"You're overestimating their numbers," Domeric insisted, leaning further across the table as if the gesture would make Jon see his point. "I'm telling you, a thousand well-supplied Northmen worth their salt could hold Moat Cailin for eternity. The Tyrells would be bled dry long before they could breach the Neck."
Jon frowned at that and leaned further into the comfortable, high-backed chair he was sitting in. "Are you forgetting the Redwyne fleet?" he asked, prompting another heated argument from Domeric.
Robb watched them both from his stool near the fireplace. He had wondered aloud how the North would fare against the Reach, fanned the discussion with a few points of his own and then volunteered to tend the fire. Jon and Domeric had taken it from there. He liked to listen to their animated conversation. They gave him new perspectives on old musings. Indeed, such idle thought experiments were favorite pastimes of the Heir of Winterfell and it was not often that Jon or Domeric were willing to humor him. Few people were, if Robb was honest with himself. It was as if any real talk of the North's ancient history had become the exclusive realm of the southron Maesters of the Citadel. When exactly that had happened Robb did not know, but by his time there were few men of Winterfell interested in the history of the land they tilled beyond the odd historical anecdote about the moniker of one King of Winter or another. Some snippets of history were common knowledge, of course. Everyone knew that Bran the Builder raised Winterfell, but no one cared about men long dead and buried beyond fragments such as that.
Brandon the Builder, legendary founder of a dynasty with a history stretching across thousands of years, was not remembered for his life, but for the few deeds he had wrought that survived into man's memory. If one were to ask them, most men would say that Brandon did two - perhaps three - great things: he raised Winterfell, he raised the Wall and, most importantly, he fucked some nameless woman and sired the first link in the great chain that was the House Stark.
Robb shook his head, suddenly acutely aware of the sour expression that had crossed his face. He banished the thoughts from his mind. He wanted to enjoy his two friends' heated discussion, not think of things that were sure to ruin his mood.
Watching his two friends out of the corner of his eye, he saw Domeric leaning as far across the table as he could, speaking of provisions and morale while using a number of wooden dice as armies to illustrate his point of view. It was at times like this that Robb forget how quiet Domeric normally was. The Dreadfort Heir had inherited many of his father's traits, from his plain face to his silent disposition, but traces of his mother were clear for anyone to see. His hair was lighter than that of his father, a mousey brown instead of black, and his eyes were a clear hazel; a sharp contrast to Lord Roose's pale white orbs. Domeric lacked the cold cunning that Robb had come to associate with Lor Bolton over the course of the eight years he had been fostered by the man in his household. He wondered if they would have befriended each other as they had if Domeric had been more like his father. Lord Roose was nothing if not courteous and he had done right by Robb during his time, but he was no father figure to him as Jon Arryn had become to his father during his years in the Vale. The relationship a fosterling was meant to foster would have fallen far short of his father's expectations had it not been for the hand Domeric had extended to him in friendship so long ago.
Robb smiled to himself then, feeling a pleasant warmth spread from his core to his toes and fingertips as he stared at the flames absentmindedly. It was hard to believe that he could once again call Winterfell his home. Two moons had not yet passed since Lord Roose had put a firm hand on his shoulder, wished him a safe ride to Winterfell and sent him on his merry way. There had been little fanfare to mark Robb's departure; he had privately bid the people who mattered most to him in the Dreadfort farewell and though he knew that he would miss Domeric terribly the Dreadfort Heir had assured him that the hundred leagues between there and Winterfell would be nothing against the strength of their friendship.
"Even if Randyll Tarly takes White Harbor," Robb heard Domeric argue with an emphasis on the 'if,' "he still has to feed his host. Their supply lines would stretch to a breaking point and the North is no breadbasket like the Reach is. His men will starve."
A rare smile graced Jon's normally somber face. "But you do admit that the southrons, not we, would be on the offensive?" Domeric, far from being defeated, began to explain how the long marches across the North would affect the imaginary Tyrell host, all the while gesticulating pointedly at the carefully arranged dice.
Robb had only seen Jon on rare occasions over the past eight years, but their friendship had borne the burden amiably and the two half-brothers remained close. Back then, Robb's departure left Jon with few children his age to bond with, save for Theon Greyjoy who had not been kind to him until then. The two had skirted around each other for some time, but they had ended up forging an uneasy truth that over the years blossomed into a friendship. They seemed an unlikely pair at first glance, but both of them were at the same time welcome and unwelcome at Winterfell; Jon as a baseborn son and Theon as a ward taken in defeat from Balon Greyjoy, self-styled Ninth Iron King of His Name. Robb had never asked either of the two exactly when their 'rivalry' became a friendship, but he could understand why. He himself had felt the bite of homesickness and loneliness at the Dreadfort as only a child could feel it, and his then growing friendship with Domeric had been a welcome crutch.
