ROBB I

Winter is coming.

Robb sighed, a cloud of warm breath rushing from between his teeth.

He urged his horse forward.

The sound of trotting gently rose to Robb's reddening ears, as a gust of wind blew past him, almost as if it led him further into Winterfell.

Father and the others had rode ahead some time ago- Father commanded Robb to lead the vanguard that traveled purposely slower. It was a customary duty for the elder boys of any noble family-

Robb inadvertently warmed- noticing how Father, at least, had the sense not to ask Jon to take upon such tasks. Due to the customs of the North, illegitimate spawn were not properly distanced. It was not uncommon for bastards to come to greatship within the Houses of their own fathers.

The Boltons were a prime example of this.

Robb shuddered-

How Lord Bolton could dote upon such a girl is beyond me.

There had been...talk of wedding the two. Robb had even spent a month at the Dreadfort-

A cavernous hall that sprawled underneath the very earth below. The Boltons did this in order to flee Valaryian dragons- beasts whose scales were impervious to every manner of bullet, sword, or missile.

Firebreath that could melt even the strongest of metals...

Robb snorted at his own childishness, stirring in his saddle as blue eyes spied the stables ahead.

It was early evening, and a comforting dusk settled about Winterfell. Men went about their tasks as they spoke amongst themselves, while errant barks were heard from faraway kennels.

Winterfell's walls curved and stretched across all of this, standing hundreds of meters tall.

The tips of them were pointed, some of them an icy white due to hugging snow. Hovercraft ferried supplies fresh from Southern trades, their exhaust lights coloring cobbled roofs as they flew to and fro.

Robb watched them for a while, quietly, before entering the stable.

Above, the whirring of steaming ceilings could be heard, hidden machinery within them warming the horses kept by his House. Stablehands rushed between stalls that each held beasts with modified blood-

Robb wasn't aware of the entire process, of course. However, he knew that Winterfell horses, as all other warsteeds, have certain genetic traits either erased or amplified- all in the pursuit to make them viable mounts found in wars that cause even the greatest of warriors to go mad.

Upon this world, there were many who fell to the bedlam of warmaking, kings who were no longer able to tell the difference between just bloodletting and wanton slaughter.

Robb had read all about them, of course. Theon would tease him for it, but Robb spent most of his younger years reading about them- those who had filled shoes quite like his, albeit hundreds of years ago.

Aaeyen the Lame, a crazed Space Lord-

A Fell King, a man who directly led to the breakup of the Akaeyreans, the first Valaryians to rule over Westeros. It was due to Aaeyen, their last King, that the Targaryens were able to wrest control from their Lordkin, and in turn become emperors themselves.

Robb understood that Aaeyen had been born to conflict- civil wars started by dozens of halfkin Caenaeos- known in the common tongue as Border Princes.

Robb's thoughts drifted to Jon.

He shook his head, dismissing musings even too grim to him.

Robb left his steed with the hands, leaving warm stables as his cape flourished behind tall legs.

Robb walked through Winterfell.

Snow flurries that had attacked him upon arriving had dwindled, and now only a few flakes fell from the hazy sky.

Men greeted him, their hello's and M'lords erupting as white breath when they opened their mouths.

He either ignored them or nodded softly, touching shoulders so those in his way would disperse.

The sound of barking dogs grew louder, until it led him to Winterfell's kennels. It was a circular building, large and smooth. A blinking antenna stood vigil on the crest of the construction, and around the grounds of the kennel, cart-machines rolled, carrying feed and taking waste to the various depositories.

Robb narrowed his eyes at the contraptions.

First Men had a natural distrust for technology. This was clearly seen in Winterfell: it had the bare minimum of mechanical monstrosities, most of them regulated solely for military purposes.

In other areas of Winterfell, the old way of the North still ruled, before the Andals invaded with their machines and burning projectiles. Food was still prepared by stove and fire, and Eddard often rode out astride a horse, as opposed to a warmachine or any other low-flying craft.

The metal of the castle was crafted to appear similar to square-cut stone, to give the impression that Winterfell had been unchanged since Brandon The Builder rose it over eight thousand years ago.

But Robb knew within the faux-stone, heating agents coursed, keeping the inside of the Castle and the surrounding buildings warm. In the summers, automated machines silently dispersed bursts of cool air, so that the Starks and their men were never out of comfort.

Robb hated all of it, and if it were up to him, he would remove all traces of the technology- They were Andal conventions, not fit for men of the North. However, he knew doing so would doom him and his House to the mercy of the Andals who dwelt in the south, and even in the north, enemies were found.

Our Houses have been at peace for two hundred years. But...

Despite spending a month amongst them, Robb still distrusted the Boltons. The bastard Lady Snow didn't help things. Robb was of twelve years during this period- Lady Snow then a girl of sixteen. Even at his young age, Robb instantly loathed the girl, opting to keep away from her as much as he could.

Robb had seen that creature vomit blood at court, skin dead pheasants, and quickly discovered she opted to eat nothing but quail eggs, rice, and sausage, paired with milk- no matter the time of day, nor designated course.

