There was no rush like battle.
He watched the men ahead as they surged amidst the throng of bodies and blades and endless bloodshed, as men of the North and South waged war. His infantry was giving battle and winning; the Freys had sent thousands this time, but it would not be enough. It would never be enough, he thought, for this was the North, and no-man knew how to give battle in the North like a Northman himself.
In the past half year, forces from the South had sought to take battle to the Northmen five different times. Five different times, they had been repelled.
Robb watched ahorse, most of the battle ahead of him, keen eyes analysing all around. His flanks were holding, and men were aligning as they were told, leading the Freys into the trap. Amidst the flurry of the snows. a solider in Frey armour and livery broke free from the masses, racing ahead, snowflakes settling onto his bloody longsword, no doubt eager for the glory of ending the Young Wolf…but he was cut down just as fast by one of his guards, the blade slicing through the man's neck like a knife through cake. His lifeblood gushed from the wound and sunk into the snow-covered peatland, and Robb watched as a river of blood formed and forked, stretching to its meagre end at the tip of his boot.
Somewhere to his left, Grey Wind paced, but it was not yet time.
He marshalled his horse and came closer. Already, the stench of death pierced the air. Dying men cried for their gods, or their wives, or their children, or worse, for their mothers and their fathers. Men were scattered like crumbs across the battlefield, some dead, some missing limbs, some staring upwards into the unending grey skies as the last of their lives faded.
The screeching song of steel on steel, the chaos of battle, the never-ending cacophony of weapons clashing and men screaming – Robb blocked it all out. Men lost their minds when they did not.
The Southron forces were decreasing, with every minute, with every blow of a blade or mace or hammer, but the timing had to be perfect, so he calmed his nerves and kept his patience. Ahead, men collapsed into the muddy man-made banks, forming a bedrock of bodies upon which more bodies battled.
More men spotted him. More men came to be killed. To his left, Dacey Mormont struck a man's face clean off with her Morningstar; to the right, the Smalljon was snapping a soldier's neck. A third came to Robb, but with one slice of Robb's blade the Frey solider was cut into two; his body collapsed like a puppet with its string cut, and his head rolled down the knoll.
Robb and his battleguard said nothing. Instead, they advanced.
In the blood and the shit and the mud more men fought, and more men died, and finally, it was time. He closed his eyes and Grey Wind howled. It felt like hours, but in what must have only been minutes, the sound of horses soon echoed. The Northmen cheered, and the Southerners cried, and the Stark Cavalry arrived, smashing into the throng.
The Frey forces were captured and encircled in a pincer movement their commander should have seen coming, and the battle was won.
He did not stop to savour it. Instead, Robb turned rightwards and kicked on, as the sounds of the slaughter continued behind him. He trusted his commanders to see to the conflict's end. On a hill some distance past, some of his father's Lords awaited. Those not on horse bent the knee when he arrived, and he grasped the arms of each in turn, bringing them to their feet.
"Another day is ours. Well done, my Prince."
He shook his head at the praise. "More Northern lives lost. Let's count the costs of this victory first. They continue to test our defences, and good men die for it."
"Of course," said Roose Bolton quietly. "They need only make landfall once, and the North is large. They will not stop."
"And we're most like doing them a favour," quipped Wyman Manderly. He struggled to stay on the horse as he chortled; for a moment, Robb feared the horse's legs would give way. "It's not like they lack for Freys. There's too many of them. They could use a culling. They can keep sending bands of southerners led by bastards and wayward sons for months yet, I wager."
"Even so," Robb said, looking over the men scattered across the fields. The killing was continuing. "They keep us on our toes as it is. One day they will bring the full weight of their forces."
"Perhaps," Lord Bolton acquiesced. "But the desire for war waxes and wanes with the words from King's Landing. And Rhaegar is a cautious man, with many problems."
Lord Manderly nodded. "Lord Bolton speaks truly. The Krakens plague them as well as us. The Vale is like to break out sooner or later, Between the Ironborn, our Southron allies, his own brother, and what happened to Lyanna's son, his own Lords squabble, or ignore his commands, or spite him in their cups. The Mad King's legacy still casts a long shadow."
Robb frowned. The mention of his cousin was a reminder of the constant gossip amongst the Northern Lords, and he did not appreciate it. The Starks worried for their kin, and the news from the South was slow, and often untrustworthy. "We do not know the true state of things in King's Landing, or across the South. We cannot be found with our breeches down, my Lords."
"Of course, your Grace."
"Lords Bolton, Manderly, you have the Rills. Be on the ready; we sit too close to Ironman's Bay, and they may wish to pick off the pieces."
"Your Grace."
Robb Stark, Prince of the North, and heir to the ancient Crown of Winter, was barely a man grown, and yet all he had known was war. The same was almost true for his own father, Eddard Stark, the King in the North. Ned Stark had marched down with twenty thousand Northmen to avenge his father and brother and save his sister. Instead, he came back with nought but a crown he never wanted, and constant bloodshed on his borders.
Six and ten years past, there had been a Rebellion against the Iron Throne. Robert Baratheon had led the rebels to victory after victory, cutting a swarth through the realm, winning battles and allies alike. Until the Battle of the Trident. There, amidst the raging banks of the three-forked rivers, the Stag was felled, killed as he was about to provide the hammer blow to the Dragon Prince. The rebels had lost less men, but with the loss of their champion, the rebellion withered like a vine, for all but the North and parts of the Vale. The Stormlander Lords had all either died, or dipped their banners, and Robb's own grandfather had turned cloak to save the Tully name and Riverrun, but Northmen knees did not bend so easily.
It was said the Northern Lords took Darry in a day and declared Eddard Stark the King in the North that night, and the Southron Lords had fought to bring down the North and her independence ever since. A decade and a half of intermittent warfare, of battles fought at the border, battles at sea, battles of trade, battles of words, battles without end.
And even now, in taverns both north and south of the Neck, they sang that the Rebellion had never truly ended – for as long as there was a King in the North whose name was Stark, Rickard and Brandon and Lyanna and Jon Stark could all still be avenged. The North Remembered.
Jon Stark.
Robb had never met him, though they were of an age. Perhaps, in another world, they'd have known each other, perhaps even loved each other, as family, as cousins, even as brothers from different wombs. They called him Lyanna's son, but Jon Stark was so much more. In the south, they called him Targaryen, and named him Prince, but he was a hostage in all but name – a hostage to fortune, and a hostage against the North.
