Innocence

"Once a child is confronted with the concept of death there's a certain innocence that goes," Patsy Kensit.

Robb Stark thinks, sometimes, that he will wake to find the girl that had been his sister, looking back at him once again, each morning he enters his father's solar.

He dreams of it sometimes. He dreams of her smiles, soft and eager, so easily given. He thinks of the way she had walked, how she had bounced just so, so slightly, a movement that was on its way to becoming a graceful walk. He thinks of how she had been so easily frustrated by Arya, of how red she would turn when their younger sister would tease and pull. How she would cry with frustration when he refused to play a knight to her princess or fair maiden, and how she tried so desperately to imitate the grace their mother had in her every movement, held back by the restless energy of someone so young.

But with each passing day, he finds that the dream of his sister reverting back to the child she had been, just a few moons ago, will never occur. She was forever lost in a twist of time, a twist of fate and will of the gods. Old or new, he is not sure, just and warranted, he knows not. The only thing he can understand is that Sansa is truly grown in mind, and he feels perhaps he has fallen short in response, as he claimed, to suddenly no longer be the eldest amongst the children of the House of Stark. He looks at her, sees a calmness, a determination that looks foreign on the features of the girl he had known. Gone is the restlessly pretty girl who would coerce him into games of Southern chivalry and would stuff lemon cakes into her mouth with a glee that interrupted her try at being a perfect Lady.

The knowledge that had she not come back, that he would claim himself, King, (even at the urging of other lords), at just five and ten, then lose that Kingship within a year or two, Winterfell in ashes, his younger brothers scattered upon the wind, his elder sister captive, his younger sister lost, he and his mother and father dead-

It makes him wonder. So many things. About himself, about the future they are trying to change...

Am I worthy to be Lord of Winterfell? Or should it ever come to it, Prince beneath the Stark banner? Sansa claims Northern independence is paramount in the Second Long Night to come, if not inevitable with all the mess that comes with the Iron Throne, and while she has not outright said she plans for such an insurrection, in all but words has she claimed the North to be its own Kingdom. In her eyes, am I to be King in her grand plan if fate shall see fit to take our Father again?

On the days that he feels the lowest, of the words that fell from his sister's lips fester within his mind the most, he thinks not. Too young, not enough respect from the Lords that honored his Father, he sees with sharps eyes how dismissive they are of him now, how dismissive they are of all of them, young as they are, and even more so because of their Mother, the words 'Southern', following freely through lips that do not think they are being watched like a curse. He sees it in the way they look at him, see this boy of three and ten trying to speak as their future Liege Lord, and he sees that he is lesser in their eyes.

How can I ever expect to be anything if I was a boy slated to lose the Winterfell, loose his life? The boy they called King, Sansa said that they called him the Young Wolf, even as a King. How could I ever be as Father is to them, respected, loved, and esteemed?

He understands, keenly, that he will always be at a disadvantage to the men that would be his to command, for he has not earned their respect as his father had. Without urgency, it is a wonder, really that what would have been his future self had managed it all. He thinks without the righteous fury that had been provoked upon his father's death- never, as long as he held breath he would see to it that his Father died old and grey in bed- to cause any sense of respect from the men that were so much older than him. Hopefully, if Sansa's presence could do anything in changing the future, it would be so Robb did not have to take that mantle any time soon.

Old and grey in his bed.

"What's wrong with you, Robb?" came Theon, coming to where Robb was leaning against the wall, within the training yard.

Automatically, without his mean, Robb felt his jaw clench. The boy he would call brother, despite the strange happenstance of their friendship, looked at him with just a raised brow, his bow in hand. Expression somewhat concerned, hidden beneath the arrogant look of confidence that Sansa had told him was all a facade. Part of Robb could not believe that Theon would take Winterfell from him, under any circumstance, nor be so cruel as to kill two innocent children, even as a ruse to spare the boys he had been raised with, but… He supposes circumstances were not as he had always seen them. Theon would always feel apart from them, and he does not think that is a bridge they can truly gap without true efforts on both their parts. He does not know what to do in regards to that. He had offered Theon friendship, best as he was able, had never treated him any different, if slightly less favorably than Jon, who was truly his brother-cousin- fucking kin.

He did not know what else Theon wanted from him.

From them all.

The circumstances of what would happen to him- Sansa had been so vague of that, just had stated- just had stated that after the Boltons had taken Winterfell, Theon had been taken prisoner; 'And had not been the same when I found him there. Especially after what happened to poor Jeyne just before my arrival. I do not think he could have been, the same, after that. I never saw him again, after he helped me escape.' But Robb had been intelligent enough to read between the lines, known that from the look in her eyes, from the way her hands had come to her lap, that Theon had not met a happy fate after his short term conquest of Winterfell. And Sansa had pitied him- and even perhaps forgiven him to some extent for destroying the home his Kingly counterpart had trusted him with.

It must have been grave indeed, for such a betrayal to be met with any sort of forgiveness.

And because of that, Robb had no idea what to do with the boy that could betray him.

"Nothing," he replied, and he tried his best to smile, tried to ease the show off too many teeth, "Just happy to have a moment of rest, I suppose."

Theon, he noted, hardly responded to his statement, only tightened his eyes, his smug grin still in place. Now that Robb was looking, he could see how truly strained it was.

