Feasts among the highborn were complex affairs, especially welcoming feasts for the King of all Westeros. Robb's mother had worn an almost permanent frown for days before the royals' arrival while she decided on seating arrangements, dishes and decorations. Robb did not much care for the maze-like web of etiquette and tradition that his mother had been obliged to navigate, but even he could appreciate the result. Banners of white, gold and crimson covered the walls and roaring fires illuminated the direwolf, the stag and the lion all.

The high nobles entered the great hall in a long procession; Lord Stark entered first with the Queen on his arm and King Robert followed with Lady Stark on his. Afterwards came the Stark and royal children, Rickon and Bran first followed by Robb and Myrcella, Tommen and Arya, and finally Joffrey and Sansa. The long-winded entrance did not much bother Robb, but he wished he had gotten a good look at the Lannister brothers who followed behind them in the procession. As much as he hated the thought of appearing toady Robb could not deny a deep-seated interest in the two. The Kingslayer and the Imp, the former who slew the last Targaryen monarch, to whom he had sworn his sword and the latter a dwarf son of one of the great houses of Westeros. Lastly came Robb's uncle Benjen, newly arrived from the Wall, and Theon, who discreetly joined Jon among the younger squires. Very little was said until every high lord and lady had been seated and it was only after his father and King Robert had exchanged the customary toasts, thanks and greetings that the feast began in earnest.

To most Robb's promise to bring his own seat to speak with Joffrey would not seem so brazen, but seating arrangements among the nobility were extremely deliberate. Your assigned seat reflected your social standing, among many other things. Moving your seat was simply not done; it reflected a flagrant disrespect for the established order. Had Robb not known enough about King Robert to be certain that the man could care less he would not have dared to even consider the stunt.

The two heirs apparent were seated at the same table, across from each other, with uncle Benjen and Tyrion, and the Queen's twin brother respectively seated beside them. The rest of the Stark and Baratheon children were seated at a nearby table further down to, as far as Robb could pick up from her flushed whispers to Jeyne Poole, Sansa's great shame. Contend to put off his stunt until at least a few guests were in their cups Robb settled down to enjoy some honeyed chicken and roasted potatoes while listening to the low murmur of a hundred increasingly more drunken conversations.

King Robert did not take long to oblige him. After his initial disappointment, Robb had decided to withhold judgement on his namesake until he had gotten a chance to speak with the man. Yet the King's total disregard for everything that was not Ned Stark, strong drink or that comely serving wench whose name escaped Robb left him feeling more than a little gloomy. The more he observed the good King Robert the less he saw Viserys I and the more he seemed to resemble a new Aegon the Unworthy, perhaps less corrupted, but equally disinterested in anything that did not feed his hedonism. Not for the first time that night, Robb wished that his direwolf was allowed in the hall. Of the litter of pups, only Ghost could be found inside, but Robb was only too keenly aware of the reasoning behind that to envy Jon his small victory.

His discontent must have unwittingly shown on his face as Lord Stark saw fit to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Are you well, Robb? You look a little green."

King Robert laughed uproariously at that, spilling near a quarter of his wine before turning his attention to Robb for the first time that night.

"Northman or not the lad's a Greenlander like the rest of us, eh?"

Something about the way he said it made Robb grind his teeth, a reaction that immediately saw the King's jovial manner evaporate like water under the Dornish sun, as if the gesture reminded him of something foul.

"My apologies, Your Grace," Robb said, voice carefully neutral. "A good friend of mine left for the Dreadfort not long since. Mayhaps I'm still a bit miffed. I hope you won't let it affect your good mood… Your Grace." He added the honorific a second time to be on the safe side. A polite white lie was better than just a white lie.

Robert harrumphed, sounding both annoyed and amused. "Cold weather makes colder men, they say. I suppose Ned's brood is no exception to that, even if you look more Tully than Stark."

