Winterfell
Robb sat in his father's solar, staring out the window. Fat flakes of snow swirled in the wind, falling about Winterfell like spilled sugar. Winter had come; Father always said.
"My lord?" Maester Waulkin was looking at him. "My lord?"
Robb blinked, what had he said? "A thousand pardons, Maester," he paused, searching for words. Grey Wind snored next to the fire.
Bran coughed from the other end of the council table, "my lord brother, in regards to the rumblings from Karhold, I would council patience." Robb inclined his head ever so slightly toward his younger brother in silent thanks.
"I cannot foresee a day when we do not hear of House Karstark and their grievances. They never have been the most loyal of bannerman, Lord Harrion Karstark even less so since I took his father's head." The snowflakes unfocused into a blur as his eyes dried from the cold winter air.
Tormund Giantsbane, a friend of Jon's who'd stayed behind when the ex-bastard went south, tugged at his red beard. "Take Harrion's head, he quits his whining."
Maester Waulkin sighed heavily; no love was lost between the two men. "It's winter. We need allies, not corpses." Truthfully, Robb wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the Wildling. Jon trusted him, and there was no denying the man wasn't a terrific fighter, but his overall lack of restraint concerned the Young Wolf. Really, the council was a ragtag group at best: Tormund the Wildling, Bran the Broken, whose visions left everyone with more confusion than clarity, Maester Waulkin, the Bolton's former maester, and-
The heavy wooden door banged open, Ser Brienne of Tarth striding into the room. Winterfell's master at arms bowed before Robb, then passed him a narrow roll of paper. "Pardon my tardiness, my lord, but this arrived as I did." Robb looked down at the seal, a wolf on white wax. Jon. He cracked it, scanning its contents.
"What is it?" Giantsbane asked.
Robb shook his head, "he asks me to come to King's Landing. Evidently there's something he wants to discuss and someone he wants me to meet."
Brienne screwed up her brow, "is there danger?"
"From Jon?" he caught himself, "his grace, no."
Bran read his thoughts, "but Starks don't do well in the south." Silence settled over the room. In the crypts several stories below their feet, Rickard, Brandon, Lyanna, and Eddard Stark silently attested.
"Your king summons you," Maester Waulkin reasoned.
"Just like last time," Robb muttered.
"His grace the king is not Robert Baratheon, nor Joffrey," Brienne of Tarth added.
Robb lifted his eyes to his brother's, "Bran?"
"Roses bloom in Winterfell," he said cryptically. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I will stay behind," Bran added.
Robb sighed out his nose, Bran deftly blocking him into a decision. He took the offered scrap of paper from Maester Waulkin, scrawled a response, and sent a raven south.
King's Landing
Jon Targaryen stood in the Tower of the Hand, squinting into the cold winter sun, eyeing a cloud of dust on the Kingsroad. It was coming directly from the north; he willed it to be Robb.
"Standing there won't make him come any faster," a familiar voice called to the king consort. Tyrion Lannister waddled into the room, limping badly. It seemed unfair that the person with the shortest legs in the Red Keep live in the highest tower. Tyrion was offered different lodgings, but respectfully declined, claiming the isolation offered him quiet with his thoughts. Jon privately wondered if the solitude gave the Lord Hand the opportunity to get drunk in private, but kept the thought to himself.
"How is Lord Tyrell?" he asked.
Lord Tyrion poured himself a glass of wine, offering one to Jon, who declined politely. "Oh yes, Willas Tyrell, our own warden of the south, is most eager to be at the queen's bidding. No doubt he hopes a seat on the council awaits him, as well as a good look at the dwarf Hand and the ex-bastard of Winterfell turned king consort."
Jon fought the urge to correct him. "Did he not get a good enough look when he arrived yesterday?"
Tyrion sipped, kept talking, "or, there is always Drogon. Really, there is no lack of things to gawk at here in King's Landing. As to your question, have you not realized that the appetite for strange things is never satiated? We are a palace of oddities."
Jon smiled in spite of himself, then turned back to watch the cloud. It was drawing closer by the minute.
The Hand drained his glass, "come, if we start walking now, I may arrive before Lord Stark does." A slow descent later, Jon was waiting beside his wife. The throne room was warm as he stood shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Daenerys smiled at him, squeezing his hand. "Nervous?" she asked.