It was not enough that the Targaryens and their Southron Lords had burned Robb's grandfather, and killed his uncle, and raped his aunt, for they had even kidnapped her babe, and raised him in their own den of vipers, with a sword hung suspended at his neck. Jon Stark was everything Winterfell had lost; he was everything the Targaryens had taken from them, the babe born of the Rebellion, the ghost that haunted the halls, the shadow on Eddard Stark's face, the looming, ever-constant living reminder of his regret and his guilt.
And for the Starks, he was family, with the blood of the First Men, and lost, and alone in the South. He was everything the North had lost, and everything the South had taken from them.
And yet, Robb thought, but dared never say, men die daily for old grudges. The North fights and starves in petty defiance for the memory of the dead and a babe who is now a man grown, who knows nothing of the North.
Robb loved his family, and his father, and his people, and he would fight for them all…but it had been Robert's Rebellion, not Robb's.
He turned and made for camp. His royal father had called for his return to Winterfell, and there was much to do; he would need to prepare the borders for his absence. It would be a long ride, and already fatigue was settling into his bones.
The next few weeks saw them travel leagues, past villages and settlements shivering under the white, winter winds. There was a perpetually brittle chill in the air that tendered men's bones, and the crops were growing ever more submerged under mountains of snow and sleet and ice and frost. The snows had come suddenly and were seemingly without end.
The Winter town was fit to burst, too. Robb had chosen to ride through it before returning to Winterfell, to greet the smallfolk that gathered there, but he had never seen it so thronged. Men, women, children and animals went to-and-fro, with barely room to turn their heads in the bustling, muddy streets, and everywhere Robb looked there were children slipping through the gaps, or dogs barking, or men drinking or shouting or fighting. Farmers, villagers, men from the North clans, soldiers – all were living their lives in the cold, with no space to do much more than survive.
Everywhere Robb looked, he also saw hungry mouths, and skinny arms, and men gathered for warmth. Everywhere he looked, he saw privation, and sickness, and death. A woman came to him weeping, holding her dead babe in her arms, and he heard similar stories from every mouth. Fathers dying, mothers sick, children ailing, families starving, wherever he looked.
Robb had been away for more than a year, but it felt like a lifetime. All Great Houses had Great Words, but no words were as true as the words of House Stark, which were always true, and all the truer in times such as these: Winter was coming.
"Your Grace," Robb bent to one knee and kept his head low. By his side, his battleguard did likewise.
Winterfell was a welcome sight. Though Robb had visited every Keep in the North, from Torrhen's Square and Deepwood Motte to the Dreadfort and White Harbour, there was nothing, and nowhere, like Winterfell. A castle within a castle, spanning acres, it was encircled by towering granite walls, with a whole town outside and enough men, women and children to form a whole town inside, with dozens of courtyards and wards and towers besides – it was the seat of House Stark, and the only place Robb knew as Home.
In the walls of Winterfell, all was safe.
"Robb," The King said. His voice was Winter itself, cold and foreboding, but only to those who did not truly know Eddard Stark. "Stand. I'm glad you're back. Your mother worries for you."
He rose as was bid, and his father squeezed his shoulder just a little too hard – enough for Robb to know, with a burst of warmth in his chest, that his father had worried just as much. The King's dark grey eyes roamed across Robb's face, searching for wounds.
"Father," He greeted with a nod. "The North remains ours."
"Thanks to you," His father replied. "And to you all. Robin. Daryn. Eddard and Torrhen." He went to each in return, raising them to their feet with a strong grip and an approving nod. "Ser Donnel and Ser Wendell, Owen, Dacey, Smalljon. You all have my gratitude. The North and House Stark remains in your debt. Come, eat and rest. Winterfell is open to you all."
They left to a chorus of 'Your Graces', but Robb remained. "Father, I'll need to report, and I also have news from the South. May we meet in your solar?"
"We may," the King in the North's smile was a wry one. "I also have news – but not before you see your mother. She'll never forgive me if I drag you away as soon as you return. The affairs of the North can't wait for long, but they can wait a little while."
They turned and walked towards the Great Keep, past the entrance to the Crypts - where all the Ancient Kings of Winter rested for all eternity – and the Armory, where men were busy at work. At the covered bridge, Robb could not help but look anew at his father. It had been too long since he had seen him last.
Though he had not yet reached his fortieth name day, Eddard Stark looked old. In his long face, there were fresh lines where they had not been any before, and new grey in his long brown hair. He still favoured his right leg too, and the limp in his left remained as pronounced as it ever had been. The oncoming cold would not have helped. King Eddard had broken it in a skirmish at the Neck some years past, and though his mind remained keen, he could not fight as he once did.
There had always been a quiet weariness to Robb's father for long as Robb had known anything, but in his solemn, shambling gait and tired grey eyes the burdens of Kingship were ever clearer to see.
He looked old, and it hurt him to see it.
They moved into the Great Keep, and servants greeted them as they passed. Robb had grown up with many of them, and he smiled and nodded as required, grateful for their welcomes, for not all men were greeted so warmly when they returned to their Keep. Yet even here, in sanctuary, there were suffering – the men and women bustling around the Keep looked less well-fed than before, their cheeks slightly more haggard, their demeanours more exhausted, their arms frailer. Even Robb's own royal father looked thinner. Robb would have expected no less – it was not in Eddard Stark's nature to ask more of his people than he would ask of himself.
"Our last shipment from the Vale did not come," His father explained softly, with a knowing look. "It fell to the Royal Fleet at Gulltown. We've stored what we can, but there are more mouths to feed every day."
"I saw. What of our ravens to the Free Cities, to Braavos and Pentos and the others?"
"Unanswered, from all, for now." The King led them through the gallery to the Great Hall. Robb frowned. The ravens had been sent many moons ago.
"They fear Rhaegar's wrath?"
"More like they wish to beggar us further," King Eddard replied. "They think we will accept a lower price for our wood the more we starve. They wait us out."
Robb scowled. "And they would be right."
"We have enough for years, if we ration well. His father said firmly.
"The Winter town is fit to burst, and more will come," replied Robb. He could not help but worry. The North had never enjoyed an overabundance of food in Robb's lifetime, for the South had often sought to starve them out, through war or trade, and there was no telling when the white winds would end or when the next shipment would come from the East.
His father did not reply. Instead, they pushed open the door to the Hall, only to suddenly laugh at the sight before them.
Arya – gods, she was one and ten already, Robb had missed her last name day – was shouting, racing after a cackling Rickon, who was running with black direwolf in tow, turning this way and that away from her grasp. In his hand Robb's youngest brother claimed what looked like a sodden, half-embroidered piece of silk; it would never be used for anything now. Sansa was in the middle of it all, desperately trying to control her siblings, her hands waving, her voice shrill as she remonstrated in vain - and all the while, her own direwolf, the ever-well-behaved Lady, was sitting passively at her side, staring at it all with a look that Robb swore was disappointment. Could direwolves even be disappointed? If any could, that one would.