"Your Lord Father has been working you to the bone, Stark, I have seen little of you."

Robb fights the urge to snap, to say something less than complimentary, along the lines of not wanting to be seen with the likes of him. He struggles with himself. Theon is not to blame for things he has yet to do, just the same as I cannot continue to berate myself for what is a future that will never come to pass. But I cannot settle this hurt, this betrayal. He is saved from responding by Jon, who walks over with an even look on his face.

"Finished your paces?" Jon asked, quietly.

Robb gives a terse nod. He had ruthlessly pushed himself through the paces before the light of dawn had even come and had been in a sweaty heap before the arms Master, Ser Rodrik Cassel had even entered the yard. Robb had made sure to demand the man work him even harder before Theon and Jon had come in sometime after dawn. They had had no room to speak, no room to interact, as Ser Rodrick had been instructed by their Lord Father to increase their training to the extreme, another by-product of Sansa's change, no doubt.

"Father wishes to see us before the morning meal."

"Not much of a message to give, Snow, if your father demands your council every day." says Theon, voice a touch mullish, "And I thought a ride through the wolfswood would help ease whatever snit you've been in."

Robb sees it, at that moment, the look in Theon's eyes, of how upset he is by the growing distance between them. Theon turns to stalk away. Robb blinks, for a moment, before he sets his jaw, and focuses on the retrieving back.

"Theon," he calls, and when the boy he thinks of a brother turns to him, he sees hurt and negligence he has allowed to pass between them since he learned of the possibility of betrayal. Feel my anger I may, but I won't allow for it to become so strained between us. Nor will I ever let him go back to his father, "Why don't we go for a ride tomorrow outside the castle gates, just before breakfast instead? I need to get out of the Keep- there have been so many people. I feel as if I have said pardon me more times than I can count, or nodded my head in greeting to the point that it will fall off."

Theon grins, briefly, an expressive thing that looks genuine before it settles into something more arrogant.

"Aye. What say you Snow, want to ride with us?"

Jon's eyes, grey and even, flicker back and forth between them before he nods.

"Let me see if I can get Sansa and Arya to come, even Bran."

"Well, if you wished to be slowed down, I suppose," muttered Theon, rolling his eyes. But he does not look displeased at the notion.

"We can make an event of it. A picnic before the first meeting," says Robb, as cheerfully as he dared.

Theon rolled his eyes again, but he looked a touch more pleased nonetheless.

"Alright Stark, we have a promise. I'll see if I can find some horses for your sisters. They don't ride often, do they?"

"No. In fact, I cannot remember the last time any of them rode."

"I'll find some docile ones then. You take care of the food. And if you can manage, get some wine. With the mess the kitchen is in with all of our guests, it'd be easy to nick it," he grinned.

Robb felt his own grin come automatically.

"We'll see."

"Don't let me down, Stark."

Only if you don't do the same, Greyjoy.

He walked, nodding his goodbye, Jon next to him. They walk in silence for a beat, heading towards their rooms to change and head for the daily meeting of the household. The halls are quiet, as most wouldn't rise for another hour or so. Robb feels a tension fall from him at it. They reach the family wing without encountering a single soul, and Robb is glad for it. Pretext it may have been to go riding out with Theon, he was not lying to say the Keep had been over-crowded and felt too close quarters with people he hardly knew. He feels strangely lost, before he takes his place at the high-table, before every meeting, feels small amongst so many people that were evidently supposed to respect and defer to him. How the hell he had handled it at five and ten as a fucking King, he'll never know.

"So you've decided," Jon's voice is quiet, even as they enter the wing of the family.

"What do you mean?"

"To forgive him. Even after all that you know him capable of."

Robb sighs.

"He's done nothing. Whatever was done in the place that she comes from, it hasn't been done. Theon has done nothing."

"Neither have we," says Jon, voice even quieter.

Robb stops. Stops and looks at his brother. Because no matter who your father is, no matter your mother, you are my brother. And just like in Theon earlier, he sees something in his eyes. It is a mirror, he wagers, of what he feels. As if they are looking up a mountain, with nothing but their bare hands to climb it, the haunting words of someone they loved, of horrors to come, as their only motivation. The burdens of a future that had evidently killed them, or perhaps the burdens of the knowledge of being Kings, however, short a time.

"Jon?"

"We know the parts we would have played. And all the mistakes that we would have made."

Robb felt his jaw clench.

"We do."

Jon gives him a measured look, a funny smile on his face.

"I've made so many vows to myself since Sansa told me of this… I wonder if you have done the same?"

Old and gray in his bed.

"Yes. A few."

"I thought so."

Robb grins, and he has no doubt that his smile is as queer as his brother's.

"So what does that mean, eh?"

"That we make sure to keep them."

They look at each other, and Robb can see a little bit of what Sansa sees, whenever she talks of the man she called the High King. And in himself, Robb can feel something as well- A bit of what he is sure is what his future counterpart had used to try and avenge his father.

He saw and felt a man. A son, a brother.

A King.

With promises to keep.

Old and gray in his bed.

EDIT: 16 January 2022

For some ungodly reason, my italics died in parts of the chapter when I was editing and only noticed it midweek through last week when I decided to check over the last half of the chapter to get Robb's tone for a later chapter.

Woof.