there are things that you should know that weigh heavily on the decision."
"What? The identity of his mother?"
"And of his father," Ned puts in.
"His father? What…"
"Rhaegar Targaryen," Jon says, and Ned watches as the pieces fall into place for his son.
Robb gives him a look, and Ned knows that he's got it. "You found Aunt Lyanna at the Tower of Joy and slew Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard. You returned to Winterfell with her bones and a bastard son…" Robb's grin grows bigger and bigger as he speaks, and he barks out half a laugh as he turns to Jon. "You're my cousin, and the bastard of a king!"
"According to father and...another, Prince Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna...my mother...were wed."
His eyes go wide as another piece falls into place. "You're my king." He drops to a knee.
"Stand up, you ass," Jon says with a nervous laugh as he hauls him up from under his arms. "I'm your cousin, but I'm still your brother. As for that last bit, well, that is why it is best if I join the Watch."
"Why? Because of King Robert?" He looks around the room at all of them. "Piss on him. The secret has held for years. Father, Jon looks more like you now than any of us, and the only ones who know are in this room."
"There are others who know."
Robb looks to Jon, then back to Ned. "Who?"
"Howland Reed, for one," he says. "He was with me at the Tower of Joy."
"He has kept the secret?"
"He has."
Robb nods. "Who else?"
"Your Uncle Benjen. I think he always knew, but I told him when I told Catelyn."
Robb waves that off. "Of course, anyone else?"
"Aemon Targaryen," Jon says.
Robb's eyebrows draw down in confusion. "Aemon Targaryen? I'm sorry, most of the kingdom's history left me the last few years."
"He is the maester at Castle Black. Before that, he was the brother of Aegon the Unlikely. Uncle to the Prince of Dragonflies. Great granduncle to Rhaegar Targaryen. The last surviving member of my father's family in Westeros."
Robb looks nonplussed. He sits down, puts his head in his hands. "Shit."
Ned frowns. "Son? What is it?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just...the enormity of...of this...of life."
"So you understand my decision?" Jon asks.
Robb looks at him, but his eyes are distant, his voice soft. "I do not. You are the son of dragonriders and kings, scion of the greatest empire the world has ever seen. You do not belong on the Wall."
"Robb…"
"No," he says, more focused now. "The only ones who know are your family who loves you more than you allow yourself to believe and a hermit lord who has kept this knowledge close for seventeen years."
"What did Maester Aemon say on your last visit?" Ned asks.
"He...he asked me not to join. That he would only last a few more years, and then I would be the last. Other than my exiled aunt and uncle, of course."
"Then there is no issue," Robb says firmly, standing once more. "Jon will be legitimized, we will honor him for his deeds with lands and a castle, and he will start a cadet branch of Starks."
"Robb," his mother says, "if Robert discovers Jon's true parentage, nothing will stop him from trying to kill him and any who get in his way."
"Nothing will stop me from getting in his way," he returns.
"What of Sansa? Arya? Bran and Rickon? You would put them in the way, as well."
"Only if we lose," Robb says, the heat apparent in his voice.
"What of your own child?" She asks.
He pauses only for a moment. "My children will learn that we fight for our family just as I have learned it from both of you."
"The Wall...is the only way to prove our loyalty if Robert finds out," his father says. The safest way, Ned thinks with bitterness, and one with a price only Jon can pay.
"If he finds out," Robb counters. "Father, Mother, I believe we proved our loyalty at the Stoney Sept, on The Trident, and on Pyke. We proved it with seventeen years of peace and faith, and with the blood of our family and our men. Northern sacrifice put his ass on the throne, and I will be damned if I am to put my name on another sacrifice just to assuage your friend's wrath."
"I cannot risk your lives for the sake of mine," Jon says. "This is the only way to be certain."
He turns to Jon and grips his brother tightly. Ned can see tears welling in his son's eyes. Can feel them welling in his as the boy speaks. "There is no such thing as certainty. If I have learned nothing else the last three years, I have learned that. You've known that your whole life, I think. For the love I bear you, do not go. If that man wants you dead as badly as all that, he will see it done on the Wall, and we will be at war with him despite all our precautions. Despite your sacrifice. Please, brother. Stay. Whatever comes, be it Criminal or King or Other, we will face it together...as we were meant to."
Jon's eyes are shining at his brother's words, but the tears do not fall. Instead, he turns to Ned and Catelyn. "Aunt? Uncle? I would hear your final words on this."
"It is your decision, Jon" Ned says. "Robb's words make sense, but it is a risk." He draws a deep breath. "I knew those risks when I made my promise to your mother. I cannot force you to shoulder the burden of those risks alone, nor will I ask. That you wish to take the weight without bitterness or anger is a testament to the man you have become, and…" Ned swallows to keep his voice from hitching, "...as your father, I will say aloud that which I have kept silent for these past three years. I wish for you to stay. Again, though, it is your decision."
"Stay," Lady Catelyn adds. "If you wish to stay. There will be danger for us down any path we take, and like as not, Robb would kidnap you on the road north and just bring you back anyway."
"I would," Robb says, and Ned knows that his son's words are not in jest. "I did not come back from the lands beyond only to see you take my place."
Lady Catelyn holds up a hand. "I will, however, have my own promise. From all three of you."
"Aye, my lady," Ned says just as Jon gets to one knee and says, "Anything you wish, Lady Stark." Robb, arms crossed, says nothing, but he is listening intently.
"No matter what comes, you swear to me that you always do whatever is in your power to protect this family." It is a promise meant for all of them, but she is looking directly at Jon. "You will not balk at anything if it means the safety of your brothers and sisters." She casts a quick glance at Robb and then back to Jon. "Your sons and daughters, nephews and nieces."
Jon's face is stone, but the tears are falling now as he takes Ned's wife's hand and kisses her knuckles. "On my honor, on the bones of my mother, by all the gods old and new, I swear this to you, Lady Aunt."
"As do I, mother," Robb says, kneeling next to Jon.
"And I, my lady," Ned adds, smiling at his sons.
Lady Catelyn wipes her eyes and gives the boys her own smile. "Then stay, Jon. Stay and become a man as great as the Targaryens and as honorable as the Starks."
Jon rises, looks at Ned, at Catelyn, and finally at Robb. "I will stay," he says a second before Robb pulls him into a fierce hug. Robb whispers into Jon's ear, but Ned hears it and surges of pride and dread war within him.
"We are in agreement then?" he asks after pulling away from Jon.
"We are," Ned says, and it is echoed by Lady Catelyn and Jon. "We are if you understand that Jon's secret does not leave this room." When Robb remained silent, Ned expounded. "The less people who know, the safer it is for all of us."