At the high table, Bran was ignoring it all, teetering on his chair and staring up at the ceiling, whistling a tune Robb didn't know, while his own direwolf Summer quietly ate half-eaten meat that its sister Nymeria had left behind in the excitement.
His worries faded like mist on glass, and Robb smiled at everything before him. This – this was what men fought for in battles.
"Ahem. What is this?" His father asked. Robb tried not to laugh; his tone was stern, but there was a shadow of a smile on the King's face.
"FATHER!"
"Arya started it!
"I did not-ROBB!"
"Robb!"
"Robb!"
He laughed as little Rickon came barrelling into him, grubby hands grasping for his sides. In one swift movement he raised his little brother into his arms, and they laughed together, the oldest and the youngest. They spun on the spot, and Rickon giggled with joy and buried his head in Robb's neck.
"Not dead then?" Arya asked. She barely waited for Robb to put Rickon down before clutching him herself. Robb had missed her and was glad to see her smile. She did not smile as often as she should. She did not always feel like one of them, and it warmed Robb's heart to see her together with their siblings. "Not yet," He replied. "Though I have new scars, I fear."
"Let me see- "
"Arya!" Sansa interrupted, scandalised. "Our brother has just returned from the border, and he does not fight just to show off his wounds." She turned away from her scowling sister and shot Robb a beatific smile. "It's good to see you well, Robb."
As the second oldest, Sansa had always tried to be older and more mature than she was. So, if Sansa clutched onto him a little harder or longer than was necessary, Robb knew better than to remark on it. She had always been a worrier. "And you, sweet sister."
Their royal father watched the scene with fond exasperation. "Where's your mother? And put that chair on four legs before you fall and hit your head, Bran."
"I've never hit my head yet!" said Bran. "Welcome back Robb!"
"Yet," His father replied wryly.
"But one day you will," came a voice from the side. Catelyn Stark shot a disapproving look at her middle son as she walked into the room, dressed in a woollen gown of red and blue. Bran only smiled charmingly in return. "And when your head hurts, I will make sure Maester Lewin gives you nothing for it, to teach you for not listening to your mother."
The Queen turned and smiled at Robb, reaching out with a look that turned her face from stern to beautiful. "Robb," She said, a voice only a little thick. She clutched him tight, and he tried to bear it with good grace, for all that she clung desperately to him. Her cheeks were wet, and when they parted, her eyes were red-rimmed. "You are well? No wounds? And your battleguard?"
"Aye, as well as can be, all of us," Robb replied. "We lost some men, but they lost more."
"Good," Her mother said. Her voice was tight. "Good. Perhaps they will learn their lessons, and you will not have to fight again, if only for a while. Your place is here. Winter is coming."
"You've gone native, Mother," He teased, but he did not like how thin she felt in his arms; his mother was frailer too. She still retained her good looks, with her high cheekbones and fair skin, and long tresses of hair as red as Robb's own, but Robb could almost feel her ribs when she hugged him.
"Cat, there are things Robb and I must discuss. You are welcome to join us."
She pulled away and shot her husband a worried look. "Can it not wait? He has only just returned. I have not seen my firstborn for so long- "
"You know it must not, Cat."
There was a silent battle of wills between man and wife for a moment, but then she sighed. "I'll leave the two of you to it." She turned to her daughters, face grown stern. "Arya, what was that commotion about?"
"Why do you always ask me?" demanded Arya. She scowled, crossing her arms. Of all the Starks, only Arya had inherited the brown hair and long face that was distinctive of their house.
"Because it's usually your fault," Sansa sniffed.
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
"No, it isn't!"
"Yes, it is!"
"It was actually Rickon's fault," Bran interjected helpfully. He was trying to spin on his chair with little success. Summer huffed in agreement next to him.
"Arya started it," The guilty party protested.
"No, I didn't!"
"But you should have known better," Sansa started.
"Oh, shut up Sansa!"
"Girls!"
His father shook his head and moved towards the door to the winding stars down to his solar. Robb followed. "Let's go while we still can," The King said grimly. "For all the horrors of war, there are times when I envy you, son. War can be easier than children."
The King's solar lay deep within the Great Keep, but the warmth from the hot springs which ran beneath the castle usually kept it warm enough, even with the onset of Winter. Today however, he kept his furs as he settled into the solar that would one day be his own.
It was a bare enough room, with nought but an oak chair, inscribed with direwolves, and a long plan-and-trestle table, on which several maps, scrolls and other trinkets lay discarded and half-read. He sat and accepted his father's offer for water, allowing himself to sink into his chair, if only for a moment.
Grey Wind settled at his feet after a shudder and a stretch, and Robb reported on his travels. For more than twelve moons he had been away, and though his father ruled from Winterfell, Robb had served in his stead on the battlefield and in the halls of his father's vassals, dispensing justice, taking homage, and agreeing new oaths and taxes.
"We lost nearly two hundred men in that last battle," Robb said. The words were ashes in his mouth. He did not like sending his soldiers to their deaths. Reporting it was never easier. "But the Southrons lost almost four times as many."
"They fought well," His royal father said softly. "We shall see their widows and children are cared for, as best we can."
Robb leaned back as to ease the ache in his bones. It had been a hard ride North. "I have gossip from Riverrun, too."
"Any news about your mother's family is always welcome."
"My uncle Edmure has not been seen for some time. They say he mopes in his chambers. His wife rules in his name."
"Your Aunt Lysa reports similar," The King sighed. Lysa had been married off to the Lord Darry after the war, but she still exchanged letters with her sister. "We have no reason to be worried, for now. I barely remember your Uncle in truth, but your mother is no more concerned than usual."
Which was to say, he thought, that she spends all her days fretting for him and the future of her House. After the Battle of the Trident, when Robb's grandfather had turned his cloak, bent the knee to Rhaegar Targaryen and taken the Black, his mother's only brother had been installed in his place as Lord of Riverrun, and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. It had always been in name only. Rhaegar had forced him to marry Tywin Lannister's daughter, as payment in kind for the efforts of the Lannisters in defeating the last of the southern rebels, and ever since they sang that the Lion's reach ran from the Rock to Maidenpool, from the Twins to the Blackwater Rush.
"What else?" His father asked.
"Nothing about Jon," Robb admitted. He was pleased to see his father's face did not fall. That meant the King had new information. "But I received word, smuggled from the Bronze Yohn. War is likely in the Vale again before the year is out."
