"I am the King in the North and you will not help me fucking walk!"

They all took a step back, Dacey, Olyvar, Smalljon and Owen, leaving him shaking against the wall. He pushed his hand against the wall, forcing himself away from the stone, his legs twitched and he tried to walk, but his leg wouldn't move. Come on, he could do this. He conquered Jaime Lannister, he wouldn't let his own legs conquer him in turn. It wouldn't do anything. It just stood there, holding up his torso, every time he tried to step, it shuffled an inch, then he'd try again and it would shuffle back. Carefully, he focused on his calf muscles, just like when the exercises in the training yard. He pulled his calf up, leaving his thigh and foot dangling like a hanging fruit. He gently moved the thigh forwards, holding it steady, placed it on the ground and paused. He breathed, he'd made it. He put his weight forward and collapsed.

"Stay back," he growled, and Grey Wind leapt between him and the Smalljon, baring his fangs. Gathering all the strength he could find in his muscles, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.

"Your Grace, you need to slow, your injury is all but healed, but your legs need to relearn how to walk."

"I was walking last night," he said, reaching out and rubbing Grey Wind's fur, feeling the reassurance of his heat and power.

Dacey knelt. "Your Grace, please, let us return you to your bed, you need to rest."

"I need to walk."

"And you will," Owen Norrey stepped up, "but today, you must rest."

"If I command you to let me walk?"

"We are here to protect you Your Grace, from everything."

"We remember our oath," said Smalljon.

"We swore to protect you, and we will," Dacey added, "even if it's from yourself."

He settled back against the wall and nodded. Olyvar stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Robb's back, helping him to his feet, but they didn't go. "You can walk now, Your Grace," his squire said. Slowly, he placed one leg forward, and with Olyvar there bearing almost all of his weight, it was just enough to hold him up.

Why did I attack the Crag, what did it get me?

How much have I lost because I was a reckless fool?

Why didn't I let myself recover first?

Olyvar lowered him back onto his bed. Pain like a thousand tiny needles shot through the sole of his foot and his knees ached, was he an old man now? He moved to swing one leg up onto the bed, only to push up with both feet and roll onto his back. Using his arms and back, he shuffled around until he was laying with his head on the pillow. "Bring the maester, I need my legs back." Shame coiled within him. He at least had a chance while his brother didn't.

As Olyvar left to fulfil his command, Robb turned to his guards. "Does anyone else know?"

"Your guard, the maester, your mother and that's all."

"And everyone is keeping silent?"

"As ordered," Dacey assured him.

Robb nodded. That was good, he needed to be fully recovered before he returned. When he returned, it had to be as a warrior king, crown and armour born aloft, Grey Wind at his side, ready to lead them to victory once more. Not as a weak, dishevelled boy, who needed his warriors to help him down to breakfast. No, Tristan would hold the Kingdom until he was ready.

"Are they still waiting for me?" He asked.

They knew what he meant. "They are, Your Grace, they eagerly await your return. Even more than before."

"More?"

"Yes Your Grace, Lord Bracken's representative arrived just yesterday, along with Ser Raynald Manderly and Rickard Ryswell."

So many. "Why do they come, has word spread of my near recovery?"

"No Your Grace, but they come because they want to be here when you are fully recovered."

He settled back into the bed. "Good, I will see them when I am ready, not when they want, I am not a beast in a menagerie."

"Of course, Your Grace."

"Leave me to sleep, all of you."

They left without question.


Gods, breakfast, a proper breakfast. Bacon glistening with fat, fish cooked until charred on a warm rye bread, washed down with a dark brown ale. The maester only had to say once that his lack of energy was due to his intake of weak foods and his mother had leapt to action, ordering food to be brought at once. To ensure that his impending recovery was kept as secret as possible, his regular weak breakfast was brought up along with it, where it sat to one side, cooling and forgotten. He'd been kept alive with thin liquids and honey while he'd been half comatose and broth since he woke up. Finally, proper food.

While he ate, the maester was exercising his legs and feet, rubbing feeling into his calf muscles and running them through the motions of movement. Satisfied, the maester stood up, telling him that his legs were doing well, and that they would try walking that afternoon.

"The sooner the king is on his feet, the better for the kingdom," his mother said, fussing with her sleeve.

"Saying that is not going to make it happen faster," he pointed out. "How long do you think it will take?" He asked turning to the maester.

"If you were to allow as much time as I would like, a week for you to be walking normally, another week for you to be riding, after that, full recovery will come in it's own time."

"Another week," he mused, burning at the thought of another week in this fucking bed, but a week, he could make that. There was also one other benefit, now he had a little of his former strength back "Then I think it's time mother, she's been waiting long enough."

Catelyn smiled in relief. "Thank the gods, she's been getting nearly unstopable."