"Where is Theon?" Robb asked Jon over Domeric's explanation of the White Knife's tide and its effect on crossing southrons.
"Talking to Ser Rodrik about something or other," came the low reply, barely audible over Domeric's insistent voice. Jon was still not completely relaxed around the Dreadfort Heir, something Robb had tried and continued to try to remedy. Jon got the short end of the stick in many things, but not in good and loyal friends if Robb had anything to say about it.
"We're riding out with father tomorrow, are we not?" Robb asked again, throwing a small piece of kindling at Domeric to make him stop talking. The young Bolton shot a dark look at his companion, but reluctantly quieted down, sighing as he leaned back into his chair.
"Last I heard, yes," Jon nodded and then fell silent. For a time the only sound between them was the lazy crackling of the fire and Robb felt the weight of the day on his mind. It seemed that the thought had struck the other two as well, and soon they were on their way to their respective chambers.
8
8
It was a good day for riding, if one appreciated such things. Domeric did; the young Bolton seemed to have been born in the saddle as masterfully as he steered his black palfrey through the thick underbrush of the Wolfswood. Jon and Theon rode as men trained in riding do and even Bran – overly excited as he was to be out of Winterfell with his father and his brothers for the first time since arriving from Karhold – cut a veteran figure as he did not falter once on the old gelding he rode. Robb watched Theon and Jon share a quiet jape and hated at once the former for his damnable charisma and the latter for having all the typical Stark traits that Robb lacked. Even Bran wore on his nerves then, far too chipper for the Heir of Winterfell's liking.
Gods how he hated riding. Horses did not take to him as well as they did most others and Robb had come to mirror their distrust. The animals obeyed him, albeit reluctantly, and that was enough for Robb. He would never be a renowned jouster or win any great horse races, but that did not bother Robb as much as it once had. The pangs of jealousy he felt were unwarranted, he knew, even unbecoming, but it was one thing to know so and quite another to truly feel it. He angled himself in the saddle to shoot a glare at his own horse; a spotted filly that stablemaster Hullen had pointed out to him with a meaningful look. That selection had drawn some snickers from a few of the guardsmen in the courtyard, but Robb cared little for such things. His shortcomings were well known in Winterfell, and he would be damned before he would try to ride some stallion to impress the men just to end up on his arse for his efforts.
The riding party consisted of himself, his father, Jon, Theon, Domeric and Bran, all accompanied by Rodrik Cassel and half a score of Lord Stark's sworn swords. The group had left through the Hunter's Gate soon after sunrise, chatting amicably amongst themselves. Theon, Jon - and Robb to a lesser degree - bickered and bantered for hours, with Domeric occasionally offering the odd clever comment much to Robb's delight. Greyjoy and Snow were both slowly warming up to the newest addition to their group, but it was a work in progress. Theon would often lead the talk to women, clearly hoping to bond with Domeric over their extra years relative to Jon and Robb, never knowing that it only served to alienate him to the Dreadfort Heir. It was a simple task, if not a pleasant one, for Robb to cover for the Bolton's telling silence on the matter, though he managed it well enough. Theon loved to tease, and Robb was an easy target owing to his inexperience. All he had to do was open his mouth on the matter and Theon forgot all about Domeric for a time.
It was not long after midday when one of the guards, an outrider sent to get the lay of the land, came galloping back to the group, making a beeline for Lord Stark. He came with reports of a lone Crow, a man of the Night's Watch, trudging his way southwards on the open plains near the edge of the forest. The route made sense to Robb; it was close enough to the Kingsroad that one might follow it, but not so close that the man would risk discovery by the travelers there. Indeed, had it not been for his father's excursion into the woods that day there was little chance the man would have been discovered before he reached the Neck. Descriptions of deserters from the Watch were sent south from the Wall on occasion, but men were hard to find in the North. To say that it was bad luck for the oathbreaker was an understatement.
Their father called Bran to his side as the group made its way to the Crow's last known location. They traveled at a leisurely pace; the outrider and two more guards had been sent to detain the man already.
"Men of the Night's Watch swear to watch over the realm of men until their death," Robb heard his father explain in that low, calm baritone of his. "That this man travels south without leave makes him a deserter and oathbreaker both. It means his life is forfeit. Do you understand, Bran?"