The King in the North's face grew pained. He never liked hearing of war in the Vale; he had been fostered in the Eyrie and held those lands close to his heart. "The boy Harrold has gone to the capital for the celebrations?"
"With his Targaryen Princess."
"Foolish boy," His father muttered. "We cannot support any efforts this time. We must protect our own stores and men. Winter is coming, and with it any hope of any action to secure a lasting peace until it ends."
"I told them as much," Robb admitted. "The Citadel will be sending the white ravens soon enough – but Harrold Arryn has taken men with him to King's Landing and does not expect another attack. With one last effort they believe they can take the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon before winter comes- "
"-and with it, block off the Eyrie, and Harold's own council, if they are fools enough to remain up there any longer. A gamble. They race against the white winds, but I see their reasons. You favour it?"
"A good plan." Robb could already see the pieces on the board. It would leave the royalist lords in the Vale blindsided, and without leadership, for the length and breadth of the winter to come. It would test man's loyalties, to see that the Crown's Lord of the Vale and his Dragon Princess could not even control their own Keeps, for years on end. Harrold Arryn would be forced to stay in King's Landing or otherwise live at the behest of what vassals were loyal to him, and the rebellion would have good grounds to push further into the Vale of Arryn at winter's end, to strike at the Royalist Lords at Ironoaks and Heart's Home. He did not need to say any of this, for he knew his father saw it as plainly as Robb did.
"House Stark can send no men, food or gold, but I shall inform Lord Jon. He can write to the Blackwoods and the Mallisters. The likes of Lord Tytos may wish to act."
The Blackwoods had bent the knee just as the rest of the Riverlands, but the fires of the Rebellion still burned in the hearts of the men of Raventree Hall, and in other Keeps across his mother's homeland. Robb had no doubt they would do what they could to support the Vale. With the Vale restored to Jon Arryn, the Riverlands would be more likely to fall next. And with the band of rebels who declared themselves the men of Robert Baratheon still roaming the Riverlands, attacking King's Men as they wanted, the tinders of insurrection were always alight.
"Any other news?" His father reached for a scroll. Its broken wax seal bore the three-headed dragon.
"None," Robb frowned at the scroll. "Rhaegar writes to you?"
"This is a message concerning your cousin."
"How is he?"
"Alive." King Eddard's relief was palpable. "And changed."
Robb could believe it. "A brush with death changes all men, I wager."
His father brandished the scroll, and Robb took it. His curiosity led his eyes to go straight to the end, and for a moment he was stilled with shock. "Princess Rhaenys? Rhaegar's daughter writes to you?"
"It is not her first letter."
"This was not sent by raven," replied Robb.
"She is a capable woman, and we have our men in the South."
He pondered over the ramifications. It was rare, but not unheard of, for the two Kings of Westeros to exchange correspondence. It was a necessary evil of ruling the realms. Robb had known it all his life – but no-one else in Winterfell could send a Raven south, just as no-one in King's Landing could correspond with any in the North, on penalty of death. Robb knew that well; his mother often fretted about her correspondence with her sister. And yet, Robb's father had always known stories about Jon Stark. He had always had information on his health, and his happenings…
"She is your source in King's Landing?"
"These days. She tells me only about Jon."
"Why would she provide us with information at all? She takes a great risk. If Rhaegar was to know – "
"She is her mother's daughter," His father said softly. "Read the letter."
"Her mother…? You said we had people looking after Jon in King's Landing, but I – "
"Read the letter, Robb."
"Why did you never tell me?"
"Some things are best left unsaid- "
"Until now- "
"Until now. Read."
"She writes in High Valyrian. Of course she does." He squinted over the letter. Maester Lewin had taught him the tongue, but it had been a time since he had read his letters. He felt his frown grow with every line. "She…worries for him…She thinks…she thinks she can get him up North?"
The King's face was frozen, every line etched into the unreadable mask of the King In the North, but Robb still spotted the softness in his eyes, and the way his father's hands shook, just ever so slightly, when he took back the latter.
Eddard Stark had waited a very long time to have his nephew back, and the prospect now loomed closer than ever before. They had stolen the babe from his arms – and now the Starks could steal the man right back. "Yes," he said. His voice was firm, but there was a tenderness to his touch when his father took the scroll back and placed it delicately on the desk before them. "She thinks he can come home."
"This is why you called me back."
"This is not something to be trusted with a quill. I know not how Jon will be smuggled up North, but we will need to ensure his passage through the borders. I cannot trust this task to any other. No one else must know what we plan until Jon's feet stand on Northern ground."
"He was attacked once. He nearly died. If the perpetrators could get to him before – "
"I trust the Princess," His father stood and moved to the desk. "She is capable, and she has resources besides. There are some doors in the south only a Targaryen can open."
Robb followed. "Rhaegar would not allow it- "
"Rhaegar is busy and distracted. The man always is."
"Father," Robb did not wish to say it, but the words came out all the same. "Father, we tried before."
It had been not long before Robb's tenth nameday, and not long after the death of the Queen Elia. His father had plotted a conspiracy to take Robb's cousin in the dead of night, in the hopes that Rhaegar and his men would be distracted. He had only learned the full truth of it all years after, and only in the curtest tones. The plot had periled at the point of Ser Arthur Dayne's legendary blade. The loyal men involved had died one and all, and Rhaegar had threatened unyielding war if the Starks ever tried again.
"He was a boy then," His father explained. "He is a man grown, now, of an age with you, Robb. And we did not have someone within the Red Keep then. Now we do."
"It could be a trap. She's a Targaryen, and a Martell, and her father's advisor."
"It could be a trap," The King allowed. "But she is her mother's daughter. And a sister besides. He nearly died, Robb."
"But father – "
"We do not have time to squabble. He nearly died. He may yet still die. His place is here, with us, and he must be here as soon as we can ensure it."
"Father- "
"You will one day bear this," His father reached up and grabbed the crown from his head. The crown of the Kings of Winter was an open circlet, hammered bronze, inscribed with the ancient runs of the First Men, surmounted by nine black iron spikes in the shape of longswords like those on the knees of the statues in the Winterfell crypts. Robb had never liked the look of it.
"I never wanted it," Kind Eddard continued. "Not the crown, not Winterfell, none of it was mine to have. It was all meant for Brandon, or for Robert. They were born to be Lords and Kings. They would have been far better suited to this burden than I; I never asked for this cup to pass to me, but I sip from it because I must, because The Lords of the North would accept nothing else, and because I see no better way of honouring our family. And now winter is coming. You know the sigil of our House."