"Tell her to come tonight." Arya had been by his bedside a lot while he was comatose, but when he'd started his recovery, she'd been kept away, they couldn't risk her spilling the secret that he was nearly ready again. He wouldn't have Tristan's authority undermined while he was not even able to walk to a throne to receive petitions.

They let him rest for the morning, leaving him with only his mother and Grey Wind for company, but even so, his mother wanted to talk about something, he knew it. "What is it mother?" He asked.

"It can wait Robb."

He reached out and squeezed her hand, feeling the anger bottled up inside him drain away. "If something is distressing you, I would like to hear it." Before he'd been injured, he'd tried to send her away, Kings couldn't be coddled by their mothers. How stupid he'd been, he could heed her advice and listen to her council without being coddled. His mother knew this world of which he had little experience, and he could trust she would always look out for their wellbeing in it.

"Robb it's about Tristan."

"I see." He hadn't wanted to hear about Tristan, he couldn't have people think they could come to him before he was recovered to undermine his regent and heir while they were still at war. "Mother, Tristan is a Stark, he is aggressive, he can be violent, he can be unreasonable, but he wouldn't harm the family or the North. Or do you not believe that?"

"Not at all, remember I've been with him as long as you have, I know he's our most faithful guardian. But Robb, he's not been thinking things through." There was pain in her eyes, a pain that came from more than blunder or foolish action. What have you done Tristan?

"That's very like him," Robb reminded her. "But that's not always such a bad thing. Others would have hesitated before rushing home. Because he didn't Winterfell was rapidly returned to us, Bran and Rickon were saved, the ironmen have been expelled from our home and the war is now being fought in enemy territory." Robb had mused that perhaps the Tyrells could have been mediators between them and the Lannisters, a party that could act in good faith, that was no longer possible, but it was never a guarantee anyway. "He rushed home, he acted when Bran and Rickon were in danger and saved their lives. If he'd hesitated they may well be dead." She wanted to say something else, it was on the verge of bursting forth, but she held her tongue. "What is it?"

She forced a smile and got to her feet. "You need to rest."


His breath came heavy and hard and his knuckles were clenched white on Owen and Olyvar's arms. They didn't encourage him, tell him he was doing well, they let him walk. With every step down the empty corridor, kept closed by Patrek Mallister and Donnel Locke, he loosened his grip, putting more weight on his legs. His foot rolled from heel to toe and pushed off catching himself on his other foot and rolling forwards again and steadying himself. Yes! He nodded and they made another step, closer and closer to the end of the corridor. The aches bore into his very bones, but it was a good ache, the ache of hard work, and the feeling of moving his legs was getting more normal, more natural. At the end of the corridor he let go of Owen and Olyvar, standing alone, his legs no longer shaking. Alone, he turned, looking back down the corridor. He stepped forward. He didn't fall. "Stay close, but this time, I go alone."

"Yes Your Grace." He made it about a third of the way before he had to catch them to stay standing. The rest of the way they supported him until they lowered him to his bed.

It wasn't much, but it was progress.

He didn't have long to rest before the door was flung open and his heart leapt with it as a little figure in a blue-grey dress charged at him and flung herself into his arms. He caught Arya and held her tightly to him. Behind her, Nymeria burst in, playfully leaping at Grey Wind who met her and soon the two were rolling around, yelping with joy. She shook with sobs as she squeezed like she was trying to crush his chest and his own eyes welled up. "Gods Arya," he whispered into her short brown hair, "I've missed you."

"Missed me!" She almost shrieked, pulling away, her eyes watery and fierce. She punched his chest. "You almost died! You almost died!"

"I know," he said. "I'm-"

"Don't say sorry!" She demanded. "I don't want sorry, I want you alive!"

"I am alive, Arya, and I plan to be for a very long time." She glared at him, then nodded and hugged him again. He held her close, trying to put a confused storm of thoughts and emotions into that hug, the pain of losing her, the relief when he'd heard she was alive and in this very castle, the regret that he'd kept her away from him, the oath that he would never lose her like that again.

"Arya, don't squeeze him to death," their mother said, following them into the room and closing the door behind them, leaving them in private.

Immediately she pulled back, fearful. He smiled. "It's fine, Arya. I'm just glad to see you, finally."

"And I'm glad you're awake," she said, "now you just need to shave."

He reached up and ran his fingers through his unkempt beard, his hair was lank and brushing his shoulderblades, it would have to go. "Yes I do," he chuckled.

"How was your walk?" His mother asked.

He nodded, "it went well, hopefully it won't be long now before I'm back to normal."

"Good," Arya said, scowling, "then you can shut the people up."

"What people?"

"The people complaining about Tristan. They've come here just to complain while he's out there killing our enemies. The people who hurt us."

He smiled through the pain at her words. What had happened to Arya, she hadn't been like this before. His mother noticed too, reaching out and stroking Arya's hair. "They have their reasons for being here, Arya."