Robb's expression did not change but under the tabletop, he clenched his fist. He stole a glance at his father's face, but was not surprised when he saw no hint of anger in his eyes. Lord Stark had always insisted that there was no shame in having copper-brown hair as a Stark, and that the whispers calling Robb and his siblings 'summer children' were just smallfolk gossiping as smallfolk were wont to do. Yet the North was the North, not the South. Parents like Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully did not send off their sons as fosterling for the sake of it. Robert's Rebellion took near three hundred years of Targaryen rule, relative stability, and more importantly continuity, and burned it all to the ground. No matter his intentions, the so-called Demon of the Trident had replaced Aegon's foreign dynasty with a native one and thus shaken the very foundation of the Iron Throne to its core. The Conqueror had forged out of seven warring kingdoms a throne by the Targaryens, for the Targaryens. Continuity especially was a blessed thing in Robb's view, considering the untold generations of Starks who had reigned in Winterfell, and Robert had shattered all of that for love. Now everything was up for grabs. That was why Lord Stark had sent his sons to be fostered by his most powerful vassals.

Perhaps if there had been no whispers, or if he had been born with grey eyes and dark hair during a cold winter blizzard there would have been no need.

But Robb had chestnut hair and blue eyes, and so the Lords of the North had grumbled, about the new King, about old grudges, about their liege lord's Tully bride. To quell their grumblings Lord Stark had made concessions. Those promises had brought Robb a friend like Domeric, but they had also reduced his family and ancestral home to a minimal part of his life for the better part of ten years.

Robb's train of thoughts had only lasted a few moments, but it was enough of a pause that the Queen decided to pick up the conversation. Her smooth voice snapped him back to the present.

"I am told that you have a few choice words to say about ruling. About what serves a King. How uncommon for a boy so young… and in your position."

It was not exactly a jape, but Robb felt the edge of her words nonetheless. Had he been Jon, he might have bristled and insisted that he was not a boy, thank you, but a man grown. Robb, however, had enough foresight to know that a barrage of patronizing looks would follow an outburst like that. He wondered briefly who had told the Queen about his conversation with Joffrey, but then decided that it did not matter.

"Ser Jaime was raised to the Kingsguard at my age. If he could fill such a prestigious post then, me having a few words to say about government does not seem so far-fetched, does it?"

"You compare yourself to my brother, then?" The Queen was most certainly trying to trip him up, Robb decided. The realization should have angered him, but instead he felt what he recognized as a growing boyish crush on the Lioness stir. Few in Winterfell were interested in playing these little games of words with him; it was simply not a very Northern thing to do. Queen Cersei was sharp, she was beautiful, and she pounced on his every little misstep like a cat would a particularly fat mouse, boy or not. Why King Robert did not seem to appreciate his Queen mystified him. Robb once again found his gaze seeking downwards and this time the Queen craned her neck just an inch in a discreet, but deliberate motion that exposed enough of her pearly white skin to make the young Stark heir blush scarlet. Oh yes, the Queen was undoubtedly playing with him.

"I…" Robb stammered; face still flush as he felt his breeches stir just a fraction. His father must have thought him embarrassed, for he quickly spoke up in his defense with that telltale calm voice of his.

"Robb was not trying to diminish Ser Jaime's accomplishments, I am sure."

"Robb is well-read," his mother quipped then, defensively. "He speaks with our Maester Luwin often about everything from language to masonry. Ideas come to him as naturally as a fish takes to water."

The Queen smiled graciously and opened her mouth to speak, but her youngest brother cut her off before she could.

"So what exactly were these choice words, then?" Tyron looked genuinely interested, which encouraged Robb to share his honest thoughts despite the company. If there was one thing Robb Stark could be easily goaded into, it was sharing his thoughts.

"I was not talking about ruling per se," he began hesitantly. "The point I was trying to make was that lords and kings should know each other, if not as friends then as honorable relations and acquaintances. Too much conflict is caused by men who don't know each other vying for the others' lands, or gold, or whatever else a man might lust for."

"Of the men I've killed there were some who were known to me," Ser Jaime interjected, looking bored by the conversation at hand. "I killed them nonetheless."