Robb merely glanced at Grey Wind, who rested at his feet. His father's smile grew twisted.
"Aye," he said. "So, you should know this about wolves. When the snows fall, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Winter is coming, and we must protect our own."
His father sighed, placed the crown on the desk, and sat once more. "The Gods gave us fortune once. He survived what should have killed him. I will not risk a second time."
"And if Rhaegar threatens war? If he brings the full weight of his armies, and the full might of the South?"
His father's voice turned cold. "Then he will learn the truth of our words, and the dragon's fires will wither in the snows – and Winter will come to House Targaryen."
His father's fury was a cold one. A quiet rage had burned in the soul of Eddard Stark ever since the Rebellion, ever since the deaths of his father, and his brother, and his sister, and Robert Baratheon – and ever since they took his sister's babe from his arms. His father had marched down for justice, and received nothing but an empty crown.
Robb knew, as surely as he knew anything at all, that his father would not err. He would not be swayed. His word on this was final.
They sat in silence for a moment. He wanted to meet his cousin, to have him with them in Winterfell, but he would not risk the North on a whim. He would need to think on this, and plan accordingly.
"Getting him through the border should not be too hard," Robb stood before the desk and laid one of the maps flat before them, his eyes scanning the familiar outlines of his homeland. "So long as the Princess can get him there. Father, are you certain we can trust her to help us with this?"
"I have never met her," Her father admitted. "But I trust her mother to have raised her well."
"Then the Neck will be the better route."
"I agree. I would feel better if Lord Reed were involved." Howland Reed was one of his father's oldest friends. He commanded the crannogmen who mannered the posts dividing North and South and was one of the few to have held Jon Stark as a babe; he would ensure Jon's safety up to Moat Cailin.
Robb's eyes flitted eastwards, and his finger settled on the city by the White Knife river. "He would need to go through the Riverlands, but if we can get him through our allies, or better yet, Uncle Edmure, that will work." His eyes darted east. "White Harbour would be more difficult, and I do not know how they would get past the blockades on either side of the borders, but the Manderlys – "
"- Are as loyal as any of our vassals."
"-And if Jon looks like a Stark- "
"I am told he does."
"-Then the Manderlys will know him at once, if he comes before them. Although if the Princess is as clever as they say, they could pretend Jon is another of Uncle Brandon's, coming North."
The cast of the King's face told Robb his father disliked that idea. Several of Brandon's 'snowflakes' had appeared at the gates of Winterfell over the years, claiming themselves rightful Princes or Princesses. One had even claimed himself the rightful King. His father had taken care of them all, and each were cared for or fostered throughout the North, including with his Uncle Benjen.
Robb closed his eyes, to better think. The rebuilt Moat Cailin could strangle any advance up the Neck, if the Targaryen armies followed in search of their stolen Prince – if they could even negotiate the narrow causeway. The defences of House Reed and the crannogmen protected the North, and it would protect it now.
Mayhaps their enemies could seek to land on the Northern coasts, as they had tried over the years, but the bolstered Manderly fleet would defend the east. The west would be an issue - the fleets were smaller there - but the Ironborn were as much a threat to southerners as they were to northerners, and if need be, they had men stationed across the coastland, ready to kill any invader that saw fit to land. It would not do much, but perhaps it would do enough…
"My brother Benjen also writes from the New Gift," The King said. He brandished a different scroll. "Though the news is old in truth, at least a moon. I have written to him, but he has not replied. Wildlings look to attack the Wall."
Robb frowned, interrupted from his musings. For all their concerns about the south, something was wrong in the north, and it made him uneasy. "Again? Their last attack was repelled barely moons ago. Why again? How many men could they have left? What has driven them to attack so recklessly?
"I wonder the same," The King frowned. The lines on his face grew starker. "I sent twenty men North, and I expect them to report back soon. We may need what men we can spare to go to the Wall rather than the Neck. We have had more raiding parties going south than anyone living can remember. The Umbers report almost daily sightings. The Wall should hold, but we may need to ride North to bring down this King-Beyond-The-Wall once and for all, if he still lives when winter ends."
"Uncle Benjen will help the Watch. We don't know when the South might strike next, and if we take Jon – we cannot be caught fighting a war on two fronts. We would not survive."
"The wall will hold for now," His father declared at that. He looked more tired than ever. "Between your uncle the Blackfish and Stannis Baratheon, the wall will hold. And we will endure. Soon winter will come, and it will come for all. We will do what we must…and pray to the Gods it is enough. Jon, Winter, and then the Wall."
"Jon, Winter, Wall." Robb agreed, but he felt uneasy in his gut.
In the next weeks, they heard no further from the Wall or King's Landing, and it left them both unsettled. Robb was eager to leave, and return to Moat Cailin, but the Gods had other plans, for the heavy snows continued, and grew worse, as deadly as they were sudden, and suddenly, travel beyond the Stark lands became a death wish. Robb had no plans to be with his Gods until he was old and grey, and so at Winterfell he remained, frustrated and worried, waiting for the snows to subside.
Instead, with every passing day, he heard more tales of wildling invaders, from ravens and rumours from the Winter town. And then there were the rangers, deserters from the Night's Watch who had been found half-dead, fleeing in Winterfell's lands. They spoke no sense, rambling, frostbitten and out of their wits, speaking of monsters made of ice and the cold coming from the far North.
Robb's father had passed the sentence and swung the sword as the price of desertion from the Watch, but the ravens to the Wall and even to Uncle Benjen received no response, and the men sent to investigate did not return.
"Benjen will answer," Robb's mother had said. She looked out through the blizzards, and the ravaging icy winds that grew ever worse with each passing day. The white ravens from the Citadel announcing the arrival of Winter had not yet arrived, but the turning of the seasons was clearly upon them all the same. "He may be at the Wall, or else the raven he sent may have died or gotten lost in the cold winds. Write again in a few days, Ned, and you shall see."
Robb was not so sure. Something felt wrong to him, and the direwolves felt it too. Grey Wind began to pace the walls, teeth bared, while Shaggydog and Nymeria both grew ever wilder and uncontrollable, and even Lady seemed more uneasy. There was a discomfort that settled like a blanket over Winterfell, and none knew how or why, but it suffocated them all.
The borders were holding, at least. The border ravens were still being sent regularly from the Neck, the Rills, and White Harbour, as they had done for more than a decade, and each stated the same: No battles, and no threat of any. The Freys had fallen back, and the Southron armies were not pushing forward.
"Small mercies," His father had said at that. When a third raven north to his brother had gone unanswered, however, Jory Cassel and Tomard departed with more of the Household guard to brave the snows, but they had sent no ravens or messengers back either.