Bran nodded seriously, of course, but Robb doubted that he truly understood. The younger Stark was a child still and he had not yet experienced death firsthand. Their father was an honorable man, a just man Robb knew, but justice was not always just – in his humble opinion – and in Westeros it was bloody more often than not. Eddard Stark nodded approvingly back at his son, but the scene still left Robb feeling uncomfortable, and he was glad to see Jon steer his horse up beside his father's and half-brother's. Bran and Jon were not as close as Robb would have liked, but the dark-haired Snow's stoic presence had a calming effect on most folk, as Robb knew from experience.
"Father?" Bran asked so quietly that Robb that to lean forward to hear him from his position behind them. "Could he not be sent back to the Wall?" He felt a pang of sadness for Bran then. It was good to get some hint that the cold climate of Karhold and the Karstarks there had not unduly hardened his younger brother, but as Lord Rickard had undoubtedly told Bran more than once; there were things in life that mercy could not solve.
Their father put a gloved hand on his younger son's shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly. "I cannot do that Bran," he said with a slow shake of his head. "There are laws in this land that we must all answer to, lords and kings as well as the smallfolk."
"I understand," was all Bran said in response, but once again, Robb doubted his words.
8
The deserter was the perfect example of the slow, but steady decay the Night's Watch had experienced since the time of Aegon's Conquest, and likely for centuries before that. Ten thousand swords had served the Watch in those days, but that was no longer the case. If his uncle Benjen's cautious tales were anything to go by, Robb estimated that the Watch could field perhaps a thousand men if every green boy and old man was given a sword to swing. The Watch had become little more than a convenient place for unruly lords and criminals to be exiled. It was an outrage in Robb's humble opinion, but one that few lords we concerned with even in the North, save perhaps for the Umbers and the reclusive clans of the Northern Mountains.
The Crow lacked most of both ears and had more scars than Robb could count. He looked old, perhaps fifty, yet haunted beyond his years. Lord Stark had tried to speak to the man, but nothing came of it. The only words the deserter would share were panicked warnings about a creeping evil, an unstoppable wickedness descending upon the realm of men from the frozen wastes that were the Lands of Always Winter. More than that he would not share, and perhaps it was for the best. Words would not buy him his life.
The beheading was swift and clean. Theon held the wolf-pelt scabbard Ice usually rested in while the Lord Stark passed the sentence and swung the sword. Robb heard Jon advice Bran to look closely while his father fulfilled his duty as the lord of the land. It was sound, if tough advice, and Robb did not miss the conflicted look that crossed his father's face when he saw Bran fight the urge to look away. It was a struggle Robb remembered having himself when he was scarcely older than Bran.
After they had packed away the man's head and buried the body, Robb's father came to speak with him.
"This will be your duty someday, Robb," he said seriously while the group got back on their horses. "I know Lord Roose did not spare you the realities of crime and punishment, but that does not make a grim duty such as this any easier to come to terms with."
Truly, it had not. Lord Roose had punished lawbreakers with an iron fist, but no amount of executions had hardened Robb as they did most others. Instead, he had only become more cynical and contemplative in the face of such bloody business as the years passed. He saw a balance to the administration of justice that did not include separating a man from his hands for stealing a bundle of turnips. That, at least, was an understanding of 'justice' as the North understood it that he shared with his father.
"I will not fail in my duty, father," Robb assured the Stark patriarch as the group got started on the trek back to Winterfell.
"I know you won't, Robb," his father replied with a nod, putting his hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze that made Robb breathe a deep sigh of relief. He felt tension that he had not even noticed before then dissipating from his body, and father and son shared a rare moment of fellowship.
8
They were hardly an hour into the woods when they came upon the stag. Wyl, one of the younger swords sworn to House Stark, was the first to catch sight of it during his forward scouting. He came riding back in a gallop and led the party to the carcass. He insisted the animal was the biggest of its kind that he had ever seen. The young man had counted near fifty points on its antlers and that was with a large section of the left horn missing. Robb privately doubted that any creature of the Wolfswood could fell a stag of that size; even large packs of wolves picked their prey with care. A stag such as that was hardly worth the fight, lest it had wandered near their den. When he caught sight of the animal, however, the young Stark scion immediately regretted his disbelief.
The stag was spread across the forest path, partially disemboweled as it was. From the look of the pool of clotted blood around it, Robb guessed it had lain there for perhaps half a day. Long gashes ran down its flanks and a large section of the animal's left antler seemed, indeed, as if it had been torn off by force. Domeric, quiet as he had been throughout the morning, dismounted his black palfrey and went to examine the stag up close. He kneeled before the animal and removed a glove to run his hand over its bristling hide.