"They shouldn't even be here!"

"Arya," he spoke and she listened, turning to him. "That's enough, I have barely woken." This was getting out of hand, what had Tristan done? "Tristan is not here, I would hear of your own journey, from your own mouth."

"I-" instantly, her face fell, she worried her bottom lip, her eyes twitching and her fingers clenching and unclenching rapidly. "It was… I…"

"Arya."

She shook her head.

Her mother's expression was pained, but not surprised. "She hasn't spoken of what she went through, at all."

"I can't even imagine," he said. "I'm sorry, Arya, I won't ask again." She nodded, and sat down on the floor. Nymeria broke away from Grey Wind and padded over, resting her head in her lady's lap. Arya immediately ran her fingers through the dark fur, tugging at the ears.

"None of us can imagine anything anymore, Arya, Sansa, Tristan."

"What is it?" He asked. "What has Tristan done?"

Immediately she stood. "We should let you rest, come Arya."

"Enough!" Grey Wind leapt in front of the door and bared his fangs. "Clearly something has happened, everyone is stepping around it like a pile of shit, but I can still smell. What has Tristan done?"

"You said you were not to be told."

"And yet it seems to need telling. So tell me now, and tell it true," it wouldn't undermine Tristan to hear it, would it?

Catelyn took a breath. "He put Sansa's life in danger without thinking, he cut off the Kingslayer's sword hand and sent it to King's Landing in a box."

"He what?" Robb lurched, but his legs still didn't obey him properly. "Sansa, is she?"

"The Lannisters sent us her hand in reply."

"No," Grey Wind's growl was a barely restrained howl. "I don't believe it," Tristan wouldn't have done something that would hurt Sansa, how could he?

"He did it to punish the Lannisters," Arya said, not looking up from Nymeria. "For lying about holding me hostage."

Why would he do that, father hadn't taught them that way.

"But we got you back that would have been more than enough to reveal their lies and give us the upper hand in negotiations."

"Gods be good you will never be in this position, but if you ever find yourself dealing with Lord Tywin, you must be deft, do not push him at all and he'll never negotiate with you as an equal, push him too far and no one will drag him to the table."

Father, Tristan mutilated his son.

And Tywin mutilated Sansa. His fists curled, damn Tristan, and damn Tywin, first they keep Sansa hostage, now they take her hand to cover their lies! Damn them all. Father, Sansa, Arya missing for nearly a year, Bran and Rickon with knives to their throats, how much was this war going to take from them.

"Why Tristan?"

"He was wounded," his mother said, quietly, "perhaps the wound has destabled him."

"Wound, what wound?" How much had he not been told at his own fucking demand.

"His hand," Arya said, she held up her left hand, the fingers curled around as though she was holding an invisible spoon. "He was shot, an arrow through the hand, now his hand is like this, forever."

"His sword hand?"

Catelyn replied. "Thank the gods, no. Who knows what he would have done if that had happened. But still, he burns with rage at the injury."

"Cley was saying that he has had to relearn how to fight, and it makes him angry that he isn't as good as before."

Of course it would, Tristan was a fighter, a warrior, to lose that would be to lose a part of himself. Why had the gods seen fit to injure them both at once, if he'd known this he could have appointed another, the Blackfish and mother, steadier hands than those of his brother. If he hadn't been such a fool to attack the Crag head on. He scratched at the scar on his leg.

"What else has he done?" His lords were not here to complain about Tristan taking the Kingslayer's hand, whatever the consequences for his own family.

"The conduct of the war in the Reach."

"I thought Tristan was taking towns and castles," his guard had spoken of the wealth and food that had been sent north, the people would be fed now that Tywin Lannister's reavers had picked their own land clear.

"But he commands they be stormed no matter the cost. Lord Bracken had to plead personally to allow two towns to surrender their gold without a fight, Tristan wanted to leave a husk and take everything, rather than a tribute." His mother's voice was calmer now, a melancholy was there, but not sorrow, she knew that this was what war could mean.

He caught himself. When had he come to think like that. He tried to think back. The Crag? No. Oxcross? Surely it hadn't been the whispering wood. STARK! When had it been.

"What else?"

"The Manderly knights are being sent to and fro, told to take everything of value from every village on every road. Ryswell is being sent specifically to tear down septs," her breath hitched. His mother was a pious woman, the Seven were her gods and the septs were their houses. "They say that your brother is obsessed with plunder, and disregards words of caution. Apparently Lord Ryswell has sent several missives to beg him to regather the army, they say the Tyrells are marching from King's Landing and a second host gathers at Highgarden."

"Of course they are, we've attacked their home, surely Tristan recognises that?" After all he'd done the same when Winterfell was taken. Could he truly not see the Tyrell intentions?

