The news were broken to him the next morning; Eddard Stark had been appointed the next Hand of the King to succeed his mentor Jon Arryn and would soon travel south to the capital, accompanied by his two daughters. It was also revealed that Sansa was to be betrothed to the Crown Prince, which came as no big surprise to Robb from what he knew of the relationship between his father and King Robert. The announcements, as they spread through the castle, sparked a wave of gossip and speculation among the retinues and servants of both camps; as such things were wont to do. His father had informed Robb and his siblings when they were all breaking their fast alongside their most distinguished royal guests. His mother had hidden her displeasure well, but Robb knew to read her eyes and not her face at such times, and that morning those blue orbs shone with uncertainty, even fear, as she clutched her lord husband's hand during his account of what was to come.
Sansa, for her part, had reacted to the news with excitement; she still had a dreamy view of her gallant Prince Joffrey, but even Arya seemed intrigued by the prospect of living in storied King's Landing. As for his brothers, Bran would be returning to Karhold before his father's departure while Rickon would be sent to Deepwood Motte to be fostered by the Glovers there a season earlier than planned. All these changes left Robb, his mother, and by his own mental tally Jon, as the only Starks in Winterfell for the foreseeable future, a realization that soured the rest of his morning meal considerably. He would be separated from most of his family once again and so soon after he had been reunited with them, and while he loved his mother dearly the prospect of her watching his every move after his father's departure was not a welcome one. He tried not to let his displeasure show however, as he took the opportunity to speak more with Joffrey under the stinging glare of the Prince's mother's disapproving eyes.
Queen Cersei has not warmed to his overtures towards her oldest son and she had tried her hardest to drive a wedge between the two young men over the course of the night before. Robb half suspected that to be one of the main reasons why Joffrey had taken such a liking to him, or at least why he had not come to dislike him in the way the Crown Prince seemed to dislike almost everyone else. Wanting to make her displeasure known the Queen had since made a point of comparing everything about Winterfell, from its tapestries and interior to the food she was served, to their counterparts in King's Landing or, more likely, that of Casterly Rock, and always made sure to emphasize, politely of course, how inferior everything in the cold North struck her to be.
As the two scions spoke that night, Robb had quickly come realize that there were some clear rules to follow when conversing with Joffrey. The younger Baratheon boy was not intolerable, to his mild surprise after the snub in the courtyard, but he seemed to look for even implied slights in every word uttered and gesture made. It was thus very important to be tactfully direct and more importantly patient when dealing with him. He imagined it would have been a challenge for most highborn scions, proud as many were, lest they were simple lickspittles, but Robb saw no issue in letting the Prince pick the topics. One advantage of his bookish disposition, after all, was that he knew a thing or two about most anything. Joffrey was fond of swords and crossbows in particular, and stories of legendary knights and kings, about all of which Robb had a few interesting facts or notes to share. He could have sworn that a look of awe came over the Prince for just a moment when he made mention of the Myrish crossbows capable of firing three quarrels at a time.
Neither of the Queen's brothers had been present that morning, much to the Stark heir's disappointment. He would have liked to have words with Tyrion, whose quick wit he had come to appreciate, and although he denied it to himself the temptation of speaking with the Kingslayer, one of the greatest swordsmen in Westeros, was a salivating prospect for even a mediocre fighter such as Robb were. The King had been present, however, and had taken strong ale – a lot of it – with his rich meal of whole quail stuffed with Dornish peppers and wild onions, something that had not surprised Robb in the slightest. Fortunately, his father was always on hand to engage the King and so Robb was free speak with Joffrey in relative peace and quiet, as Robert did not seem the least bit interested in the company of his oldest son and heir.
8
The relative warmth of the northern midday sun found Robb, Theon and Jon in the courtyard watching the heavily padded pair of Tommen Baratheon and Brandon Stark engaged in what could only be called a glorified wrestling match with sticks, as they beat each other with wooden swords under the watchful eye of Ser Rodrik Cassel. A small group of guardsmen from Winterfell and the King's retinue both had gathered around to spectate and were loudly egging the two on. The sight made Robb grind his teeth, remembering his own experiences at the Dreadfort. Lord Roose had tasked his master-at-arms with toughening up his Stark ward in the Bolton fashion and the resulting regimen of exercises, sparring and bruises had done little to endear Robb to the martial arts. It did seem, however, that Karhold had been a better fit for Bran and his childish dreams of knighthood, as he ran circles around the plump Baratheon princeling winning all of their little bouts with ease. That did not say much about Bran however, in all fairness. Tommen was simply that inept, a fact that stayed Robb's hands in sympathy as the other spectators sounded a polite applause for the young combatants.