No news of Jon, no news from Benjen, no news at all. Robb grew ever more restless with each passing day. Despite his mother's protests, there was even one morn where Robb had spotted a break in the weather and left with his battleguard, impatient and eager, determined to get the truth of things once and for all. They rode North for barely three leagues before returning; a sudden snowstorm had sent them back with their tails between their legs. They were lucky to get back at all, as his father had so sternly chastised him.
"The weather has turned very suddenly," Lewin had soothed him. "Winter has come very quickly, and most unexpectedly. I've wrote to the Citadel."
The Citadel's reply was bemused, however. The South was still in the throes of late summer. Winter was coming, but not yet, they said. It was nothing but uncommon weather, they wrote. It can happen, in the North.
The cold grew colder all the same. The blizzards became more common, and the snow piled higher and higher in the town and in the castle, almost as high as the castle walls. Within weeks, furs had become a necessity even in the warmest parts of the Great Keep. Robb's uneasiness grew.
"Three moons ago I was giving battle. Now I may never leave Winterfell again." Robb had led men in warfare, and now he suddenly found himself stuck inside with his childish siblings, and it was enough to drive a man mad. He speared a sausage half-heartedly and ignored the memory of his blade gutting a man in Frey livery.
"It could be worse," Arya shrugged. "Could be dead."
"Don't say such a thing," Sansa said archly. "Why are you always saying such terrible things?"
"Why are you always so stupid?"
"I'm not the stupid one. Septa Mordane said- "
"I don't care what Septa Mordane said!"
Robb sighed.
"Robb!"
He shivered. He had gone to bed cold, but now he was freezing, body stilled and frigid, covered by a sheet of ice that consumed every inch of him.
"Brother, wake up!"
His eyes snapped open. He was abed under snow. The sky above was the colour of the Winterfell walls, and a howling, bitter wind was slicing his face open, slapping his cheeks with its cold, cruel caress.
He felt cold, and alone.
"Robb!"
Above him, there was…
There was…
Gods…
Above him there stood monster from his nightmares. It stood tall, grotesque and horrifically perfect, its face pulled as gaunt as a skull, its colour as pale as milkglass, its eyes an icy blue that seared through Robb's skin. He retched at the sight of it. It laughed. Its voice was otherworldly, and wrong.
"Robb!"
The deserters from the Night's Watch had warned them. They had not listened. Gods, they had not listened, and now they were damned, and Robb was going to die, die in this wintry hell, cold and alone and terrified. There was no escape, not from here, from that this, not from that, this terror from Old Nan's tales, for how could there be an escape, how could there be anything but death?
He was going to die. He thought he had faced death, for he had faced men in battle, danced to the song of steel and revelled in it all, but now he was going to die, and he had never truly known how terrifying it must be, to face death, to know it was coming, to be on the other side of the blade…
"No!"
The monster's sword slammed into steel and splintered, screaming into a thousand little pieces. The man that saved him struck a second blow, snarling into the void, and the monster fell, breaking the same way as his sword, splintering too into a thousand little pieces, scattered across the snow.
"Robb," The man said. He pulled down his hood. He looked like…
"Father?"
He was too young to be Father. A direwolf stood next to him, the colour of snow, with red eyes.
"Robb, they're coming. Hold Winterfell. They're coming."
He couldn't sleep. His dreams were growing ever less pleasant. He had awoken the previous night with the imprint of a nightmare on his eyes – a massacre in an unknown hall, with men butchered as they dined, and a King on a Throne, with the head of a Wolf and eyes that followed Robb wherever he went. He knew that head, and he knew those eyes, and the first thing he did when awake was jump out his bed to check on Grey Wind, who stared knowingly right back.
He did not remember tonight's nightmare, but he woke with his heart racing and fear flooding his veins.
Tonight, his bed was his enemy. Instead, man and direwolf wandered the halls. He did not plan his route, but he was unsurprised all the same to find his feet had carried him to the Great Hall, and to the high seat of the Kings in the North; the seat that would one day be his, in time. It stood ancient and foreboding, its cold stone polished by the arses of the many Kings and Lords who had sat upon it, and its massive arms were decorated with the many carved heads of snarling direwolves.
To be King in the North was not just to lead men in war, but to lead them in Winter, when the snow piled high, and young men died in their beds. In Winter, old squabbles must die, and all men must gather, to fight against the common cold, to unite against their common enemies – starvation, and want, and death. He had known these truths for as long as he had known anything at all, and he knew too it was a burden wholly unlike any other in Westeros, as his father had told him. Especially in these times.
Still, he shivered, despite himself. He had known Winters before – but this had been a particularly long summer, and Robb had only been a boy before, barely noticing the world around him, barely understanding it, barely bothering to learn the lessons that were necessary to the burden he would in future bear.
Winter had come too soon. Summer had ended too soon, and his childish dreams had died with it.
And still, he felt uneasy. The world was wrong. He didn't know how, or why, but he felt it. The world was wrong.
"I see I am not the only one restless and awake tonight."
"It's still early enough," Robb protested. Despite his worries, a smile formed at the sound of the man's voice. "For myself, at least."
"Ah, to be young again." Jon Arryn came to him and grasped his shoulder warmly.
He was an old man now, in his eighth decade, but though his hair was now mere wisps of white hair, and most of his teeth had long since gone, he remained a tall man, with broad shoulders, and bright blue eyes, and a keen intellect. His father had always kept Jon Arryn close, ever since he had been raised by Lord Arryn in the Eyrie. It saddened Robb to think he would not himself have an advisor the equal of the rightful Lord of the Vale.
"What plagues you?" Lord Jon asked.
Robb shook his head. "It would be easier to tell you what does not." He felt like a boy, green as grass, rather than the man he had to be, at seven and ten.
Lord Jon frowned. "You haven't swelled some maid's belly, have you?"
"What?!" spluttered Robb.
"Good, good," Lord Arryn replied, relieved. "Forgive this old man, in that case. Always safe to check. I once found your namesake like yourself, in the dark, looking as lost as you did. It was not the happiest night of my life; I should tell you."
Robb had heard the tales of his namesake, and he shook his head. "I'm no Robert Baratheon."
"And all the better for it!" quipped Lord Jon. Though his voice was light, a familiar sadness broke through in his eyes, and Robb allowed him a moment. "But ever since I have learned to always assume the worst, with you young men. I find doing so means even the most mundane news gives more joy."
"Wise," Robb noted. He resisted the temptation to bite his lip, or pace, or run his hands through his air. He was a Stark, and Eddard Stark's son, and to the King of Winter was to have Winter's face, to be solemn and stoic, impassive and impassible. And yet, as he looked upon the throne, the chair looked too big.