"You mean Val?"
"I do."
"She's my wife, father."
"She does not need to know, Robb."
"...Agreed," he says after a moment, and Ned wonders how long he will keep this promise. That girl has become a part of him, and he a part of her. It is a thought that would give him pause, but he has had an easy comfort with the girl, as if she has always been with them. It is the way she carries herself, her...Northernness...he would say if he had to put a word to it. He knows she would never betray them. She is of the First Men, she has honor in her veins.
Ned gives both his sons a nod and says, "perhaps now would be a good time to discuss land and keep possibilities for Jon?"
"Maybe possibilities for a wife?" Robb adds with a grin.
"No," Jon says, begging off. "Father, Lady Catelyn, it is time to train. Robb," he says, eyeing his cousin, "three days ago, you promised to level a spear and buckler at me, and I have yet to have my due."
"You may not be so eager once I plant you on your ass," his son counters as they take their leave.
A memory of them as boys strikes him, and his heart is full as they shut the door behind them. It lasts for only a moment until Catelyn kisses him and asks what Robb whispered into Jon's ear.
"The Dragon and the Wolf, cousin. Our enemies will perish by fire or ice."
3-II
Benjen rides in early the next morning with Ser Waymar Royce. The Night's Watch is in disrepair. Ned knows this, and knows that there is no better chance for one of them to truly get an audience before the king. He brings Robb out with him to greet them as they enter the castle. Benjen is off his horse in a flash as soon as he is through the gate, and his arms are around Robb, and he's laughing, and Robb is just as gleeful. Ser Waymar dismounts more purposefully, comes and shakes Robb's hand.
"It is good news that you have returned, Lord Robb," he says, stiff and formal, the same serious lad who stopped by with his father on the way to take the Black.
"Thank you, Ser Waymar," Robb replies. His courtesies had come back to him almost immediately. Ned knew they would, Robb always had an easy way with people, much like Brandon in that regard.
"Why didn't you come to Castle Black?" Benjen asks, one arm still around his nephew.
Ned wonders about this as well, wonders about his son's journey across the Wall, about the horses they used to reach Winterfell. Jon has also been thinking about them, having inquired about them to Ned, but neither have given voice to their thoughts (suspicions), and Robb nor Val have offered any story or explanation for that time. He thinks Robb will beg off now, will come up with some valid reason they did not go to Castle Black and announce themselves, but he does not.
"Come Uncle Benjen, Ser Waymar, Father. I have need to unburden myself to all of you."
And he does. He tells of running across Watchmen while he was still a prisoner, but never calling out because he had not yet made good on his promise or he still had obligations to uphold. Ned is relieved when his son says that he never took arms against a man of the Watch for all his time with Rayder.
"But," he says, and Ned's heart goes cold, "I did kill three Watchmen as we made our way to Castle Black."
Benjen says nothing, his face a mask, but Ned can see Ser Waymar's anger in his eyes and his pursed lips. The silence continues for a few moments before Ned decides to break it. "Do you know their names?"
"Karl, Dirk, and Garth," Robb says immediately, takes a deep breath, and then tells the story. Ned watches his son as he speaks, and he notices that he never moves, that his eyes stay locked onto Benjen's. He is telling the truth. Or at least most of the truth. There are moments when it seems fantastical, like Robb throwing the dagger to kill the archer Dirk before drawing his sword to slay Garth in single combat. He's protecting Val, of course, Ned thinks, having seen his gooddaughter's proficiency with all manner of weapons despite her pregnancy. Ned suspects that it was she who threw the dagger and killed the archer. Honorable, that he is protecting his wife, who is the most vulnerable in this situation, but the fact that his son can lie with such conviction is troubling to Ned.
Benjen sees it just as well as Ned. "The girl threw the dagger, did she not?"
"She did not," Robb replies, his face hard and nearly unrecognizable. "Shall we go to the yard where I can demonstrate such skill with a knife and sword?"
"We can," Ser Waymar says, a glint in his eye.
"No," Benjen says. "We cannot. Robb's story matches what we found of the bodies, minus what the crows and other scavengers tore off. We also know what kind of men Karl, Dirk, and Garth were."
"Regardless," Ser Waymar says, "they were men of the Night's Watch."
"They were, but now their Watch is done," Benjen answers and then lifts his hands in surrender. "I cannot pass judgment on this matter, that is not my place. Nor is it yours, Ser Waymar. We will take the matter to the Lord Commander."
"And the horses they stole?"
"Borrowed," Robb counters. "They are in the stables, healthier than they were when we took them."
"We bring them back with us," Benjen says with a nod before looking at Ned. "And maybe a few more courtesy of the Warden of the North?"
A smart play, Ned thinks, before he says, "A dozen of our best garrons, Ben. Maybe a few from the King, as well."
"Aye, maybe the promise of some men, too."
"Maybe," Ned replies, and that is the end of it. "Now, let us prepare for the King's arrival."
"Yes, let's," Benjen agrees with a smile.
Ser Waymar is less amused, however, and his hard stare stays on Robb, who ignores him. Lord Commander Mormont will find in Robb's favor, of that there is no doubt, but any friends those three had on the Wall will never think well of Robb. And neither will Yohn's youngest son. Perhaps rightfully so, perhaps not. Ned will just have to hope that he never becomes Lord Commander.
3-III
His brothers and sisters find the king to be a disappointment, but Robb does not think so. He reminds him of Tormund Giantsbane, if a bit more pompous and much more pampered; the king is simply a warrior without a war to fight. He revels in stories of his past, drinks too much, whores too much, laughs too much, and eats too much. He isn't much of a king, doesn't resemble the hero that his father built him up to be, but time and truth are always cruel to memory, so Robb finds that he didn't have an expectation of his namesake one way or the other. Robb thought to find him a man, and a man he got, crown on his head or no. Besides, the king legitimized Jon as a Stark on his first day in the castle despite the subtle protestations of the Queen and her retinue. After that, it was difficult for Robb not to like the fat man despite the danger he posed to Jon and his family.
His son, however, is a different tale altogether. From his obvious disdain for Winterfell to his dismissal of Jon to the way he leers at Val or Sansa or even Arya though she is not yet thirteen, it is apparent that he is a shitheel of the highest order. Robb worries for the kingdoms when the boy takes the throne.
His worry becomes much more acute when the king announces father's appointment as Hand and Sansa's betrothal to the prince. Sansa is gracious, of course. She is always gracious. Robb does not believe she could ever be otherwise, no matter the circumstances. But she is also cautious, much different than the young girl with her head in the clouds that he remembers from before his time in the North. Robb sees her watching the Prince often; Not in admiration, however, but with wariness. That is good. At least she will not walk into this blindly.