"The little Prince looks as if he's about to cry," Theon muttered just loudly enough for Robb and Jon to hear. Truly, he did, and Tommen did wipe some teary snot from his nose as he waddled out of the sparring ring into the care of waiting servants.
"Mayhaps this was Princess Myrcella in clever disguise?" Jon offered cheekily. "He certainly fought like a girl." The comment prompted a snort of amusement from Theon, who still cuffed his friend playfully on the back of the head.
"Like what girls?" He asked with a raised eyebrow. "I thought the North was home to those Mormont she-bears?"
"And the Iron Islands home to your sister," Jon retorted with a teasing smile, drawing a guffaw of laughter from Theon, who took the jab in stride and replied simply and effectively with a rude gesture.
"A girl will kill you just as dead as a man, so what's the difference?" Robb remarked brusquely, eyes still following the teary-eyed Prince as the fussing servants helped him out of his padding. "The Dornish know that better than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms and have enjoyed the fruits of that knowledge for centuries." That earned him his own cuff across the head, courtesy of both of his friends.
"Be thankful that you're no mummer, Robb," Theon said with a resigned shake of his head, although his eyes betrayed his mirth. "Though I suppose the smallfolk would throw coppers your way just to see you leave."
"But on the other hand you could have been a Maester," Jon supplied helpfully with a teasing grin. "And earned your very own unique link for advances in spoken sleeping aides."
Robb allowed himself to laugh then and his companions followed suit when he made his own rude gesture at the duo in response. The banter felt good, especially in Domeric's absence, like a warm blanket on a cold winter night.
"We'll see, won't we?" He said, only half in jest. "Perhaps I'll become a Maester yet and leave the ruling to my brothers, eh? After all, I'm not the kind of man the North expects as its ruler." That drained the humor out of the group in an instant and Robb purposely kept his eyes on the courtyard as he felt his friends' serious looks on him. Ser Rodrik was arguing about something or other with the Hound, who had only just arrived with his finely dressed princely charge in tow. The trio watched the mostly unintelligible discussion in silence for a long moment until Theon broke the silence, his voice hard.
"Self-pity does not become you, Stark," he said bluntly. "We all have our burdens to bear. You're not the only son or heir who'll need to prove themselves to their House and bannermen."
Theon would know. He had not set foot on the Iron Islands or seen his kin since Balon Greyjoy's foolish act of rebellion saw him taken as a ward by the Starks. Robb was no expert on the Old Way of the Ironborn nor on their Drowned God. However, it was clear to everyone with half a brain that, despite being his father's heir apparent, Theon would have to prove himself a worthy successor by the standards of his people and prove himself well. The Greyjoy scion was vain, cocky, indeed sometimes even arrogant, but he was no halfwit. Theon never wore any jewelry and dressed himself simply by the standards of the Southron highborn. He preferred the axe to the sword and kept to the faith of his people, though the youth was not particularly pious. Yet none of those things stood up to the fact that in the eyes of many Ironborn Theon would be no more than a green-lander; a foreigner among his own when one day he returned to claim his birthright.
"And you would scorn one celibate order to the north in one breath and then speak of joining the other to the south in the next? It's not right." Jon's words cut deeper than Theon's, if only because they exposed his own hypocrisy. Robb had never seriously thought of joining the Citadel, but he had thought of it. There were times after a particularly rough bout of swordplay, or jousting, or riding when he would grit his teeth listening to the whispers of the servants, the guardsmen and even his instructors that Robb would think about leaving it all behind. Reason, however, always won out in the end.
"I'm sorry, John, Theon," he said honestly, feeling shame redden his ears. "I did not really mean what I said. You are both right. We've spoken about these things at lengths and you know that I appreciate-.."
"Robb!" Came the easily recognizable holler of Ser Rodrik. "Your turn!" The stout, broad master-at-arms was beckoning him towards the sparring ring where a confident-looking Joffrey was already waiting, dressed in a fine red and gold doublet with the stag and lion both sewn onto the chest. For a moment then Robb wished that he could have joined his father and King Robert on their hunt that morning and skipped the sparring altogether, but quickly thought better of it. He preferred swords to horses, if only by a slight margin, as one might prefer greyscale to the bloody flux.