King Robert snorted with laughter. "Ha! The Kingslayer makes a good point there, lad. For once."

Robb glanced at Jaime, but the man looked as if he had not even heard by the jape, however unlikely that was.

"The Gods know there are things words can't solve, but I think they're few and far between. Men who know each other can speak more freely and solve problems together peacefully, with diplomacy and compromise." Tyrion was looking at him intensely, which only spurred Robb on. "I can't speak for everyone, but I would rather not war with the people I know. I might not always like them, but I know they're people with hopes and dreams, who want only the best for their families and peoples." Robb leaned back into his comfortable chair, acutely aware of the look his father was sending him. "I think much of the land's misery and conflict could be avoided if we would all just sit down and discuss the issues."

"Words are wind," came uncle Benjen's gravelly voice, startling Robb. The man had said very little since they had been seated. "Some men can't be reasoned with. If you sit down with Wildlings you're like to never get up again." Most of the people at the table nodded sagely in agreement. Joffrey aped the gesture.

"You can't reason with barbarians," he supplied dismissively.

Thousands of years isolated in the Land of Always Winter will do that to a people, Robb thought, but saying such things would only make everyone think him naive, if they did not so already.

"Many Southrons once thought of us Northmen as barbarians," he said instead. "Some still do. Yet we are simply men, just as you. If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? The same blood flows in our veins, Dornish or Northman. We even speak the same language. How can we not speak together?"

"Mayhaps we should raze the Wall, then?" King Robert said, annoyance having overtaken his amusement. "Your counsel would have us all prattle and bleat until every woman has been carried off and every man and child slain like mongrels."

Lord Stark intervened on his son's behalf before Robb could answer. Later, in the privacy of his bed, Robb would mentally thank his father for that. He had been ready to jab sharply at the King's argument, as he often did in discussions such as that. It would likely not had gone over well.

"This is too grim a topic for a welcoming feast. Let us not speak of it any longer."

His friend's words softened King Robert's hard expression and he nodded happily, lifting his goblet.

"Aye, I grow weary of such talks. Let's enjoy some Northern hospitality instead!"

Few of the men in the great hall had paid much attention to the conversation at the high table, but many greeted the King's words with cheers, raising their own cups in varying degrees of drunkenness. Robb grimaced instead, but kept his silence in favor of brooding. How could the King just dismiss him like that? He was no expert in the customs of the Free Folk, but Robb had spent many sleepless nights in the Dreadfort's modest library reading about many things, among them the Wall and the lands north of it. Indeed, beyond corresponding with his family most of the ravens he had sent for Winterfell were requests for heavy volumes and tomes to be sent to him. The Stark Heir was no Archmaester, but he was a learned man; more so than the 'venerable' King Robert Baratheon gave him credit for. Books were no substitute for experience, but for lack of a guide who would lead him beyond the Wall, Robb had settled for Maester Wyllis' account of his three years in Hardhome among other works. He was willing to bet an arm and a leg that Robert had not even seen a drawing of the Wall, much less gazed at or walked upon the real thing. Robb looked at the man who was supposed to be the Protector of the Realm and felt the bitter bite of disappointment in his gut.

"Don't mind Robert, Robb," came the soft voice of his father, startling Robb back to attention. "He is brash, stubborn even, but a good man at heart." The Lord Paramount of the North leaned closer to his son, a small smile playing his lips. "As fat as he's become there's bound to be at least a little good in him."

The jest was good-natured, if hardly a work of art, but Robb appreciated it for what it was. Lord Stark and his heir disagreed about almost everything under the sun, but they were still father and son. Ned would not disrespect his friend and King too much in order to heal Robb's wounded pride, but that did not mean that he had not noticed it. Humor did not come easily to Eddard Stark and Robb appreciated the effort.

"He must've forgotten his goodness in his goblet, then, and can't understand why it won't wash down with the wine." Robb whispered back, a small smile to match his father's.

"Gods have mercy, Robb. He's our King. Some lines you simply do not cross."