He nodded, "I've not seen him since we were wed."
"Well, I hope he will be pleased with the result," she said, smiling wider as Aegon, their three year old son, crawled into the Iron Throne beside his mother. She kissed his forehead, smoothing his silver hair. Jon's heart swelled with pride.
"Now comes Lord Robb of House Stark, Warden of the North!" The doors opened, revealing the tall, dusty figure of the Young Wolf, his grey direwolf at his side. Robb strode forward before bowing deeply. Daenerys and Jon's titles had hardly finished ringing off the red stone walls before Jon strode forward, clapping his brother in an embrace. He hugged him hard, stepping back to study his face. Robb looked older than his years, harder and colder from the sudden loss of his family and being thrust into the role of Warden. His blue eyes held no trace of the twinkling laughter so easily found in his boyhood. Ghost trotted towards Grey Wind, taking care to groom his littermate's ears and nip playfully at his gums.
"Your grace," Robb said respectfully.
The king consort shook his head, "just Jon, always Jon for you." He turned, gesturing to Daenerys as she led Aegon down from the dais. Jon took her hand, "you remember my wife, I'm sure, Queen Daenerys Targaryen?" Robb knelt, kissing the queen's hand.
"Rise, please! You are most welcome in our home," she said good naturedly. "These are our children, Aegon and Lyanna. Say hello," she encouraged her little son. "This is your uncle Robb." Shyly, Aegon buried his face in Ghost's fur, frightened of his uncle's expressionless face and heavy black furs, with the silent ferocity of a large bear. A nurse stepped forward, a sleeping bundle in her arms. Robb beheld the little princess, with her soft, fair skin, the gentle dark curls escaping the blanket. She couldn't have been more than six months old.
"Congratulations," Robb said in a voice that was more polite than kind. His eyes lingered on the babe and her prominent Stark features. The Lord of Winterfell blinked hard, slamming a door on his emotions, and turned to look at his brother. "You summoned me, your grace?"
Jon looked at Daenerys, "my queen, I would walk with my brother."
She nodded, knowing what they were to discuss. "Aegon, go with your father." Aegon looked between his heavily furred uncle and his mother. "Go, you must be familiar with your lords," she said gently. The little boy nodded, taking his father's extended hand as he slid his furs over his shoulders. A gentle snow was beginning to fall as the men made their way outside, considerably colder and more comfortable to their northern blood. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Aegon ran into the gardens, Ghost bounding after him. Grey Wind looked up at his master longingly.
"Go on," Robb said gruffly. Not needing a confirmation, Grey Wind loped after the two.
Jon and his brother walked slowly along behind them. "Aegon loves the snow," he said after a beat of silence.
"He's a Stark."
"Partly." Jon inhaled the cold air, reminding him of home. "How goes it at Winterfell? How's Bran?"
"Slowly, we're all still trying to get our bearings." It had been four years since the war ended, and the winter snows had begun soon after peacetime had. Robb had begun his lordship at war, surrounded by his father's old guard. Peace and new blood had made for a series of lessons for the Young Wolf and his council. "Bran's well. He sends his love."
"Have you heard from Arya?"
Robb shook his head. "Not in a long time. Last I heard she was near Braavos."
Jon bit his tongue; Arya had stopped writing to Robb ages ago. Nearly all her letters had gone unanswered, and the ones he did held no trace of the brother she loved.
"There is no shortage of letters from Sansa," Robb added.
Jon laughed, "no, never." He and Sansa were the only two who intentionally kept open lines of communication with all their siblings, both for political and personal reasons. Sansa remembered what it was like when Jon took the black, Robb went to war, Arya went missing, and Bran was presumed dead. She couldn't stand to lose them all again, like Father, Mother and Rickon. Now the lady of Storm's End, Sansa was again far from home, but far happier than she had been when she'd last come south. Married shortly before Jon, she and Lord Gendry had three children in four years, with a fourth on the way. It was his understanding she was busy with her little boys, but happy.
He'd long since stopped wondering if he would ever be the same.
"Is Bran still doing theā¦" Jon paused, searching for the right words as they rounded a corner. Aegon and the direwolves had long since outpaced them.
"Three eyed raven? Yes, he told me 'roses bloom in Winterfell' just before I left."
Jon nodded, choosing his words carefully, "interesting. It reminds me of something." He stopped, Robb looking at him expectantly. "I've had a letter from Willas Tyrell."