That the boy is a lecherous turd is beyond doubt. He shares his father's appetite in that regard. To the point that Robb nearly walked over and knocked his teeth out when he took liberties with Sansa while they danced after the betrothal was announced. A sharp shake of her head and Jon's hand on his chest forestalled him. She, of course, handled it well, smiling at the Prince and moving his hand back to its proper place on her waist.
If his greatest fault was lechery, however, it would not have bothered Robb near as much. As a rule, fifteen year old boys are not much more than a hard cock. The prince is no different. That is not the whole of it, though. The truth of his character is that he is cruel. Robb saw the bruises on pretty Jeyne Poole's wrists after the Prince had cornered her one afternoon. If Walder had not happened upon them, he feared that she would have had bruises on more than her arms. That fear becomes reality when Val brings him to a buxom, raven haired serving girl, near his own age, who has bruises and bite marks over the neck and arms and breasts.
"I was willing, m'lord, only he was rougher than I ever been with," she says, but Robb sees that she is half ashamed and terrified.
Val brews her moon tea that night, and Robb sends her to her family outside the Wintertown, giving her coin and promising her a good marriage to one of the servants or guards. After speaking with her, Val tells him that the girl was indeed willing until Joffrey started hurting her during the act. Robb calls that rape. Val agrees, but says that the king and queen most certainly would not. "Apparently, going to whorehouses is the only thing the two have bonded over. Any accusation would only mean the death of the girl." Robb sees the truth in that. The girl would never speak against the Crown Prince for that very reason, no matter that she was in Winterfell surrounded by Starks. He keeps the incident quiet, but does have a quick word with his father and the king about servants not being the playthings of princes. He has a brief fantasy of gutting the king when the fat man guffaws at that and speaks of the apple not falling too far from the tree in that regard, but the message is sent and Joffrey spends more and more time in the Wintertown brothels rather than terrorizing the serving girls. Still, Robb makes it a point that Sansa, Arya, Jeyne, and even little Beth should always have escorts.
In their first practice session together, he dumps the golden boy on his golden rump inside of a ten count. Then he does it again. The Prince, in a rage, commands The Hound to fight in his stead. Walder steps into the circle to fight for Winterfell, but Robb orders him back. Partly because the Hound is considered one of the greatest fighters in the realm, and Robb would know how he measures up. The other part is because Robb won't give Joffrey the satisfaction of backing him down with his sworn shield. The bout lasts longer than the Lannister party wagered, and Robb is able to score several hits, but it ends with the heir to Winterfell taking quite a beating, his shield shattered and his head bleeding. He does not, however, rise to the Prince's japes or the Lannister's squawks although he does accept the scarred man's hand up...and the whispered compliment growled in his ear. "You're tough, boy. Don't be tough. Be smart." After that, he makes an effort to avoid the yard when the Prince and his Lannister sycophants are there. Instead, he takes his practice early in the morning before breaking his fast. The Giantsblood and Jon and Arya and Val all are happy to rise early with him to keep him away from the Prince and his obvious machinations.
3-IV
The Smalljon arrives a week after the king as an emissary from his father. Lord Eddard welcomes him with open arms, but Jon tells Robb that he is most likely here to get Robb's measure. "Last Hearth is closest to the Wall, closest to the Wildlings. The Greatjon will be suspicious of you, of Val." Robb says nothing, but Jon can see the wheels turning. "She was a wildling, and soon enough, she'll be the Lady of Winterfell. Your son will be the Lord of Winterfell. It's going to be a lot to take for a lot of the Northern Lords."
Robb grins that stupid grin from boyhood. "Well, I guess I'll just have to charm them. Starting with the heir to Last Hearth." And charm him, he does. The Smalljon is drunk and singing songs with Robb that night, kissing Val's hand the next morning, and then he is rising with them before dawn to swim in the Little Knife or train in the yard.
Jon can only shake his head in wonder at the development. "Robb is a natural leader," Sansa tells him and Val as they watch them play in the hot springs. Robb, with Bran on his shoulders, is trying to topple the Smalljon with Rickon on his. He is failing spectacularly. "He puts them at ease, so people are willing to follow him and listen to him."
"The Starks of Winterfell have been villains in the stories of the Free Folk for thousands of years, yet the strongest men and women north of the Wall all named him their friend and followed him into battle," Val adds.
"He also won the hand of the most beautiful girl in the North," Sansa says.
"Don't be silly, Sansa," Val replies. "He didn't win me. I stole him in that cave, and he's been mine ever since. Furthermore, you and Arya are the most beautiful girls in the North, and that is beyond argument. This babe has me looking like a cow."
"Hush, goodsister," Sansa says. "You look more radiant now than ever. Every man in the king's party cannot stop looking at you." She leans over Jon, her hand cupped as in secret, and whispers to Val, "I spied both King and Kingslayer peeking down your dress the other night."
Val laughs, making her even more beautiful. "The King looks like a Walrus in silks and the Kingslayer is prettier than I am. I think I would steal his brother before I stole him."
"The Imp?" Sansa asks, giggling in a low voice.
"He's funny, and not so...in love with himself," she says. "A bit like Jon Stark, here. Minus the funny part, of course"
"Of course," Jon says.
She hooks her arm into his. "I would have stolen this one in a quick hurry if he had stumbled his way among the Free Folk."
Sansa hooks her arm into his other one. "You would have stolen my brother, Jon Stark, Knight of Winterfell and Hero of the Pirate War?"
"I would have," she replies. "Handsome as he is, not pretty like the Kingslayer."
Jon's face is burning. Ever since the king legitimized him as a Stark, Sansa had made it a point to legitimize him in every other way. Forcing him to dance with her at least twice whenever the king threw a feast, always sure to tell those in the king's retinue, including the prince, that he was her brother. Practically shoving some of Princess Myrcella's handmaidens into his arms for more dancing. Saying his full name now, Jon Stark, instead of just Jon. Val, in her teasing way, had caught on to it and started doing the same. He knows Val's intent. She is a different sort, and teasing is how she shows affection. He didn't understand what Sansa was doing until Arya explained it to him. "She wants the rest of the world to see you as we see you. Now that you've got the name, she thinks you deserve all honors as a Stark. So do I." What she is doing is trying to force the rest of the world to forget that he is a bastard. Better luck capturing the wind in a wicker basket. He is not a bastard, but that is what they see, and that is what they will always see.
That is what she used to see before Robb was lost. He treasures her now, treasures the relationship they have built, and he would trade it for nothing, but he also knows that she feels guilt for how she used to treat him. This...demonstration is her way of trying to make up for it.