The reprimand evaporated both their smiles and Robb leaned back into his chair, arms crossed defiantly.

Lines. Robb nearly growled. Fuck 'em.

8

The Starks of Winterfell did not possess the bounty of the Reach nor the gold of the Westerlands, but they were no pauper lords and so the drinks flowed freely that night. The noise level in the great hall gradually rose as Southrons and Northmen all drank their fill and struck up friendly games as well as conversation. Jon and Theon had somehow cleared a space on one of the longtables where Jon was making Ghost do tricks and feeding him scraps of chicken as a reward, to the delight of many drunken spectators. At the children's table, an excited Rickon was regaling a happy-looking Prince Tommen with secondhand stories from Old Nan that he undoubtedly exaggerated greatly while Bran watched in silence. Sansa continued to shoot the occasional look of jealousy at Robb while sharing polite conversation with Princess Myrcella. Arya was nowhere to be seen.

The high table was relatively quiet by comparison. Only King Robert stood out; his voice growing louder and his cheeks redder with every goblet of wine he emptied. He was talking to a decidedly more sober Eddard about some adventure of their youth. Robb paid the duo no mind, opting instead for slyly watching the Queen under the thin veneer of studying the hearth behind her. Not the most convincing act, he knew, but after having a few cups of ale himself, Robb found he cared very little about such things. The Queen was speaking to Robb's mother, a gracious smile on her lips. He could not hear her words, but perhaps if he leaned forwards just a little…

"You're staring, Robb. Father says that's rude."

Robb had not noticed Arya sneaking up behind him and cursed in surprise, making the younger Stark girl smirk.

"Go away, Arya," he told her, more embarrassed than he was annoyed although it was a close race. "Weren't you dragging Bran around? Go do that."

"The stupid Karstarks have made him more boring than Sansa," she replied with a frown. "He didn't want to pick on Sansa, didn't want to sneak into the kitchens. He wouldn't even climb the inner walls with me, even when I told him he could choose where." She rested her head against his chair's back, a pouty look on her face. "Jon's busy with Theon again and father's talking to his royal Kingness." Robb made a face, but Arya ignored it. "I'm booored, Robb."

He was saved from having to entertain the more unruly of his two sisters by his mother, who excused herself from her conversation with Queen Cersei to order her youngest children to bed. The Queen followed her example and soon the children's table was vacated and the little ones taken to their respective chambers by a group of servants and, in the case of her own children, Lady Stark herself. Only Sansa was allowed to remain and she was invited to sit at the high table by the King himself, although the invitation was simply a wave of his hand. He first ordered a seat to be pulled up between the Crown Prince and Ser Jaime, but then had a change of heart and simply ordered the man back on duty, thus freeing up his seat. Once again Ser Jaime did not react visibly to the slight, but the mood around the high table was tense as Sansa sat down, looking mortified by the King's orders. Even Lord Stark seemed miffed by his friend's actions, but as Robb had come to expect from him when it came to his old friend he said nothing.

The picture of his embarrassed sister seated beside a, by then, barely civil Prince Joffrey was what spurred Robb to act on his words. Thus, after downing the contents of his mug in search of some liquid courage he quickly stood up, picked up his chair and made his way to the other side of the curved longtable. He passed behind his father and King Robert on the way, earning himself a silent, but unquestionably disapproving look from Lord Stark. King Robert, deep in his cups as he was, hardly seemed to notice him.

Robb was not a godly man, but as he quietly positioned his chair between the Lady Baratheon and her oldest son, he thanked the Old Gods and the New for Joffrey's perceptible, if curt, nod of acknowledgement and, more importantly, his own mother's temporary absence. He tried his utmost to keep his attention on the Crown Prince, but before he had even asked their leave to be seated, he felt his eyes being pulled towards the Queen's slender form. She was obviously not impressed with him, that much was obvious from their talk earlier that evening, but Robb hoped that his mother not being present would allow him to seem confident and courteous to mother and son both. Catelyn Tully was a loving mother who doted on her children, but to her Robb was still a bubbling child days out of his swaddle. If he wanted to play the part of the next Warden of the North, he had to play it alone.

