Robb
"Bollocks," Theon said again.
"Not quite, Theon," Robb tells him, pulling a comb stiffly through his curls, gritting his teeth at the pain as its teeth tear and catch on the knots of his hair, "just what my Mother wants."
"Of course. And whatever Lady Stark wants, Lady Stark shall have." The Ironborn heir goes on, complaining still.
"Naturally," Jon says, reminding him, "she is Lady of Winterfell."
"Still bollocks though."
They both just roll their eyes at him, but then Jon adds, fitting himself into his newest tunic, "Not that I don't agree with Theon mind. Why've we got to clean ourselves up for the King? Surely to Gods he won't much care how we look?"
"Definitely not you, Snow. Doubt he'll see much of you with how far away from him they'll keep. But for me and Robb it'll be for the Queen, I hear Lady Stark has little love for the Queen. Probably doesn't want to show us to show Winterfell up. Especially not to those Princes."
"I hear the Golden Prince is a royal prick." Robb offers, trying to flatten back down his hair.
"Aye," Theon adds, sniggering, "And that Black one is really half fond of using his royal prick."
"How so?"
"He has bastards by all accounts," Theon explains, "Anywhere between one and a dozen depending who you as."
"You sure?" Jon is sceptical, "Thought it was the King with all the bastards."
"Well, you know what they say, like father like son." Theon is laughing at himself, but neither he nor Jon find the adage amusing. Not if what that means for the two Baratheons as it does for the Starks.
"Anyway," he says, spying the sombre look on Jon's face through the looking glass, "We'd better hurry, they'll be here before long. And Father will skin us alive if we're late, especially you, squire Greyjoy."
And then they're away without a word. Each of them pressed into their finest fur, and wool and velvet, lined side by side with the rest of Winterfell, ready to greet the King. Jory Cassell and the honour guard are the first through, lining the Keep's entrance for the royal party. They came streaming through the gates quick enough, a vast ribbon of gold and silver, steel and iron, all polished and shiny despite the harsh road. Above them all flew the sigil of House Baratheon, the black stag, crowned, and on a golden field. On other banners it was married to the Lannister coat of arms: the roaring lion, on its own field of crimson. Of the host brought by King Robert, only three hundred enter the Keep, the others forced to stay outside.
Quietly, so as not to invoke his Mother's wrath for breaking ranks, he and Theon and Jon, forced to stand hidden behind the pair of them, pick out members of the court. Ser Jaime Lannister, hair like molten gold, armoured in golden plate and bearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Sandor Clegane, hideously scared across his face, beside him the Crown Prince, green eyed and golden haired.
Down the line he hears Arya squawking. Where's the Imp?" and Sansa's hurried prayers for her sister to be quiet, but they're both interrupted by the sight of the King, huge and riding a horse near twice as big as Robb had ever seen, yet the beast still seemed to sag beneath the King's weight. In all the stories their father had told them of his friend, King Robert, never had Robb envisioned his namesake to be like this. He'd always thought of King Robert at least half the girth, magnificent in gold and black, the mighty warhammer in hand wielded as another King might wield a sceptre.
Disappointed, they watched the King vault from his horse, land with a thud on his feet, and grasp Lord Eddard in a crushing hug. The two friends laughed and greeted one another as you would expect, before the King drew himself down the line of them, inspecting each Stark individually. He told Sansa her beauty, Bran of how he would be a soldier, before encountering Robb. "The one who bears my name," he said, staring through Robb, almost like his vision could examine the flaws and scars beneath his skin. "Both my boys look like they could learn from you. If you find the need to teach them a lesson, feel free to lay the bruises on thick." He then boomed out with laughter, and thumped Robb approvingly on his chest.