"I know several young ladies of the king's party that think the same way you do, goodsister," Sansa says.
"I know that a princess stares at him quite a bit every time they are in the Great Hall together."
Jon flinches at that. "What? Princess Myrcella has not spoken to me at all."
"Rosamund has," Sansa says. "And Rosamund is her closest friend and confidante. Princesses have to do things differently, Jon."
"She must with a mother like the Queen," Val says.
"Lord Robb!" comes a booming voice. It's Walder, Red Rain poking over his shoulder. For a man so big, Jon is always amazed at how quietly he can move. Jory always told him it was because he doesn't speak unless he deems it necessary.
Robb drops Bran in the pool and steps out. "Yes, Walder?"
"The king and your father request your presence in the Great Hall. Lord Smalljon, Ser Jon, and the Lady Val are also required."
"Val?" Robb questions, striding aggressively to one of the greatest warriors in Westeros.
"Aye, Lord Robb," the giant man says in a softer voice. He puts a huge hand on Robb's shoulder and gives him and then Val the friendliest smile, the same smile he gave them when they were children. "Whatever this is, Robb, trust your father."
Robb's shoulders relax, and he returns to his clothes. "We must dress. Tell father we will be there in a quarter hour." When Walder leaves, he turns to Jon. "What is this about?"
Jon stands, disentangling himself from the girls, who get up right after him. "A guess? The king wants to know if the wildlings are a threat or not."
"That's it," the Smalljon says, shrugging his tunic back on. "It's mostly why my father sent me here. Get your measure, Stark...and yours, Lady Val, and find out what kind of threat now exists north of the Wall."
"And have you taken our measure, Umber?" Robb asks.
"I have."
"What did you find?"
"That you're both wildlings," he says, and Robb's stare hardens. The Smalljon pays it no attention, though. "I've not been here a week and heard you unload some strange notions, but you both have honor, and you have the North in your blood. You're wild, but not so different than my uncles, my ancestors, or even my father on occasion. Northerners have always had a touch of that in us, I think. But it was always our honor that held us together. You have that. You, as well, my lady." He shrugs his massive shoulders. "My father sent me here to find a Stark, and a Stark is what I found. That has ever been good enough for House Umber."
"Well said, Lord Jon," Sansa.
"Thank you, my lady," the big man returns with a wink and a sweeping bow. She looks away quickly, and Jon can see her hands reaching up to cover the flush creeping up her neck.
"Thank you, Umber," Robb says. "I may need those words again in a few minutes."
Jon thinks that he will need more than that when they step into the Great Hall and find the King, the Queen, Prince Joffrey, the Kingslayer, the Imp, and Ser Waymar waiting for them along with father, Lady Catelyn, and Uncle Benjen. The good news is that the trestle tables are still out, and the king sits there instead of on the throne. This will be an informal affair. The queen looks upset, most likely at that fact. The imp looks curious, the Kingslayer amused, Ser Waymar stern, and Joffrey smug and half bored. As Jon is scanning their faces, a flicker of movement from the corner of the room catches his eye. A tall, thin youth with shoulder length brown hair and pale eyes is standing there. His blood red cloak almost covers the sigil on his midnight black tunic - a flayed man. Domeric Bolton?
The king looks tired and red-eyed from the previous night's drunk. "Alright. This is nothing formal. We just need to assess the strength of the wildlings beyond the Wall. Lord Jon Umber, heir to Last Hearth, and Lord Domeric Bolton, heir to The Dreadfort are here representing their fathers. Alright, lad," he says to Robb. "I'll need to hear your tale in its entirety. Spare no details. The wildlings have long been an enemy of my realm, and I need to know if such is still the case."
Robb never wavers, never takes his eyes from the king. He bows and begins to speak. The tale he spins is the same one from his second night back in Winterfell, but he tells it this time with charm and charisma, and Val does the same when she must fill in the gaps. This is something he learned with them, Jon realizes. A campfire culture, no writing, no reading, all oral tradition. Robb is a natural at this, as he is at so many things. All are captivated, none interrupt; not even the Queen or Ser Waymar, not even Joffrey, whose attention piques when Robb and Val tell of the villages razed and children murdered or carried off by vicious chieftains or slavers after the war.
Jon's eyes drift to the Bolton intermittently during the tale. The Dreadfort heir standing in the corner doesn't move, doesn't betray any emotion. Doesn't even blink as far as Jon can tell. He just keeps his eyes on Robb. The last time Jon glances at him, Bolton's eyes cut to him quickly, and they lock. Neither flinch, neither look away, as if it is some kind of test. Val notices and puts a hand to his cheek, drawing his attention away from Bolton and back to Robb, who is just now finishing the story.
At the end, Robert claps his hands and roars, "That is a hell of an adventure you lived, son!" He turns to father, "My namesake has the same penchant for turning enemies into friends that I did, eh, Ned?"
"He does indeed, Your Grace."
"And has the same eye for beauty. That wife of yours can stand next to any I've seen in all my kingdoms."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Robb says. "I certainly believe so."
Jon thinks the king might be satisfied with Robb's story, but he sees that others in the room are not, including Uncle Benjen.
"Robb, we need to know the state of the wildlings now," he says. "Are they unified? Are they a threat to the Wall?"
"Unified? No, Uncle Benjen. Mance is a chieftain, Tormund another, Sigorn, Ygritte, and two dozen others. They fought together because they had to, but there was never a central leader. They listened to Mance and myself because we proved ourselves early - we were the only ones learned in tactics. They respected our decisions and opinions only after the early victories piled up."
The king harumphs. "Without a king, they'll never be a true threat."
Robb nods. "Aye, Your Grace, though I will admit that raids into our lands will most likely continue at some point, but most likely not before Winter arrives and certainly not after. The wildling population was nearly halved by this war, Your Grace. Much by war, more by what came after - it is a land that does not forgive the desperate. The cold finished off what the slavers and starvation could not."
The Smalljon rises and walks over to stand next to Robb. "There have been no raids in our lands in three years. None we've heard tell from the Flints and Norreys and Wulls of the Mountains west of us nor the Karstarks to our east."
"It has been quiet, Robert," his father says.
"Aye, it has been," adds Uncle Benjen. "We haven't seen anything of the wildlings south of the Milkwater Bend in more than two years. We knew of the war, of course. Craster told us that when it began. He said Mance had a prize the other chieftains wanted, but never mentioned that it was you."
"He never mentioned that it was a person at all." Ser Waymar says.
"Craster acts according to his own benefit and design," Uncle Benjen says.