"Whatever creature felled this animal is one men would kill to hunt," he said under his breath as Robb dismounted his filly and came over to join him. "These claw marks are not those of a bear, and they are too wide and deep for a wolf, lest it is a very, very large one." Robb grimaced at the thought. A wolf like that would undoubtedly attract a large pack and roam the Wolfswood for prey. If the creature was as large as Domeric implied, it could even grow bold enough to lead its pack against the large flocks of sheep that found grazing land on the plains east of the forest, herding dogs or no. That could become a headache with time.
"Perhaps it simply has abnormally large paws," Robb ventured quietly, earning himself a deadpan look from his friend, who had opened his mouth to retort when he was interrupted by Jon and Theon's shouting.
"My Lord Stark," Jon called from further into the thicket in a formal tone that made Robb scowl. "You'll want to see this, my Lord." The Stark patriarch had never asked that Jon call him anything but 'father,' yet his lady wife and household had not been so lax with that they considered a bastard's due to his sire. Snow had rebelled against it at first, but with some help from the more courteous Theon he had come to accept that, unless he was amongst friends and friends only, he was expected not to be too familiar with his own father. It was a reality that made Robb as cross as riding did.
His father led the group to Jon and Theon, ordering two men to stay with the horses. It was a short, but treacherous walk down the muddy hill that the two misfits of Winterfell had traversed before them, but any curses were quickly stifled at the sight of the duo's discovery. A direwolf, near the size of the stag they had found only minutes before, laid dead at the foot of the hill with the broken off left antler of its last prey jutting from its throat. The beast was magnificent, larger than any wolf Robb had ever laid eyes on, but it was not nearly as interesting as the bundle of writhing fur that Jon was kneeling beside in the muck.
"I had thought it just a freak of its kind," Theon said from his position beside Jon, looking completely disinterested in what he had to know was a nigh impossibility south of the Wall. "Yet Jon tells me that it is a direwolf." Many of the men grumbled disbelievingly, but Lord Stark silenced them with a mere gesture before venturing closer to the fallen beast and kneeling down beside Jon. Bran followed his father like a shadow and he was the first to pet the bundles of fur that lay shivering against their dead mother's belly.
"There are five pups, my Lord," Jon said loudly enough for the other men to hear him. "Direwolves were not to be found south of the Wall, and now there are five." There was an unspoken question there.
"Where will they go?" Bran asked as he stroked the small forms gently, his voice reverting to the kind tone that had appealed for the deserter's pardon. "Their mother is dead."
"They don't belong here," Ser Rodrik commented, an air of finality about him. Robb's father nodded at that.
"Better a quick death," he said, denying his son for the second time that day. "They won't last long without their mother." He rose to his feet then and despite Bran pleading for the puppies' lives Theon moved to fulfil the implied command, but before he could take a step Robb put a hand on the Greyjoy's shoulder, shaking his head. The direwolf was the sigil of House Stark. Surely, something could be done. Before he could voice his concerns, however, Jon spoke, having obviously shared the same line of thought.
"Lord Stark," he began, getting his father's attention. "There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children," he offered, conveniently leaving out himself. "The direwolf is the sigil of your House." He paused, but despite looking for it, Robb saw no trace of bitterness or jealousy in his eyes. "They were meant to have them."
Robb regretted the jealous thoughts he had had of Jon's Stark traits then. As a baseborn child Jon had little and less to look forward to, even as a son of the Warden of the North, yet he had selflessly excluded himself from the count without hesitation. Robb respected Jon, he always had, and those words only strengthened his belief that Jon should bury the thoughts he had voiced about joining the Night's Watch. It was a fool's errand, especially with what the Watch had become. Robb hardly heard his father acquiesce, nor the stern warning about responsibility he gave to Bran and himself. It was only when Theon went to help Jon get the pups back to the horses that he was shaken from his train of thoughts. The rest of the group was already making their way up the hill, Bran with one of the pups now safely tucked into his chest.
"That was a kind thing you did, Jon," Robb said. "You're a good brother, and an honorable man." He had meant to commend him, but Robb did not miss the grimace that crossed his brother's face.
"A good half-brother, aye, and an honorable bastard." Ah, so he did feel some dejection. Robb suppressed the sad smile that tugged at his lips. Jon was a good man, but a man nonetheless.
"You will earn your way, as we all must. Snow or not, you have friends who know your worth," Theon offered. Even with two direwolf puppies in his arms, he still clasped Jon's forearm and smiled that warm, roguish smile of his. "No direwolf will change that. You don't see me fishing for krakens, do you?"
"But one certainly won't hurt your chances," Domeric said suddenly from behind Robb, startling the young Stark. He turned to berate his friend, but instead found himself staring into a pair of blood red eyes. He opened his mouth to question Domeric, but the runt of the litter licked his face before he could.
He would have to thank Domeric for this later.
White as Snow, indeed.