Then he turned to his Father, to see the crypts, and then they left to see the dead. Leaving the rest of them to stand in the cold, yet his mother, Lady Catelyn is quick to strive into action. She bows and welcomes the Queen, and begins ushering the rest of the royal party inside, and ordering her litter about, assigning each of them a duty: Arya and Sansa to show Princess Myrcella where her quarters are to be; Bran to take Prince Tommen with Ser Rodrick to show off Winterfell; Rickon to stay with her and welcome the Queen in the Great Hall; and Robb and Theon to entertain the Black and Golden Princes however they wish to be entertained. With this, the yard is quick to start emptying, leaving the three of them, a prince and his dog.
Prince Joffrey approaches them, sneering, "Well then, you must be Robb Stark." He observes them from down his long nose, before making a sort wiggling movement with his eyebrows, a sign of apparent disapproval, and makes a move to Theon. "And what's this, a Greyjoy? Gods, what they meant by bringing you hear is beyond me. The Kingdom would have been better had they just drowned you like your brothers."
Theon moves to pull his sword, but Sandor Clegane is ahead of him, drawing his knife and pressing it to Theon's cheek. Joffrey smiles and pushes Theon's blade back in place with a finger, only afterward does Clegane take his knife off of Theon's face, taking with it a few hairs of his beard. Finally, the Prince sets his sights on Jon, tutting in disgust.
"And the bastard, I assume. Gods give me strength. You people were royalty once. Gods forbid, that you might ever rise beyond being half peasants again." He goes away, leaving the three of them left there, shaking with rage.
It's Theon who explodes first. "Gods alive! A royal prick? A festering, royal cunt, not as like."
"If he weren't a Prince I'd have flattened him. Who in Seven Hells he thinks he is?" Jon adds.
"Gods help us," he bemoans, "if that one becomes King."
The three of them shudder together at the thought. They're about to follow everyone else inside, but not before there's another load of horse trotting through the gate, all but one led by a blonde-haired rider, another Lannister by his looks, who held the reigns of the other horses in tow. A horse and cart followed them, and Robb paused for a moment looking at it come into the yard. At first look at the carts sorry sate and the even sorrier state of those riding in it, Robb thought it was a plague cart, but the one riding shotgun in it was far from sorry looking from the way he started booming orders.
"Tyrek, gods blood, get the horses tied up! Watch Thunderer, you know his way if you don't give the beast a firm hand! Jason, out! Bugger the horse, he'll stop when you do! Come on back and help me with this lot!" He leapt from the cart and strode round its back, now shouting at its occupants. "Right, you shits! Time to start being human again! Seven Hells, what a bunch rogue and peasant crew I employ!" He goes on, now mounting the cart and dragging people off it. "Oh, sorry, Martyn. How's your head, eh? HOW'S YOUR HEAD?!"
He's tall only by comparison to those he's pulling out the cart, mostly squires and a dwarf. Hair blacker than midnight, beard that's been trimmed short, to hide a handsome face, not indifferent to the King's. And his accent was strange. He might have been a Westerman, but when he shouted in a rage his voice was more like that of a Stormlander. His dress was simple white wool tunic and black leather breeches, but the sword on his hip and the rings and jewels on his fingers were as ornate and fine as Robb had ever seen.
The blonde with the horses spots them standing there and leads his charges over. "Here, give me a hand, will you? Just tie them somewhere."
"The stables, maybe? That's where we tend to keep our horses, Greenlander."
"Whatever. You going to help, or not?"
It's at that point one of the horses starts to mount another, rearing causing some of reigns to slip from the Lannister's grip. The horses start to panic and run. "Stop them!" he's shouting, trying to keep his own mount and the other horses' reigns in hand.
"Grab them," Robb shouts reaching for one of them. Jon and Theon are quick on hand skirting away to be trampled, jumping to catch a set of reigns and pull the animals under control. He himself grabs the amorous stallion, but it's a brutal thing. Kicking and biting at him. And the beast pulls away from him with a greater strength than he can muster, each timing rearing and dropping its hooves to nearly crush him.
"Watch it!" the Lannister's shouting, and then, "Rick, we've lost Thunder!"