Val snorts in disgust. "Aye. He's an evil shit who rapes his own daughters and leaves his boys to die out in the cold. Says he's offering sacrifice to the Others, but what he's really doing is making certain that no one in his household will ever be strong enough to challenge him."
"These people are savages, hardly worth calling them people at all," the Queen says, looking at Val.
If the Queen meant it as an insult to Val, the northern girl did not take the bait. "You are correct, Your Grace," she says in her husky melody. "Mance should have killed him years ago."
"I should have killed him years ago," Robb mutters.
"I think you have killed enough of the Watch and the Watch's allies," Ser Waymar throws back at him.
"If you must constantly defend rapers, Ser Waymar, perhaps it is time to rethink your position."
"Perhaps I can better defend my position in the yard, wildling."
"Perhaps, but I'd wager there are tougher cunts than you in the local brothel."
"Robb!" a shocked Lady Catelyn says a half a beat before the Imp, the Kingslayer, the Smalljon, and the King all burst out laughing. The Queen is feigning shock, but looks amused, while the Prince is smiling and his eyes are wide, most likely in anticipation of violence. The others look more disappointed than anything except for Val, who is smiling ever so slightly at her husband.
Ser Waymar stands, hand on the pommel of his sword, Robb staring at him with his big idiot grin, large arms crossed as if he sees no threat. Jon steps forward to intervene, but Uncle Benjen is quicker and steps between them just as his father bellows, "Enough! We are here to assess whether the wildlings pose any threat to the Realm, not engage in the petty squabbles of two boys who should be acting like men. Now both of you, sit!"
Robb immediately walks over and takes the chair between Jon and Val. The Smalljon follows suit, but chooses the more neutral seat next to Lord Eddard. Ser Waymar stares for another moment before saying, "I will have my due in the yard once this is over, Lord Robb."
"Nothing like a friendly bout after a round of talking," Robb answers.
"Well said, well said," the king chimes in, his face still red from laughter. "A friendly bout to ease the tension. Now, what were we speaking of?"
"We had just determined that young Stark here was the catalyst for the...War of the Wildlings," Ser Jaime says in a slightly less than serious manner.
"That's why it started," Val replies, ignoring the Kingslayer's mocking tone. "There was fighting among the clans and villages, much more than usual, before Robb stumbled into that cave. Long summers mean long winters, and this summer has lasted a decade. A decade of winter can mean death."
"They thought to use you as leverage against the North," Lord Tyrion says to Robb, catching on quickly. "To force Lord Stark's hand in gaining passage south of the Wall."
"For the most part," Robb replies. "As my wife said, there was a divide between them already when I arrived. A group of the worst chieftains, Rattleshirt, Alfyn Crowkiller, The Weeper…"
"What a bunch of stupid names," Joffrey chimes in with a laugh and a look to his father.
His mother laughs with him. The king, however, does not. "I brought you to this meeting in the hopes that you would learn something about ruling," the king says to his son. "Yet all you can do is laugh at your own poor jokes. Well, if that is the best you have to offer then keep your mouth shut." The prince tries to respond, but the king only glares at him until he falls back into his chair with a sullen look. Point proven, the king looks back to Robb. "Keep going, lad."
Robb nods. "Aye, Your Grace. The worst chieftains wanted to band everyone together, attack the Wall, invade the North. They wanted Mance because he was a man of the Night's Watch. Knew their strengths and weaknesses, but he refused. Saw it as a lost cause, just a quicker way for them to die and leave the children to starve and freeze. When I turned up, Rattleshirt and the others saw it as their chance. With me as a hostage…" He shrugs.
"So they raided Rayder's village...Rayder, strange name that, and not one of Westeros heraldry," the Imp says. "How did he come by it?"
"He was born of a man of the Watch and a wildling woman," Val says. "She was slain by the Watch along with the rest of her fellows when he was barely more than two, and they brought him back with them. He was raised and given that name at The Shadow Tower."
"She and her party were slain returning from a raid," Benjen says.
"Were they?" Val asks. "Returning from a raid with a two year old boy?"
Benjen and Val lock eyes, and the room quiets for several heartbeats.
"Interesting," Tyrion says, breaking the tension. "Anyway, they raid your village, wishing to take you…"
"And kill Mance," Robb cuts in. "We fought back, ran them off, and then the war started, with nearly every chieftain taking a side."
"So they are recovering from war and slavers and now face a winter that looks to decimate them," the King says. "They do not sound like a threat to me."
"They are not, Your Grace," Robb says. "They will be doing all they can to harvest before autumn comes, and...they are honorable, Mance and the other chieftains. They will not attack the North."
"Robb, Mance broke his vows," Uncle Benjen says, trying not to look and sound irritated.
"He said his vows when he was ten, knowing nothing of life outside the Wall. What choice did he have?"
"He said the words," Uncle Benjen insists.
"He made vows to me, as well, and kept faith in every one."
"Regardless of this man's honor," the king cuts in, "they do not have the resources or the manpower to attack the wall, much less the North."
"What of the ships?" the Imp says. They all look to him except for Jon and his father, who both look to Robb. They both had a similar question that they had discussed between themselves, but had not pressed Robb on. Jon sees his cousin's eyes widen for half a moment before they relax again. "The Slaver Ships?" the Imp says. "How many went up the Antler?"
"A dozen," Robb answers.
"Did you fire them after killing the slavers?"
"We did not," he says immediately. "Not all of them. Some of the ships' holds were half filled with slaves already. As it turned out, many of them were skilled. Blacksmiths, cobblers, an apprentice glass and lens maker from Myr, carpenters, sailors, tutors, not a few pleasure slaves. Most were slaves their whole life, just in transit from one master to another. They were happy enough to stay and make a life there as free folk."
"And the rest?" the imp asks.
"There was one named Balaban. He was a shipwright and captain from the Summer Isles before the slavers took him and his crew. We were going to fire all the ships as a warning to any other slavers, but he stopped us. He taught the wildlings how to build ships, how to sail them, how to fish, and fashion harpoons to hunt the seals and walrus and whales of the Shivering Sea."
"They have an economy now?" Benjen asks.
"As much of one as can be had in such a place. Before I left with Val, they had already amassed over one hundred barrels of oil, and Balaban was talking of negotiating trade with some of the merchants of Braavos and Lorath and the Port of Ibben though I thought that was more dream than reality."
"How many ships?" Robert asks.
"Seven true whalers, six refitted slave ships, and three more being built."
"Sixteen is a fleet."
"Sixteen of the best whalers on the seas would fall before The Sea Wolf, Lady Lyanna, and the Mermaid's Song," Jon says. "Even the big belly Ibbenese whalers. A proper galley with a proper ram would split any of them in two."