"Wise, or old," Lord Arryn replied. "I think more the latter, but I am not without my wits. Come on son, let us talk."
He led Robb to the benches, where they sat. Through the tall narrow windows, Robb could see the swirling snows and the pink hues of the winter sky. Lord Jon lowered himself gently onto the bench and hissed. "Enjoy your youth while you have it," He huffed. "Had they told me growing old would lead to creaking bones and going to the privy four times a night, I may have been more inclined to die in battle."
Robb's own laugh sounded hollow to his ears, and the elder man cocked his head. "You are a young man burdened, Robb, but burdens shared are burdens lessened. Out with it."
He ran his nail across the wood. On one of these desks, he had carved his name, like generations of Stark children before him. His mind was racing, but his mouth was slow to catch up. "Winter is coming," He said finally.
Lord Arryn smiled. "Robert once asked Ned if Starks came out their mother's womb saying those words. Your father did not find it as funny as we did."
He felt himself smile, but his mind was elsewhere. "I worry. The cold winds are blowing, the snows are piling up. We have no news from the North. We have no news from the…" He stopped suddenly, alarmed, only to see Lord Arryn shake his head.
"No news of my namesake either. I know."
Robb nodded, abashed. Stupid, Stark. "No news from the South. The snows have come at the worse time, and we know not how long it will last. Will we have enough food? Will we have enough men, when winter ends? Winter is worse in the North. It might leave us weakened and ripe for the picking if the southerners march…"
He looked up to see Arryn's eyes had turned soft. "What is it?"
"Forgive me," Lord Jon shook his head with an odd expression. "One day, you will - hopefully, if the gods are good - discover that in old age the young grow too quickly. Only yesterday I held you as a babe, and here you are now, a King in the North."
The words were poison to his ears, and treason besides. "I'm not the King," He said, appalled. "And I won't be for many years yet."
"I certainly hope not," Lord Jon said with a smile. "If anyone deserves to die in his bed at eighty, it is our Ned. But the North will not lack for a great King when he passes, whether it be tomorrow or five decades on."
Robb shuffled, uncomfortable, confused, and yet oddly pleased. "Because I worry?"
"Because you worry," the old man affirmed. "A good King surrounds himself with clever and just men and listens to them when they tell him what must be done. A great King does all that, but he also cares, and knows what must be done, and does what he must to help, however he can."
Shame settled in his stomach. He felt unworthy of the praise. There was a truth he dared not say, but there was little Lord Arryn would ever judge him for. "I'm scared of the day I have to sit there." He nodded to the high seat of the Starks. "I wish it never comes."
"Good." Lord Arryn said firmly. "You should be scared. No King should sit easily."
"Aegon and his thousand swords," Robb remembered. "That was the point of it, wasn't it? The Iron Throne?"
"So they say." A shadow fell over the old Valeman's face. "Though the chair you will sit will be less like to cut you."
"And will be more comfortable on my arse, I hope," Robb said. He looked back towards the high seat. Grey Wind had settled below it. He was sleeping, his head nestled on his paws. When Robb closed his eyes, he could hear the wolf's heartbeat, and see the imprint of snow on his eyelids. The direwolf was dreaming of his brother running somewhere in the snowy hills, though both Summer and Shaggydog were in the castle.
"To be the King in the North is different though." His father's many lessons were echoing in his mind. "Father always told me the North is not like…" Robb frowned and nodded apologetically to his own father's foster father. "Well, the South." He finished apologetically.
"In the North, we are of the First Men, and we keep to the Old Gods, and the older ways. To be King is to lead men in Winter, when they die in their beds, when old men leave so the young can eat. In the North we come together, or we die. In the North…" He remembered the Winter town, and men in Stark livery dying in the snow, and the statues in the crypts, his grandfather, uncle, and aunt most of all. "The North remembers."
"Hmm."
Robb frowned. "You disagree?"
"I am no Northman," said Lord Jon. "I will not correct one about his own kingdom. It all sounds right to my Southron ears. But I do have a question for you, Prince Robb. What do you think your realm is?
He felt his own eyebrows scrunch up. "I don't understand."
"The realm, the North, what is it truly?"
Is he losing his wits? He eyed the old man with concern, but Lord Jon just laughed. "Forgive this old man his silly questions and answer me. What is the North, this realm you are scared to one day lead?"
"Well, it's…the land in the North of Westeros." He spoke. It sounded lame even to his own ears, and Lord Jon raised his eyebrows.
"So, the realm is nought but the land itself? The rivers, and the hills, and the mountains near the Wall? If the gods were to decide we all died tomorrow, and men from the Reach came to live here, would it still be the North?
No, that was obviously wrong. "It's the people," Robb said. "Our blood, our traditions, our gods." The Blood of the First Men, and the Old Gods, and surviving in the snows.
"And if every Northman left, and went to live in Essos, and you were their King, like Nymeria leading her people across the Narrow Sea, would you still be King in the North?"
Would he be? He struggled to think otherwise. He was of the North, and he always would be, whether he died in Winterfell or Volantis, and he said as much to the Lord of the Vale. "But mayhaps," He continued, "My children, or their children, might be something different. They might forget their ways, or find new ones, in a new land."
Lord Jon nodded. "I am of the Vale, but if I had come North with children, perhaps they would have considered themselves Northmen, or else come back to the Eyrie with new ideas, and new traditions, and mayhaps new gods - or Old Gods. Do you see now, what the realm is? You already knew, I think, but now you have the words. This realm you will one day rule, the North, is more than the land, or the people. It is that high seat, and the weirwoods you kneel to, and the snows piling high. Not just the people, or the land, but the things we cannot explain, the things we feel, the things we believe, the ideas we share. So, if that is your realm, what is the role of the King, in all that?"
He considered the words. "To lead," He said. No. That wasn't quite right. "To… be the North?" He frowned. "To…uphold it all. To fight for our people, but also to keep our gods, and our traditions, and…"
"To do all you already do," Lord Jon finished. "To be the North. You said it true. To keep to your gods, and your ways, and lead others in doing likewise. To be a King is to be a symbol, or a hero from the songs. I once met a man from Essos. I did not think it then, but I know now he was the most dangerous man I ever met, though his only weapons were words and whispers. And he once told me that power was but a shadow on the wall. Mayhaps that is true. But if power is a shadow, then the realm is nought but stories, and kingship, nothing but being the storyteller."
Lord Jon stretched, wincing slightly as he did so. "So, while you should be scared, Robb, you should not fear too much. You will make a great King, if only you continue as you are. Do not think yourself unworthy of following your father's footsteps."