Somewhere Robb hears a curse being bellowed, and then another hand starts pulling on the reigns. "Ease off him! Give him slack, let the brute room to tire himself." Then the figure starts whistling at the horse, as Robb sees both Jon and Theon grab at the reigns themselves. "Thunderer! THUNDERER! Heel you bugger." Then he yanked hard at the reigns, at a moment the horse meant to rear again, but his strength was enough to negate the attempt, and the horse began to slow in the violence of his moves, allowing a hand to be reached onto his nose and stroke.
"Ease off, lad." The horse's owner says, and despite clearly addressing his mount the three of them let go of the reigns.
"That beast is rabbid," Theon says, panting with hands holding himself up against his knees.
The fourth of them just laughs, and Robb recognized him as the one who'd been shouting commands from the cart. "Hardly, just an old war horse that never learned to make friends. Thunderer here always makes a devil's work for any stable boy, especially ones he doesn't know. Where are yours by the way?"
"Here, Rick, I'll take him." Offers the Lannister, by now off of his own horse and getting the others squared away at the stables.
Rick surrenders his horse, warning, "Careful this time. He's like as not to hurt someone next time, Ty."
"Yeah," he says, winking, "Me, like as not."
Theon can't take it anymore. "What kind of lunatic keeps a mad, old war horse?"
"A Prince." He answers back. "Rickard, that is." Offering his hand. "Baratheon. Prince Rickard Baratheon."
His father's squire at least has the humility to go flush red and lead them in their curtsy bow. But Rickard waves them off. "Please, don't. If I'd wanted you to bow and scrape the floor for me I'd have come through the gates with the rest of these reprobates." Again, he offers his hand.
Tentatively, Robb takes the Prince's hand. "I am Robb Stark, my Prince."
"Good to meet you, Robb. And call me Rickard, at least when we're like this." He adds a wink, and turns to Theon, offering his hand a second time "And you?"
Theon squares up into himself to look tall and as impressive as he can, and grips the Prince's hand with as firm and friendly a grip as he can manage. "Theon Greyjoy, my lord, heir to Pyke."
A surprised jump appears on the Prince's face which he quickly turns into a look of appreciation. "I hadn't much expected an Ironman. You're the first I've met that seemed worth something, glad to see not all your folk are just pirates. Call me Rickard too, Theon."
Greyjoy seems to look satisfied with what the Prince has to say of him and he eases back into himself looking smug and far too appreciated. Finally, the Prince sees Jon, trying hide in obscurity behind both Theon and himself, but offers his hand regardless. "And you would be?"
"Jon Snow, my prince."
To his credit, the Prince manages to keep back his surprise or revulsion at greeting a bastard. The only give away is a slight closure in his fist, which is soon reopened, without Jon even noticing. Jon just starts to stare at the Prince and then his hand, shocked that its still on offer. When it becomes apparent to the Prince of Jon's uneasy, he wiggles his digits, says, "Is it not bad manners in the North to refuse a Prince's hand?"
Shyly, realizing the hand will not vanish, Jon reaches out his own hand, to shake the Prince's. "It's good to meet you, my lord…prince." Jon's unsure what else to do.
Rickard seems to take an account of Jon, scrutinize him. Eventually, he says, "I've only know two other bastards. One good, the other bad. You might be another good one." Robb notices that he doesn't give Jon permission to call him Rickard. The Prince takes back his hand, looks around. "Fine keep."
"We'd be honoured to show you Winterfell, my Prince." Robb offers, gesturing to inside the castle.
The Prince nods. "Thank you, but first if you'd excuse me, I've got a few cousins of mine to take care of." He turns his back, calling for Tyrek, motioning with his hand to follow, he does the same, talking as they walk toward the cart, and group of sorry looking squires and youths they had lined up against the cart. "You Northerners have any way to sober up a gang of young rogues?" He asks them, smirking.
The one who'd driven the cart stepped forward. "They're sober enough, Rick. How do you want them punished? Flogging? Brandings?"
They were squire, no older than twelve the lot of them at those words, they went from looking forlorn to down right horror struck. But Rickard just chuckled, "No need for that today, I think, Jason. I'd say they've learned to listen to me from now on. Eh, lads? Next time I say no drinking, I mean it. Now go on the lot of you, bugger off."