Robb nods. "The ships they have are not warships. They were made for whaling and trade by novice hands. They are not reaver longships or war galleys."
"So you say," Joffrey says, "but you look half a wildling, Stark."
"Only half, my prince?" Robb responds, that grin back on his face.
Joffrey's brows draw down in anger, but it is the Queen who speaks. "Do you dare mock your prince, Stark?"
"Of course not," Robb replies, still smiling easily, though Jon sees that there is little mirth in his eyes. "My future goodbrother teased me, so I responded in kind. If offense was given, I apologize, my prince."
"No need for any of that," the king says, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and waving away any transgressions with the other. "Joff, I told you to be silent. Try to listen. Try to learn." For the second time, Joffrey is rebuked, his eyes hard on the floor.
"The Prince has a point, though," a soft voice says from the back of the Hall. They all turn to look at Lord Domeric, most seem to be only now remembering that he is in the room. Joffrey, however, seems interested. "Should we not consider that Lord Robb's friendship with these people could be clouding his judgment. I fostered with the Redforts for two years before returning home to my father. We dealt with the mountain clans of The Vale, with sword and talk and trade, and these wildlings sound much like them. A violent people, certainly, but simple, uncompromising, quick to laugh, and easy to befriend." Jon sees him clearly now, sees how thin he is, then remembers that he had gotten sick and nearly died just as the War for the Sisters began. "Once friends…" he shrugs slightly. "Well, one can only be betrayed by friends. By family."
"A fair criticism, Robb," his Uncle Benjen says. "These people have been enemies of the North for thousands of years. If they have a fleet of ships, it's best we know if they are capable of descending on Eastwatch. Or White Harbor."
"I can take the Chainbreaker," the Smalljon says, getting back to his feet. "It's a new galley, refitted from the ironborn ships that first attacked Theon last year."
"Yes, that's another headache altogether, Ned," King Robert says. Since they had won the war for the Sisters, a series of ironborn ships had come for Theon whenever he was at sea. The Sea Wolf always triumphed, mostly because Theon always sailed with an escort and they had the numbers - Lord Wyman's precaution because the Northern fleet was in its infancy.
The first instance, however, was a simple run from White Harbor to Sisterton, and Theon deemed the escort unnecessary. Two ironborn ships hit them right off the coast of Old Castle. The fighting was fierce, the Smalljon, who had fought with them during the pirate war and become fast friends with both Theon and Ser Robar, was a terror, slaying nearly a score of the ironborn. In the end, one of the ironborn ships ended at the bottom of the sea, the other was taken as a prize by the Smalljon, and the Sea Wolf, thankfully, was close enough to Old Castle for repairs, otherwise it may have sunk as well. Since then, two other ships have always sailed with him. Euron Greyjoy, of course, denied ordering the attacks, claiming that they were young rogue captains who broke away from the Islands when he became king.
"It is,Your Grace," Ned says, "but Theon can handle himself. Let us deal with one matter at a time."
"You're right, Ned, of course," King Robert says, then turns to the Smalljon. "You were saying, lad?"
Smalljon stands up straighter, making his already impressive height even moreso - he's easily taller by a head than any in the room except for the King himself. "The Chainbreaker is a refitted Ironborn longship, Your Grace. Its drafts are shallower than the ships of the Northern Fleets. If I sail up the Antler bearing a flag of parlay, I can assess their fleet and report back to Lord Stark."
"What will you parlay about?" Ned asks. "It cannot just be a ruse."
"Trade," Jon says immediately, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Robb's lips twitch up in a smile. He had the same thought, Jon knows, but he could not be the one to broach the possibility.
"Trade? With those savages?" Joffrey says with open contempt.
"Yes, My Prince. If they are harvesting oil, best we take advantage of that fact. Winter is coming, and oil can bring light to the darkness and even provide some heat if necessary."
"Glass, too," Robb puts in. "The glassmaker took apprentices and started his own workshop. They are most likely up and running now, so you can maybe get good glass for a quarter of the price a Myrman would charge."
Ned looks at his son thoughtfully. "Cheaper glass would be a boon, I think. Glass artisans and crafters would be even more valuable. We will discuss this more before you leave, Lord Jon, but we will not trade them weapons or iron to forge them."
"Good thought, Ned. I'd rather not arm the bastards if we have to fight them later," Robert grumbles.
"I will go with you, Smalljon," Benjen says. The giant nods and Benjen continues. "As an emissary of the Watch. If the North is to trade with them, perhaps we can strike our own terms. And if the whales are truly so abundant that even novice sailors like the wildlings can prosper, then the men of Eastwatch can, as well."
"I would like this task, First Ranger," Ser Waymar says.
"I know you would, Ser Waymar, but you cannot have it."
"Oh, let the lad live a bit, Ben," the king says.
"A skeptical eye is probably more useful in this enterprise, Your Grace," the Imp says.
"Exactly," Robert says. Benjen does not look happy, but he acquiesces.
"Then it's settled," the king says. To The Smalljon, he says "Lad, go with the gods and my blessing. Find the truth. If they want a fight, we'll give them one. If they want a friend, well, I suppose we can do that, as well." He stands up before the Smalljon and claps him on his tree trunk arm. "Gods, you're a big one. Jon Umber's boy? I think you're taller than him. Seems like I was eye level with that thicket he called a chin. With you, I'm staring only at the apple in your neck. I heard you killed a score of men in that ironborn fight. Your father, that jolly big bastard, he must be proud as a peacock." He puts his arm around The Smalljon's massive shoulders and walks him out the door. "Meeting adjourned," he calls over his shoulder. "Ned, let's open a cask of beer and see if the boy here can drink like his father did seventeen years ago."
"Aye, Your Grace," his father says, smiling.
Robb's genuine grin is back for the first time since the meeting began. He winks at Val and Jon and runs after the king and the Smalljon bellowing, "No one outdrinks a Stark in Winterfell!"
"A challenger!" he hears Robert roar.
"You cannot get drunk, Stark, you owe me a bout!" Ser Waymar calls out as he dashes to the door.
The Queen looks disgusted as she walks out of the room with her brother. Father and Benjen laugh as they leave the room, Lady Catelyn takes Val by the arm and follows the rest.
The imp is next. He gives a cursory glance to his nephew and then to Jon. "I suppose the honor of the Lannisters rests upon me in this endeavor," he says as he walks out the door. "Wait for me!" he yells, a big voice for such a small man.