There is no shame in fear, Robb remembered. What matters is how we face it. His father had told him that. He looked again at the high seat, and Grey Wind below it. Robb was proud to be his father's son, and proud to walk in his footsteps, even as he feared the burden of the crown his father would one day give him. Still, he found himself frowning. Not all footsteps were worth following. He considered the old man beside him. "May I ask you a question?"
"You already have, but then you are the future King, and I but an old man, so I suppose you may ask another."
"Do you…the Vale is…divided. There will be war again before the year is out, more likely than not. Do you sometimes…"
"Do I sometimes wonder whether I should call for peace, and let Harrold Arryn have my seat?" Lord Jon's eyes were fixed on Robb's. "Every day. Men have died for six and ten years fighting the same fight. And I have let them. Sleep does not come easy to me, the older I get."
"So why continue?" asked Robb. "Why not send a raven, and beg the Lords Royce and others to accept peace?"
Lord Arryn looked at him then, and it was if he saw through Robb, and read every thought in his mind. "Have you ever asked your father why he keeps fighting? As Northmen die and starve, with nothing but themselves to rely on?"
Robb had never dared to ask, but he had often thought it. He knew the answer, all the same; it was only three words. "The North remembers," He replied. "We cannot kneel to the dragon." Yet, had Torrhen Stark not kneeled to Aegon the Conqueror, for the sake of his people?
"What were we saying, about what makes a realm?" Lord Arryn's smile turned brittle. "Songs and stories, and ideas, and the things we value. If you asked your father, he would tell you, plainly, that he cannot give up or give in, not just because his vassals would not allow it, but because to do so would be to spit on the very face of the North. The Targaryens killed Rickard and Brandon, and killed Lyanna for good or for ill, and thousands of Northman besides. There was no justice, in the end of the Rebellion. No sentence to give, no sword to swing, only loss. The Targaryens did not face justice."
And yet, Robb knew, that was not the full truth of it. "If men do not get justice, they cannot go on," He said. For a moment, he wondered what he would do, in his father's shoes, if the Targaryens had killed Eddard Stark, and his brothers and sisters, and stole their child to keep as a hostage. Would Robb have bent the knee? Would he have fought?
Lord Arryn nodded. "And just as your father would say that, as an Arryn of the Vale, I tell myself there was no honour in how things were or continue to be. We Valemen are the sons of the Andals, just as you Northmen are of the First Men. Our stories tell us to value honour most of all. There is no honour in Rhaegar surviving his sins. There was no honour, in how Robert died, and in how House Targaryen murdered its vassals and survived another day despite it. I tell myself that, every day. The Rebellion should have won, and there is no honour in bending the knee to tyrants."
"You speak true," said Robb.
"I sometimes fear it's all lies," Lord Jon replied softly.
"How could it be lies?"
Lord Arryn's eyes looked away, and it was suddenly as if the man himself was not in the Hall, but elsewhere. "Because if I know your father - and I near enough raised the boy, so I know him better than most - I can say that when your father thinks of ending this war, or bending the knee, or trying for peace, he thinks of Brandon as a boy, laughing, and Lyanna as a girl, riding ahorse, and his own father, who was a proud Lord himself, and he thinks of Robert, who was his brother in all but name. And, most of all, he thinks of the babe he held, and the promise he made to his sister. He thinks of all he has lost, just as I think of the men I lost, and I think of the boy I raised, and all I can feel is ashes in my mouth. I sometimes wonder if Robert would have made a good King. I fear not. He would have hated the duty and drank and whored himself to an early grave while leaving it all to me. Most like Rhaegar is a better King, tyrant though he is. And yet… and yet, my Prince, I raised that boy, and I loved him, and I miss him still, and for as long as I miss him, I cannot… I cannot abide the idea that I must bend the knee to the man who killed him…What is my honour, compared to the memory of two bright boys, and the son I had?"
What was honour, Robb wondered, compared to family? He remembered the words of his mother's house, of House Tully. Family, Duty, Honour. And in that order, he thought. His grandfather, Lord Hoster, had shorn his honour, and shirked his duty, for the sake of his family, when he turned his cloak and bent his knee to the Targaryen tyrants, so that his House would go on, and his son would inherit.
Would there be honour, in bending the knee, in giving in, as the King who Knelt did? Robb did not know. It was easy to say there was, when the names of those lost were just statues in the crypts, and not his own brothers or sisters.
"Forgive me," Lord Arryn muttered. He stood up. His old blue eyes were full of regret. "This is the true problem of old age, I fear. Your scars sink deeper into the soul." He squeezed Robb's shoulder. "Do not stay up all night, Robb. You need your sleep too."
Robb watched him leave, before turning back to look upon the throne. Grey Wind stood and stretching, yawning, his tail high. He was dreaming of the lost direwolf again, the one they all dreamed of.
They stayed there too late, a man and his wolf, as the snows piled ever higher.
- It was the next week when the message came. Robb had been in the godswood, sitting in solitude amidst the multitude of ancient woods, kneeling before the ancient weirwood with the solemn, guarded face carved into its bark. Above him, snow shrikes fluttered on the branches.
His father's footsteps on the cracked stones echoed behind him. The King knelt as Robb did, and together they existed in silence, praying to their gods. When enough time had passed, his father stood, and beckoned his son to follow.
"What is it?" He asked, once they had left the iron gate that separated the woods from the keeps.
His father's long face was guarded. "It's time. The Princess has written. Jon is on his way."
His mind came to life. He would need to prepare. His battleguard would need to travel with him. Robb looked up at the falling snows and felt the chills across his cheeks and considered his plans, which were ever-changing in the face of the snows. They would need to travel quickly. Winter was harsher more North than South, but they could not delay themselves too long. "Does she say by which route?"
The King shook his head, frowning. "She does not. Her message was short. Something has happened in the capital. But…Robb…" His father stopped to better look at him, grey eyes wary. "She writes that the Riverlands will not be safe. Something has happened at Riverrun."
He shared his father's worry for his mother's family. "We need to know."
"Find out," His father instructed. "If Edmure, or your cousins are endangered…"
Family, duty, honour. Northmen had not marched south of the Neck since the end of the Rebellion, but if there were war in the Riverlands…He shook his head to better focus. "Then we will have to deal with that once we know," He declared. "So, Jon will travel by ship?"
"Possibly. Either way, go South, await Jon, and learn the truth of things below the Neck."
They braved the snows and left that day, riding hard for Moat Cailin, but as they did, his unease grew, as cold winds blew from the North.