"Fuck," he summarized his feelings on the matter, but still collected himself and quickly joined Ser Rodrik and Joffrey in the ring, wearing a neutral expression that he hoped was unreadable.
"On behalf of Prince Joffrey," The aging Rodrik began, twirling his whiskers in what Robb recognized as a clear sign of his annoyance. "Ser Sandor has been adamant about not using practice swords for this bout. He suggested-" Robb nearly chortled at that. He reckoned the Hound had done more than suggest. "-naked steel, but I have insisted on blunted tourney swords as a compromise. This is my ring, and all combatants here are my responsibility." He emphasized the last part with a glare aimed at the much taller Sandor Clegane who only scowled in response.
"What about it, Robb?" Joffrey asked him with more than a hint of a challenge in his voice, quite obviously ignoring the master-at-arms entirely. "Shall we bout with wood like boys or with steel like men?" Some of the royal guardsmen laughed heartily at that, nearly making Robb roll his eyes.
"Perhaps we could bout like young men, my Prince," he offered conciliatorily. "Blunted steel is still steel and I would rather prefer not to lose an arm or leg by mishap. I need them for later." He kept his smile and tone friendly, and silently thanked the Old Gods that he did not suffer cronies as the Prince did. Mercifully, no laughter came from the Winterfell spectators, although Jon palmed his face with a loud sigh at his poor jest. Joffrey seemed about ready to protest, but instead gave a brief nod of assent, a testament to their budding rapport.
"Very well," the Crown Prince acquiesced with all the good grace of someone throwing a dog a bone. "What my future good-brother wishes for, he shall have." And with just a wave of his hand he sent a couple of guardsmen scurrying towards the armory for the tourney swords, followed closely by an exasperated Ser Rodrik who did seem able to muster the energy to protest the Prince taking charge of 'his ring'.
Robb allowed himself a discrete sigh of relief at this small victory and took the time to look around the courtyard, his eyes quickly finding Princess Myrcella. The Princess was waving tactfully at him from a nearby balcony, flanked by a servant and someone he assumed to be her governess. She had been red-cheeked and all but tongue-tied when he escorted her at the procession the night before, but she had managed some polite courtesies that Robb returned as best he could. Both Jon and Theon had later confided that the Princess seemed smitten by him and his 'dead fish eyes,' as Greyjoy had joked. Unlikely, Robb thought to himself with a snort as he offered the Princess a courteous, if not a particularly elegant bow in return. Seeing the gesture, Joffrey turned to look at his younger sister, which quickly sent her retreating into the safety of the castle bearing a frightened look, servant and governess hurrying after her. The Crown Prince then turned back to face him with an expression that Robb could only describe as teasing; it lacked the malignance he often saw in Joffrey's eyes.
"Not here to rub shoulders with royalty, are you?" He intoned; voice low enough that only Robb could hear. Then added, with a note of crudeness that Robb would have expected from a boy several years older. "Perhaps it is something else that you are here to rub?" It was a foul thing to imply, especially about one's own sister, but Robb tried his best not to let his disapproval show.
"Your sister is a courteous and kind little girl," He answered with an emphasis on 'little', yet still saw the need to humor Joffrey, albeit in a more tasteful way. Robb found that half-truths were better than whole lies, so he dangled some bait in the metaphorical waters for the Prince to take.
"However, I prefer women a little more mature than that," he began with more bravado than he felt, thinking about a certain pair of emerald eyes and the slender, graceful figure that came with them. "In fact, I have my sights set on a very pretty thing these days, although I doubt anything will come of it."
"You are a high lord, are you not?" Joffrey, whose stones must have hardly dropped, demanded while eyeing him critically. "It is your right to take her."
In that moment, Robb saw all of the Prince's ingrown entitlement on display. The view of the smallfolk as being barely more than animals was one that he had come to disdain in Lord Bolton and that disdain, he found, easily extended to include Joffrey. Yet despite the cruel and vulgar sentiment behind the Prince's words, Robb found himself almost unable to stomach a fit of laughter at the absurdity of his suggestion.
"I believe she would have a thing or two to say about that, my Prince. As would her family, I daresay." Joffrey, however, dismissed his reservations with an airy flick of his wrist.
"These lowborn peasants should be flattered by the attention of a highborn noble. They are ours to do with as we wish."
"As you say, Joffrey," Robb responded curtly as disdain won out over humor and felt relief washing over him as he spied the guardsmen returning, tourney swords in hand to cut their conversation short. "But I like to study more than I like to hunt." And that was true, with the Gods as his witness.