Only he, Lord Bolton, and Joffrey remain in the room. Bolton is looking at him, but Jon's attention is on Joffrey. Twice he was rebuked by his father, and both times he simmered in his anger. Not the petulant, impulsive rage he showed after Robb embarrassed him in the yard, but something darker, born of complete rejection, something a Lannister prince must hardly ever endure. His gaze, of course, was only for his father, who showered both Robb and the Smalljon with attention and praise during the meeting. Jon sees his face begin to twist ever so slightly and his eyes harden. And then they shift to him, and then Bolton, then back to him. "Why do you linger, bastard?"
Jon, all propriety, says, "I would not wish to leave the room before you, My Prince."
He blinks. Then scoffs, "At least someone in this castle knows their place," he says, standing up from his chair. "Come, Lord Domeric," he says, turning to the Dreadfort heir. "I would speak with you."
"Of course, My Prince," the man replies in something barely more than a whisper, and then follows him out the door.
3-V
The afternoon after the meeting, Robb bests Ser Waymar in a grueling, hard fought match. Royce is every bit Bronze Yohn's son, tall, strong, and quick, but he is angry, and Robb uses that to his advantage. Ser Waymar scores several bruising hits on Robb early, but he is too aggressive, and wears out sooner, and that is when Robb finishes the bout. It ends with Robb ringing his helm with the flat of his blade because the Night's Watchman refuses to yield. "He's a good fighter," Robb says afterwards, "and he'll be a great fighter once he gets truly blooded. There is a sea of difference between a killer and a tourney knight." Robb, being who he is, helps Ser Waymar to his feet and tells him that he is one of the best swords he's faced and then asks forgiveness for his insult in the Great Hall. Ser Waymar accepts, and if it is obvious that they will never be friendly, Robb is comforted to know that they do not have to be enemies. They have a drink with the Imp and watch as The Smalljon, twelve beers into a drunk, has a go with the King, also twelve beers in. It's a raucous affair, ending with shattered shields, both of them in the dirt, red-faced and laughing to the Kingsguard's dismay, and another beer each.
The next morning Ser Waymar and The Smalljon depart with much fanfare, the young lord and a Knight of the Watch sailing beyond the Wall. Sansa is wide-eyed and Robb can practically see her composing the ballad of their adventure in her head. She blushes when the Smalljon wishes her well from his horse before thundering off with Ser Waymar, but tamps it down quickly enough. Robb notices and teases her about it anyway before telling her to be careful. "Your blushes give you away, sister. Joffrey would never notice because he's an idiot, but the Queen certainly would." With Lord Jon out of the castle, it is no longer a problem, but Sansa vows to be careful anyway. The next day, Lord Bolton leaves to much less acclaim. The tall, thin, pale heir to the Dreadfort rides out with two retainers with only Lord Stark, Robb, and the rest of the family to see him off. Robb only spoke to him sparingly, but thinks he is a decent sort if a bit...off, and wonders what he was like before the illness robbed him of much of his strength.
With them gone, everything falls into a pattern. Robb and Jon foil any attempt the Prince makes to get Sansa (or any young girl of the castle) alone, they practice daily against Walder and Jory and one another, they swim in the Little Knife, and they keep as clear of the Prince and his cronies as possible.
3-VI
A letter comes from Theon on the next to last day of the King's stay. He and his wife are in Braavos along with Ser Wendel, and they have just secured a trade agreement between the North and the great free city. Northern lumber will be used exclusively in all of Braavos. The King is jubilant about the news and calls for yet another feast. The Queen seems more guarded at the information.
"The King sees a friend," Jon says after the feast, "and the Queen sees an enemy." They are in Sansa's room, spending their next to last night together.
"Theon just made us an economic power," Sansa counters, running her hands through Rickon's long curls while he snoozes in her lap. "She's cautious, as she should be."
"But father and King Robert are best friends," Bran says, "and you're betrothed to the Prince."
"I won't wed for two years. Much can change in that time."
"Much will, if I can help it," Robb says.
"That does not help, either, Robb," Sansa chastises. "Her trepidation most likely comes from her son's sour relationship with his future Warden of the North."
"The Queen's a malicious cunt, and her son is worse."
Bran and Arya bray laughter that makes Rickon sit up and laugh confusedly with them.
"Be that as it may, Robb," Sansa says after the laughing dies down, "she is the Queen, and Joffrey is the Crown Prince and...he is to be my husband."
She says the words with her usual mask of grace and manners, but Jon sees the fear in his sister's eyes. "He is young and perhaps can change, but still...there is darkness in him," he puts forth, thinking of his own bloodline, his father, and grandfather.
"Darkness? Like Aerys?" Bran asks.
"No, not like Aerys," Sansa replies. "More like a spoiled and vain version of his father."
"You saw Jeyne's arms, Sansa," Arya responds. "A spoiled and vain drunk like King Robert is dangerous enough."
Sansa is quiet for a moment before replying softly, "He is to be my husband."
"I'll protect you," Bran says.
"Me too," Rickon mumbles, raising his head from Sansa's lap.
"Thank you, sweetling," she coos, running her hands through her brother's hair as he falls back into sleep. "Thank you," she says, reaching out a hand for Bran. Jon can see the unfallen tears glistening in her eyes.
"He won't touch you, Sansa," Arya says darkly, and Jon suddenly realizes that he is afraid. Not fear like before his first battle, when his blood was up, and the arrows were raining all around them, and he didn't have time to think or speak or even breathe it seemed. This was different, darker, greater. Not just fear for his family, for that was surely at the heart of it, but fear that he would be too far away to do anything if they were in danger. The same fear that tore into him when he searched the white wastes for Robb, screaming his brother's name until his throat was raw and his limbs numb with the cold.
"This cannot be," Robb rumbles in that hardened way of speaking that Jon does not recognize, that he brought with him from beyond the wall. "I will speak with father tomorrow…"
"No," both he and Sansa exclaim.
They said it simultaneously, but it is to Jon that Robb directs his ire. "What? Will you not speak against his marriage to our sister?"
Robb had taken steps towards him in his questioning, and Jon was acutely aware of his brother's thick arms and gnarled hands and the vein that was popping out in his head, and not for the first time wondered if the wildling in his brother would always be greater than the lord. "I would not speak of it now, Robb."
"When then would you speak? After they are far from Winterfell? Beyond our protection?"
His wildling brother asked him softly this time, but Jon could see the anger behind the words, could see the violence in his brother, see it coiled through years of hardship and suffering and want. He could see it forever ready to spring. Behind even that, he saw his brother's fear. From the moment Robb came back, Jon only thought of what losing him had meant to Winterfell, to the family. For the first time, he understood what losing his family had meant to Robb. And now they would all leave him once again. Jon stepped forward, unable to let him bear this burden alone. "We will speak of it when the time is right, brother."