They did, and Robb, Theon and Jon, just looked querulously at the Prince. "My cousins." He explained, "They're not used to the freedom travel brings. At Lannisport and the Rock they know their limits, but in King's Landing they're bloody terrified of squiring, and up here they want to cause trouble. My fault, I suppose being a bad influence, but I keep an eye on them when I can. Promised my grandfather, and their fathers."
"Good of you, my prince." Robb told him.
A shrug. "Just doing my bit. But still," he says, climbing onto the cart, "I've another beast for you to wrangle with if you're all up for it." They followed the Prince to the cart, were he revealed another squire. This one was far older, more of their own age, and, Robb thought, another Lannister, until Rickard introduced him. "Meet Harrold Hardyng. Biggest arse this side of the Neck." He was dead to the world, may well have been dead in truth, had it not been for the slight sway in a lank of hair that fell over one of his nostrils. And more than looking dead, he was a truly sorry looking sight: there was bits of sick which were littered through his sandy coloured hair; and a sling of various stains slobbered across his garbs; his mouth seemed sealed over by a strange crust, again superseded by another large brown stain which covered his mouth and all of his stubble; finally, he gave off a strange smell of beer, bad wine and horse sweat.
"He's been like this since dawn, apparently," the Prince informed them, "And we've done our best to wake him since then. He'll need to be for tonight's feast. Care to give us a hand?"
Sniggering, Robb says, "A bucket of water would do it. Tried it?"
"No," admitted Rickard, "we were short on water in this final stretch of the journey. We tried a weak wine, but he only seemed to enjoy the splashing in his sleep. Anything stronger and I reckoned he'd just puke his guts up all over the place."
Jon fetches a bucket with water from a horse's trough. He goes to throw it on Hardyng immediately, but Tyrek Lannister warns him stop. "Aye," his colleague, the Prince, agrees, "Get him off the cart first, and spread him out. Alright, now give me the bucket. Good. Now, back off gimme room. If we're gonna wake him up like that he'll be in as foul a temper as you've ever seen."
They do as his Grace commands and gives them space: The Prince hangs over him, stood on the cart, Harrold on the muddy ground below him. He dumps the whole bucket of shriekingly cold water over the squire, who explodes with rage as soon as the first droplets crash over his dirtied face. He comes alive like an explosion of cursing, sworn bloodied oaths and murderous threats, a dagger even comes out, brandished in wild and sluggish movements: he's still somewhat drunk.
"Bloody, filthy cunts. Goddamned burning twats, I'll pull your kidney out your arses and use the piss-lettes as my cunting boot laces." He clocks his very blue, very un-Lannister eyes on their pack of four and means to make a hack at them with his dagger, but as he rises he falls again, stubbles back into the mud and starts vomiting himself into submission.
"Morning, Harry." Rickard greets from his safe place on the cart. Harry spits whatever is left out his mouth. He turns his head and rolls his eyes as he squints and tries to see his waker.
"Hiiiiii." He manages it eventually, in a voice more like a very ill bunch of frogs ribbiting, as each of their throats was scraped with a piece of sandstone. Rickard does a grin and shakes his head before jumping down from the cart into the mud closer to Harry.
"Can you see much clearer here, Harry?"
"Oooooh. It's you, Rick." Hardyng starts to do a growling kind of laugh. "How about that? It's dear old, Dicky. Help me up." He presents his hand, and Rickard offers his own and pulls his friend to his feet, only to start chewing on his fist from a heavy-handed punch.
Rickard goes reeling, but he's back on Harry before the latter has finished recovering from the follow through of his own punch. It takes only one hit from Rick, a short and sure one into Harry's cheek, for Rick to have him by the collar, before Ty shouts, "Rick! He won't feel it." Then the Prince sees the glazed look in his eyes, and lets him go slumping back into the mud.
"Well I owe him one then." Vows the Prince.