"Your Grace, my Prince," he greeted the pair with a slight bow, missing Domeric's calming presence by his side and trying his best not to think about the sweat he felt appearing in his palms. "Mayhaps I could be seated here? My father and his Grace are reconnecting, and Lord Tyrion excused himself some time ago." The youngest of the Lannister siblings had not spoken a word to Robb since his little rant about governance. He had, however, matched the King nearly drink for drink and then excused himself soon after the final course had been taken away by the servants.

The Queen raised a perfect, questioning eyebrow at him as she had done once before. A gesture that, to his horror, Robb felt himself taking a liking to. She seemed ready to protest, or to put him in his place at least, but to Robb's surprise Joffrey spoke up.

"You did bring a seat of your own, after all," he said with only the barest hint of mockery. "I am sure Lady Sansa would be delighted to have her brother near."

Sansa, for her part, looked at Robb as if he had spontaneously transformed into a dragon right before her very eyes. Yet even so, she still managed to mumble a polite courtesy as Robb took his seat.

"You seem to have gained my son's favor. How curious," the Queen mused aloud before Robb had the chance to thank them.

"Lor- Robb and I were simply getting acquainted, mother. It's hardly so curious." Robb suspected that Joffrey's defense of him was more of a small rebellion against the Lady Cersei for his own sake rather than anything else. Still, it was refreshing to see that, beneath the polite exterior and the angry shell underneath it, the Crown Prince was just a boy trying to spread his wings. Robb could relate to that struggle.

"Of course it isn't, my love" Cersei assured her son kindly before turning to Robb, eyes narrowed. "My son is a willful young man, and strong. He needs leal and loyal subjects more than anything else for his future reign. Will you be one such, I wonder?"

With the King's loud and boisterous voice masking their quiet conversation the Queen's voice was like steel, a far cry from her courteous disposition earlier that evening. Robb understood why she would question his motives. There were a great many knights and lordlings in the Seven Kingdoms who would give an arm and a leg to enjoy royal patronage, or to court royal goodwill. The Crown Prince's friendship would be a powerful political asset for any lord and it was not unheard of for one to send a son or daughter to curry royal favor. A prince who could be a friend in need was a powerful friend indeed.

"I am not here to rub shoulders with royalty, Your Grace," Robb assured her carefully, - although the Stark scion mentally recognized the irony as he quite literally rubbed his shoulder against the Crown Prince's chair – then quickly turned to Joffrey. "I'm really not. I meant what I said before. I don't know that are you anything like your father. I know that I am nothing like my own. We are our own, Joffrey, and I think we need friends in this life. You and I will find few peers close to our age and station, so why not roll the dice on this?"

Sansa had gone beet red in the face over the course of his brief explanation. That you thought yourself nothing like your sire was very personal information. It was talk ill-suited for a formal setting.

"We are just chil-" Robb bit his tongue, feeling the Queen smirk lightly behind his back. He did not like it himself when his mother or father treated him like a child. Joffrey would not appreciate the mark either, he wagered. "We are just young men and we need friends. Will I be a loyal subject?" He spared a look towards the Queen who wore an unreadable look on her face. "As is my duty, but moreover I should like you to have my friendship, and I yours, as our fathers' have had each other's. Who knows? Maybe we will come to actually like each other, unlike so many courtiers I am sure you deal with every day."

Joffrey's expression had gradually morphed into one of surprise and though he wore it well, Robb saw a hint of uncertainty in his bright, green eyes. However, he was spared from having to answer by the return of Lady Stark. Sansa immediately excused herself meekly and near ran over to speak in hushed tones with her mother who turned to give Robb a dark, disapproving look.

"I had heard that you were a naïve child," Cersei Lannister muttered beside him, just loudly enough for only him to hear over the many sounds of the feast. "But perhaps you are a shrewd little boy instead?"

Robb would have flinched had he been listening, but he was busy smiling at Joffrey who, for once, smiled back earnestly.