"Apparently he has sent riders to burn every bridge along the Mander to stop them."

"See, he has things right," Arya piped up.

Robb shook his head. Villages, septs, farms, bridges, Tristan was scattering his men. If only one bridge remained the Tyrells could cross, and even if they couldn't, they could go south and around the Mander, or bring up barges and ferry men across, especially if there was no gathered host to resist them.

"Do you believe them?" He asked his mother.

"They believe it enough to send emissaries away from the campaign to inform the king, they told me, his own mother when you were unavailable. I don't believe they'd have done that if all was well with the war."

Curse it all, she was right. But he wasn't there, stories grew in the telling, or shrank in the recollection, and any message he sent now would arrive to a completely different situation to what it was now, and he didn't even know that much. "Mother, tell me now and by all the gods tell me true, are we in danger in the south?"

She looked him in the eye and he saw her heart's true desire, to tell him that it would all be okay, that the tales had grown in the telling and that Tristan had everything in hand, because she knew what was going to happen otherwise. "Yes," she whispered, "I fear we are."

He sat back and closed his eyes. "I must think, please leave me, and send in the guard outside."

She nodded. "Come Arya, we must leave your brother." His sister looked about to object but when she caught his eye, she obediently followed her mother, Nymeria padding along behind her.

They left and Olyvar's brother Perwyn entered. "Your Grace," he bowed.

"Perwyn, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything, I am yours to command."

He thought through his warriors, which of his guard would be best to send. "I need you to bring me my barber, and then, tomorrow morning, you are to return here with Dacey, Smalljon, Patrek, Owen and Rayman, with your horses ready to ride. Inform them they are to sleep well tonight, and if they are to guard me, they will find others."

"At once, Your Grace."

Robb settled back down as Patrek left the room.

He waited a few seconds, and then he swung his reached under his legs and lifted them off the side of the bed, gently resting his toes on the floor. Carefully, he lifted himself up onto his feet. Resting his fingers on the bed, he started walking, leaning into the frame of the bed just in case, putting one leg in front of the other. He reached the corner, he turned, he shuffled along the foot of the bed, he turned, he walked on the pins sticking into his feet until he was face to face with the wall. He turned on shaky legs, breathing heavily. "Again," he muttered. He had some time before the barber arrived, and he would see just how many times he could make it around his bed.


The next day, groomed as befit a king, the six guards he had picked entered his room. His legs still ached, he had done ten laps of the bed before the barber arrived and thirty after. He would do so again today, as many times as he could, until he was ready.

"I'm sorry to call you here early, but there are matters that I must discuss and a task I have for you."

"It's no concern Your Grace," Smalljon said through a yawn, making them all smile.

"What is your order, my king?" Patrek Mallister asked.

"I'm sending you to the Reach." On his walks, he'd had time to think and had come to his decision. "You will travel with my banner and a letter bearing my seal. You will find Tristan, and you will inform him that I need him to return at once, it is an order from his King. If he refuses to return," he paused. He had thought the words over several times, but it still felt strange to be voicing them. "If he refuses to come willingly, then I command you to seize him and bring him by force. If his friends attempt to protect him, then show them my sealed letter, if they do not accept, then they are to be arrested as well, confine them in a captured fortress until I arrive to deal with them. Smalljon, you will bring my brother back, with an escort of one hundred men who will be riding south with you, the rest of you have another task. You are to find the disparate forces in the Reach and bring them together as fast as you are able, nothing else matters, you are to start pulling them back to the north. Find a place where an army can rally and bring them all together as fast as possible, if the Tyrells and their army are on the march, we must be ready to meet them."

"Who is to command the army when your brother is gone?" Dacey asked.

"I have already sent a raven to Harrenhal, the Blackfish will be coming south, when he arrives, he will command… until I arrive."

They all were taken aback by that. "Your Grace, be careful!" Owen said. But before they could do anything, Robb had swung his legs out of bed and stood, unsupported. He saw the awe in their eyes at the sight of him afoot, like he had stepped from a dream to lighten their worlds. "I have been abed long enough, matters are spiralling too much out of hand for me to sit here and let it pass me by. It seems some blunders have been made in the south, and I intend to correct them. I will be coming south with what men I can gather to correct the course. Ensure the army is made aware of this."

"We will of course, Your Grace, but, will you be fit."

"I intend to be able to mount a horse by the end of the week, and to be riding south not long after." He looked them all in the eye. "You are my guard, I would have your honesty, do you believe I will be able to do this?"

As one they dropped to one knee. "It is war, Your Grace, none know it like yourself. We will return with your brother and be ready to ride at your side again," Perwyn said reverently.

"Ready yourselves to ride, I will prepare the missives for you to take with you." He felt the aches in his legs fade and a smile grace his features, he was soon to be riding to war again, and he could seize back the reins of the horse that was his realm.