Robb began walking again, shaking his head, "no."
"Will you listen to me, please?" The northern lord's feet stopped, but his ears were closed. "He has a sister a few years older than Sansa. She's a good, smart woman, Sansa spoke highly of her."
"Would this be Margaery Tyrell we speak of?"
Jon nodded, "yes."
"Widow of Renly, Joffrey, and Tommen Baratheon?"
"Yes," Jon answered more slowly.
Robb shook his head, "unbelievable. You called me all this way to discuss a marriage agreement?"
"Robb," Jon said gently, "it's past time you were wed-"
"I was wed!" Robb snapped. "I was wed, I had a child!" Unspoken words hung between them, and look what happened.
"Robb, as your brother, I would see you happy." He studied the little footprints left in the snow by his son, "as your king, I would say there must always be a Stark in Winterfell."
Robb shook his head hard, "I will pass it to Bran after me."
"Bran cannot father children, you know that."
"Not for certain."
"You would shirk your duty to our crippled brother based on a chance?"
"Give it to one of your sons, then."
"Aegon will sit the iron throne one day, gods be good. Lyanna will be lady of her husband's holdfast, and I'll not plan the future of Winterfell on a child that does not yet exist." The silence was heavy; Robb knew he was right, but too angry to admit defeat.
"Does my king command me?" he bit off.
Jon's face colored. "Robb-" a shriek cut him off. Both men ran toward the sound, crashing through dead bushes and snow laden trees to a woman standing on an iced over stone bench. Aegon stood calmly, on hand on Ghost as the direwolf lay patiently by his side. Grey Wind stood ahead of them, head cocked, ears pricked forward curiously.
"Grey Wind, here!" Robb called. Reluctantly, Grey Wind turned from the woman, trotting over to his master.
"Thank you," she said softly. She didn't move, her vibrant blue cloak and grey fur collar in deep contrast against the white sky. Robb studied her heart shape face, her brilliant blue eyes and long brown, not quite auburn hair. Even he had to admit she was beautiful. "A thousand pardons, your grace," she said, managing a curtsey even on the ice.
"No need," Jon said with a soft smile. "Lady Margaery, this is my brother Lord Robb Stark, Warden of the North. Lord Stark, Lady Margaery Tyrell." Robb bowed his head politely, but said nothing.
Recognition and a flash of anger tinted Margaery's eyes, quickly masked as interest. "Is that a direwolf?" she asked, nodding to Grey Wind.
"He is, lady."
"I'd never seen one before yesterday," she looked cautiously at Ghost, who smiled up at her from where he lay with his little charge. It wasn't like Margaery to be afraid, but a wolf larger than a pony would put the fear of the gods into anyone, she figured.
"A stone bench wouldn't keep him from getting you if he wanted, Lady Tyrell." Robb's tone held a mocking edge.
Margaery stood straight, rolling her shoulders back, "my brothers always told me to make yourself look larger if you're threatened by an animal, Lord Stark. Or would that have been unwise?"
Robb shook his head, "can't say, my lady. He's never come at me before."
"Could we offer you any assistance back to the ground, Lady Tyrell?" Jon asked pointedly.
She smiled serenely at the king. Robb felt his stomach flutter in spite of himself. "There's no need, but thank you, your grace. You are too kind." Margaery shifted her weight to take a step, and immediately lost her footing. Before she could completely crash to the ground, Robb lunged, grabbed her arm, slipping on frozen mud. The pair landed hard, snow soaking through their cloaks. Lord Stark rubbed ice chips from his eyes, practically nose to nose with an unsmiling Margaery Tyrell.
"I've heard it best to lie on the ground when trying to avoid brown bears. Perhaps Lord Stark was trying to demonstrate?" At a loss for words, Robb gaped at the young woman as she pushed herself to her feet, dusted herself off, and curtseyed both to Jon and Aegon.
"Will we see you at supper, Lady Margaery?" Jon asked.
She nodded, offering another sweet smile to the king and little prince "of course, I would be honored." She departed without so much as a glance back at Robb, who was still lying in the snow. It stung, he was not used to being the one on the receiving end of scowls while Jon got the smiles.
"It's my understanding she's not to keen to be married again, either," Jon supplied.
Robb studied the cloudy white sky above him, "shit."