The girl had proven herself capable, however. Her father was an effeminately immature albeit cruel man. A killer and a warrior inexplicably...a child grown into a man, as Father had described one day. Lady Snow had been the one instructing Lord Bolton on his invasion strategy- an invasion that even saw the Starks fight underneath Bolton banners for the first time in over six hundred years.

It was during this invasion, during the Greyjoy rebellion, Snow had even captured one of their keeps- the first and only time she led troops herself, on the night Lord Bolton was nearly assassinated. They say Lord Bolton elevated her due to his own peculiarity as opposed to Snow's prowess.

It was clear, however, had the girl been born male... her position would be all but guaranteed. Or would it?

Lady Snow.. she was peculiar, just like her father. The Lord had indeed made Robb feel uncomfortable with his thin eyes and boastful, hissing laughs..

There was something else about Lady Snow. Something far more quiet.. and somehow, worse.

Robb wasn't sure what it was.

Something about the vacancy in her eyes.. the delay in her speech..

Lady Snow once told Robb how her grandmother demanded to take her to public executions, to which she viewed starting from the age of three.

Snow told him this because he asked her, voice filled with disgust, why she loved to skin birds.

The memory of her voice caused Robb to frown-

The boy decided there has been far too much dwelling on Alauinel Snow.

No-

Not Alauinel.

She would fly into a fit if you called her that.

Ramsay. It's Ramsay.

Robb shivered, recalling how the blood had fallen from her lips when she rasped her preferred moniker.

Robb walked to the door of the kennel, and the metallic door hissed as it vanished into the ground.

Dogs barked ferociously behind glass pens, and Robb found Farland standing among Robb's younger siblings, each one holding their direwolves.

"Oh, hush up you cunts," Farland swore, clapping his hands together. The barks suddenly vanished as each individual pen was muted.

The Kennel Master sighed and scratched his head.

"They don't like wolves." He muttered as Robb approached. Sansa smiled when she caught sight of Robb.

"Brother!" She squealed, her pup protesting as she pulled him tighter. Robb's eyes softened when he caught sight of her. She looked like him, beautiful with her white skin and red hair, Tully features they inherited from their mother.

"Don't do that, you stupid. You're hurting him." Arya criticized.

Arya sat on the ground, her own wolf laying by her folded legs.

"It's a girl, Arya. Right, Farlen?" Sansa turned to him, and the man nodded.

"Yeah, that one's a girl. So is yours, Arya. Bran and Rickon have boys."

Robb looked around the room, a bleach white dwelling with glass pens everywhere, some filled, some empty.

"And mine?" He asked.

Farland smiled.

"Yours is a boy too. A good litter, if you ask me. Though, your Father told me of six pups . . ."

It was much like Jon to ignore their father and go off on his own with his direwolf. Robb shrugged.

"He had been in good spirits upon finding his pup, though as we continued home his mood darkened."

Robb closed his eyes in slight amusement.

"I am not surprised he is missing."

Sansa bowed her head in agreement.

Rickon giggled as his pup nibbled at his chubby fingers, and Bran looked forlorn as he pet his own.

"I wish Jon was here. I wanted to see his wolf." Bran muttered sadly.

Farland coughed, motioning to Robb.

"Your pup is here, My Lord."

Farland walked towards one of the pens, pressing a button as a hiss of air escaped the contained locker. He lifted inside, and pulled out Robb's direwolf.

It had smoke-colored fur, and its eyes were closed in sleep. The pup was limp in Farland's hands as the Kennel Master carefully handed it to Robb.

Robb took it gently, a shadow of a smile growing on his face. He could feel the small wolf's heartbeat-

It's so faint!

Robb's own heart quickened.

"Shaggydog!" Rickon cried suddenly as he roughly handled his pup, which was as black as their father's hair.

"His name is Shaggydog!" He repeated, giggling.

Sansa made a face.

"He can't be a dog, he's a wolf. Why not Shaggywolf?" she suggested.

Rickon shook his head violently.

"SHAGGGYDOG! SHAGGYDOG! SHAGGYDOG!" he screamed, until Sansa covered her ears.

"fine, fine, Shaggydog."

Bran beamed in agreement.

Sansa smiled, jokingly posing for effect as she spoke.

"I will name mine Lady. She is elegant, just like her Master." Sansa's pup yipped again, and Arya laughed.

"You can't name her Lady because she's a wolf, remember?" She teased.

Sansa laughed, then smiled and shut her eyes.

"Don't listen to her Lady, you're perfect."

Farland smiled. "a good name. And you, Bran?"

Bran pet his pup softly. It looked up at him, shivering and whimpering.

"I . . . I don't know yet." Bran said softly.

"I'm not sure what I wanna name mine, either." Arya said, her voice growing distant.

"You better hurry. If you don't name him soon, he could end up just like a bast-" Sansa started-

Only for Robb to interrupt her.

"Let them have time to think." Robb said quietly, and Sansa relented.

Robb raised his pup before his eyes, waking it.

It stirred in his grip, and then relaxed once it caught sight of him. Robb took in the wolf's coloring, the brightness of its yellow eyes.

"This one will be called Grey Wind."