"The fuck took you so long?" The Hound half demanded, half roared at the peevish guardsmen as they finally delivered their haul.
The fuck indeed.
8
"And then," Theon managed to wheeze between his fits of laughter. "He trips over his own feet and stumbles right into the blonde little shit." Jon was all but howling as Greyjoy relayed the explicit details of Robb's humiliation in the bout, to the Stark heir's great displeasure.
"I never intended to win in the first place," he tried to defend himself feebly, but that only made the two laugh even harder.
Their mockery was not wholly undeserved Robb had to admit. For once, he had thanked the Gods that they had not granted him a talent for swordplay, for if Joffrey was anything it was a sore loser. He had not, however, intended for his performance to be as ungracious as it had been. Ser Rodrik had actually called it a draw after Robb had slipped – slipped, not tripped, he insisted to himself – and knocked the wind out of the Crown Prince. If the uproarious laughter of the spectating guardsmen was anything to go by however, he might as well have knocked himself on his arse and lost. He had apologized, of course, and although Joffrey was miffed at best, the fact that neither had actually lost the bout was Robb's saving grace and the two clasped forearms respectfully before retiring to their respective rooms.
"Trained, not skilled, as you always say," Jon recited Robb's own mantra to him with a small smile, clasping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You may fall on your own sword one day, Stark, but even then we'll remember you for your strengths. Once you're a high lord you'll have men to do the fighting for you anyhow, so don't mind the laughter. It will pass."
"Aye," Theon agreed with a nod that was equal parts playful and serious. "You'll have Jon's sword, and my bow and axe at your side, so as long as you pay me double what you pay Snow here we'll get along fabulously."
"If we're paid by the weapon I'll learn to throw daggers right quick," Jon quipped with a laugh. "And since I'll be managing Ghost's pay for him I must ask if he'll be paid by the fang or by the claw?"
Reacting to his name the snow-white direwolf peeked up from its position under the table. The beast had grown at a frightening pace, just like its siblings, but Ghost and Shaggydog especially had put on the pounds fast. Jon had made the wolf do tricks on his table at the welcoming feast, but it had been a tight squeeze with all the men around. Ghost was the size of a large sheepdog; had he been any bigger he would not have fit. Robb's own wolf had grown at a more lazy pace, as had Bran's. Theirs were now the smallest of the litter, although it was a near thing. Neither had thought of names for their furry companions yet, although in Robb's case it was simply for a lack of trying. Bran seemed to be waiting for some kind of sign or inspiration, while Robb was slowly coming around to the idea of simply naming the direwolf 'Wolf'.
From its place beside its brother that selfsame wolf stared up at him, head tilted in that inquisitive, questioning look that all canines have long mastered. They did not share the kind of bond that Rickon and Shaggydog, or even Jon and Ghost did, but Robb had still grown fond of the creature. He had not left Winterfell for very long since they first discovered the litter those weeks ago, but he knew instinctively that it would accompany him wherever he went once he did. Direwolves called the forests beyond the Wall their home; it was not a stretch to think that the animals missed the wilds. Lady and Nymeria would get their fill on the long road south, as would Shaggydog and Bran's wolf on their journeys to Deepwood Motte and Karhold respectively. It seemed unfair to him that Ghost and his own charge would be the only two to miss out on the adventures, just like their masters. Thinking that, he felt an idea come to him.
"I've had a thought," Robb interrupted Jon and Theon's banter with a tap of his fingers against the heavy wooden table the three were seated around. "You wanted to get a feel for the Wall, yes?" He directed the question at Jon, but then addressed the both of them. "Then why don't the three of us simply go there together? We could succor with my father's bannermen along the way for appearance's sake, and I could send a raven to Domeric asking him to meet us along the way." If no adventures were forthcoming, they would have to make their own. His mother would not be pleased, but if they made a point of visiting holdfasts and 'fostering relations' on their way north, he reckoned that she would not protest too much. Jon was eager to go and made that clear with a big smile from ear to ear. Theon, however, seemed to mull over his proposal, and shared a look with Jon that ended with the older boy giving an indifferent shrug.
"Cold is cold, I suppose," he muttered almost to himself, but then perked up a little. "As long as we make those stops along the way I see no issue with this. However," he raised a finger in mock warning. "I'll keep you to your word, Stark. I want big hearths, big mugs of ale and wenches with big tits."
They all shared a laugh at that. It was a promise then.