"Patience, Robb," Sansa adds. "Joffrey is not smart. Either I can temper him and serve our family as Queen, or he will commit some offense that will give father leave to break the betrothal...and perhaps play it to our greater advantage."
"If that offense costs you your virtue? Or your life? What then?"
"Then I'll cut his cock off," Arya says.
"Sansa would be no less raped. Or dead," Robb counters.
"I am no longer helpless, Robb, and I would appreciate it if you would not treat me as such. I can handle Joffrey."
"Can you handle The Hound? Or those shits Boros and Meryn?"
"I'll have Lady," she replies calmly. "And Mother and Father. And Arya, and brave Bran, Jory, and Walder, who is the greatest warrior in all of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I can be her sworn shield," Bran says.
"You can," Sansa says, "which means that there will be two direwolves protecting my virtue."
"Let them go, Robb," Jon says.
He puts his face in his hands for a moment before running them up and through his hair. "It seems I must." He rises and places a tender kiss on Sansa and Arya and Bran's cheeks. "I love you. You know that. If you have need of me, send for me, and I will come, fire and death in my wake." He scoops Rickon up from Sansa. "At least this little cretin will stay with me and Jon. He'll be Theon the Hungry Wolf come again by the time I'm done with him. Come Bran, off to bed with you, too," he finishes, prompting Bran with his boot.
On the way back to their rooms, after tucking the boys in, Robb stops him. "Come have a glass of wine with me in my solar."
"Val?" Jon asks, a bit confused at the invitation given the hour and his brother's proclivity for coupling with his wife.
"The babe had her retire early tonight," he replies, opening the door. Jon follows him in and sees the connecting door to Robb's room closed, though he wonders if she is asleep and whether or not she will be listening to this conversation.
Robb pours two glasses of wine and sits in the chair by the fire. Jon takes a sip and sits down. His brother is not touching his wine, he is only staring at the flames in the hearth. After a moment, Jon says, "It will be hard when they go. I have seen much less of them than I would have liked these past three years." Another moment of silence. "Robb?" Jon pushes.
"I have met men like him, you know."
"Men like who?"
"Rattleshirt was cruel and brutal, but such was the land in which he lived. He was brutal and cruel so he and his people could live. We adapt to our surroundings. There were some men, though…"
Jon nods, knowing where his brother is going. "There were pirates on the Sisters who trafficked in slaves. I never knew that men could have such disregard for life."
"Slavers," he says with open contempt. "Aye. Joffrey is not like his father. He is like those men."
Jon remembers the prince's eyes - when he arrived, in the Great Hall after the king berated him, even dancing with Sansa and the other girls. He'd never seen anything resembling kindness or empathy. Then there was Jeyne, and the incident with the pretty servant girl that Robb had managed to keep quiet, and his conduct in the training yard. Joffrey was tainted not with youthful arrogance but abject cruelty. "He is," Jon agrees.
"Our sister is to wed him in two years."
"Sansa is right, much can happen in that time."
"You were right, as well. The Queen sees us as an enemy, and The Prince will see what the Queen sees," Robb says, his gaze turned away from the fire and now boring into Jon. "Sansa as Queen or not, that boy will be no friend of ours once he takes the throne."
"Tommen is a sweet boy," Jon counters, "and has become fast friends with Bran."
"And just an accident away from being heir."
"True statement," Jon says with a quick look at the door.
"He's too sweet," Robb says after a moment. "Too tractable. He'd still be his mother's creature."
"Better than another mad king," Jon offers, thinking of his own lineage.
"But not the best option," Robb throws back.
There is silence for a moment, and Jon drains his glass. "Let us sleep on these words, brother," he says, hoping to curtail the conversation.
Instead, his cousin grabs him by the arm, stilling him. "Myrcella is strong, smart, and already great friends with Sansa and Arya. She will be a beauty, as well. Greater even than her mother because there is kindness in her."
"The Princess is just a girl, Robb," Jon says, hoping that his cousin's mind isn't working the way he suspects.
"Girls grow up, Jon. Princesses, too."
Jon says nothing, waiting for Robb to fill the void. Eventually, he does.
"She'd make you a fine queen, cousin," Robb says, his visage dark in the low light of the fire.
"This treasonous talk has gone too far, Robb."
"It's only the truth, Jon. Val has been listening to the King's retinue. He does nothing but whore and feast and throw tourneys and borrow money to do it all over again. He's on the verge of bankrupting the realm. And his son will be a tyrant. Soon enough there will be war. You see that?"
"I do," Jon confesses. "Unless our father can stem the tide."
"Easier to turn back the actual sea, brother." When Jon makes to object, Robb throws his hands up. "I pray that he can, Jon, but what difference between father and Jon Arryn? The King does what he will, even here in Winterfell, and his son is the same. There will be war, and we shall have to choose a side." He squeezes Jon's shoulder. "I will always choose my family."
"I should take the black," Jon says, looking Robb in the eyes, "to rid you of these thoughts."
"You would not abandon us," Robb answers. "Especially not to frolic about with the likes of Waymar Royce."
"Enough, Robb," Jon says with a tone of finality. "Enough. I love you, but that is all I will hear of this." He turns and walks from the room, but not before he hears his cousin say, ""Aye, Your Grace" before he can shut the door behind him.
He walks down the hall to his own room. Upon entering, he closes and locks the door. He removes his tunic and throws it over the chair by the fire before he moves to the bed, kneels, and reaches underneath. He pulls out a long bundle wrapped in a quilt. He sets it on the bed, carefully unfolds the quilt, carefully unties the drawstrings, and carefully unwraps the Targaryen banner. Finally, he pulls it from the sheathe.
He stares at it for a long moment, admiring the way the steel reflects even the low light from the fire in the hearth, the beauty of the ripples in the black steel. His hands are shaking like they do every time he has done this. They shake until he grips the hilt, and then he feels...whole, with Dark Sister in his hand. A Targaryen prince, son of the King Rhaegar Targaryen, son of the Queen Lyanna Stark, not a man pretending to be a bastard. He holds the sword and dreams of another life. But only for a moment. He sheathes the sword, wraps it in the red dragon cloth, ties the strings, and then wraps it once more in the quilt before sliding it back under his bed.
Going to his desk, he opens his second drawer, takes out the false bottom, and removes the letters. From Rhaegar to Maester Aemon. He sits by the fire and reads them for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, he weeps. Weeps for the love his father had for his mother, weeps for the madness of prophecy and vision that led his kind, brilliant father to his and his mother's doom.
After, he makes his way to bed, and once his mind quiets, he finally lets the darkness take him.
3-VII
Bran falls the next day, and the castle mourns.