Author's Note:
I do not own Game of Thrones.
Robb's lessons about being a Lord had always been for him and occasionally Bran. When Meera arrived, she came too, because she was her father's heir. Eddard joined them, too, when he arrived. But in the past year, his father had drawn his other brothers in.
Both of them.
Jon complained about it at first, after the lessons when Father couldn't hear them. "I'm never going to be Lord! I'll be… your sworn sword. Or a Night's Watchman! I don't need this!"
"Father must think you do," replied Robb, and stuck his tongue out. Jon whacked at him, and the two chased each other out to the training yard.
He asked Father about it during their next lesson. Father sighed, and put what they had been studying aside. "I suppose you're all old enough to wonder and hear this information."
"What information?" asked Bran.
Father looked at Jon. "Jon, you'll never be Lord of Winterfell. But you will one day be a Lord, if all this planning goes well. There's an abandoned town called Queenscrown, north of here. It's been abandoned because of wildlings, but I've been having it rebuilt. You've seen some of the numbers for that during our lessons."
Jon's eyes lit up. "You mean it?"
Father smiled. "Of course I do." He turned to Bran and Rickon. "One of you will be inheriting Moat Cailin, which is also being rebuilt. I'm having the Gift investigated for other castles that may be repairable for the other."
Bran pouted. "How comes Jon gets his first?"
"Because Jon's older. Not to worry, we'll find a castle for you."
Something twisted in Robb's chest. He'd be Lord of Winterfell, warden of the North, but all his brothers would be minor Lords too. He wouldn't be special. And Jon–
Jon looked like a Stark.
What if people liked him better?
"Congratulations," Robb said, and the word was a filthy lie in his mouth.