As the relentless rain persisted, hope that it would pass quickly dwindled. Arya, Tormund, Ygritte, and Sigorn had initially placed their trust in Jon's wilderness survival skills, honed through encounters with the Freefolk in harsher climates. Their soothing words to Robb and his mother, placated them for only a time. Yet, as night descended, even their confidence wavered.
The storm showed no mercy, an unyielding downpour accompanied by ceaseless thunder and intermittent flashes of lightning. The wind's mournful howls were punctuated by the ominous sound of trees succumbing to the tempest. Robb, grappling with memories, considered it the worst rainstorm etched in his recollection.
Amidst nature's fury, Ser Barristan, plagued by self-reproach, berated himself for permitting Jon and Sansa's venture without his vigilant presence. Although what help the old man could have provided, was beyond the understanding of Robb. Meanwhile, Robb's mother, a tempest in her own right, cursed anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path.
Come the dawn, Robb, Theon, Tormund, and Ser Barristan convened to assess the situation. The impromptu tour proved brief, for it swiftly became apparent that the precarious stability of the lake's bank was on borrowed time.
The great hall offered refuge to huddled workers, their abodes, and tents submerged beneath the rising waters. Yet, a graver concern loomed—the flood barriers remained sealed, a harbinger of impending catastrophe.
The keep, once encircled by a lake, had undergone a transformation orchestrated by its builder and the vigilant efforts to stave off flooding. With ingenuity, they devised a scheme involving two meticulously crafted tributaries, fortified with bushel faggots, each extending roughly a mile.
These watercourses directed the flow downhill to the lower reaches of the terrain. Within these conduits, strategically placed sluice gates stood guard, regulating the ebb and flow. In times of gentle rainfall, the water meandered through, but under the deluge of heavy showers, a mechanism lifted the gates, releasing the excess and averting disaster.
A reservoir nestled at the base of the hill awaited, poised to capture and contain a portion of the diverted water. Neglecting the opening of these gates would spell inundation for the lake, moat, castle, and village.
In the conspicuous absence of Jon and Sansa, responsibility fell squarely upon Robb's shoulders, cognisant that eventual custodianship of Queenscrown would rest with Tormund. The intricacies of this water-management system demanded the wildling's understanding, an unfamiliar technology in his rugged repertoire.
Assembling in the solar belonging to Jon and Sansa, a diverse group convened—Robb, Tormund, Ygritte, Ser Barristan, Theon, Sam, Maester Fell, Catelyn, Arya, Sigorn, and Rodner, one of the builders instrumental in erecting the system. Robb rose to his feet, a beacon of order in the gathering, poised to seize command and navigate the impending challenge.
In the dim-lit confines of Jon and Sansa's solar, Robb assumed a stance of authority, rising to his feet to bring order to the gathered assembly. Tormund, Ygritte, Ser Barristan, Theon, Sam, Maester Fell, Catelyn, Arya, Sigorn, and the builder instrumental in the water-management system, Rodner, were all present, their collective focus on the impending crisis.
"I've convened us here to avert the looming threat of flooding in both the keep and the village." Robb asserted, his tone carrying the weight of urgency. "Sansa and Rodner devised a system to safeguard the moat and lake from the deluge during heavy rains. Well, it seems we're facing one of those times now."
Ygritte, her demeanour as fierce as the storms outside, snarled her discontent. "The castle's already flooding. It's useless. Might as well stay in a cave."
Robb gave her a sideways look. He knew this was the woman Jon had once loved, and for the life of him, he couldn't fathom out why. Theon, however, looked at her with a hunger Robb had never seen on the face of the Ironborn before.
Ignoring the diversion, Theon's voice cut through the tension. "We need to open the gates."
Turning to Rodner, Robb sought guidance. "Rodner, can you explain how we do that?" The urgency of the situation demanded swift and precise action, and understanding the intricacies of this water-management system was now paramount.
Rodner's explanation resonated in the tense air of the solar. "Each gate needs two men to open it, my lord." He began, addressing Robb. "One from either side. There are two tributaries, a left bank, and a right bank, both converging into the lake below, each has four sluice gates. We must open the sluice gate at the furthest end first, then work our way back up to the castle. If we open the ones nearest first, we risk breaking the gates further down. That would drain the moat, the lake and flood the fields."
"How are the gates opened?" Arya asked.
"Just turn the wheels, my lady." Rodner replied, his words carrying a practical assurance. "That should lift the gates enough to allow water through, a foot should be enough. But it won't be easy. It will need two men per tributary."
"And what about the castle? Will it flood in the meantime?" Catelyn asked.
"The castle itself should hold, but the Maesters Tower is at risk, my lady." Rodner confessed.
"Oh my." Sam exclaimed.
In the face of this unfolding crisis, Robb swiftly proposed a strategic plan. "Best we split into three teams." he declared with authoritative resolve. "One for the left bank, one for the right bank, and one to ensure the Maesters Tower is kept clear." The urgency of the situation required swift and coordinated action.
Catelyn's concern over the allocation of soldiers to the Maesters Tower elicited a sharp retort from Rodner. "They'll be preventing the village from flooding, my lady. If not, the entire village is at risk, and Lady Sansa will need to rebuild it."
Asserting her point, Catelyn insisted, "I'm sure a couple of men can be spared."
However, Robb, fuelled by a mix of determination and disdain, turned to his mother. "Mother, if you do not wish to take part, then be it on your head. You can explain to Sansa why you didn't help rescue her castle."
The tension in the room escalated with Catelyn's sneer. "It isn't her castle, it is his." Catelyn reiterated, referring to Jon.
"I thought it belonged to the Freefolk. Or was that a lie?" Ygritte challenged.
"It belongs to the north and the Night's Watch, and as soon as the right time comes, it will be home to your people. But only when it is finished. You'll need to understand the technology before the Freefolk can run it," Arya clarified.
Robb, sensing the urgency of the situation and the need to redirect their focus, intervened sternly. "Enough! Rodner and Sigorn, you take the left bank. Tormund and I will take the right bank. Theon, you'll be in charge of the village and Ser Barristan will ensure the Maesters Tower doesn't flood. Gather as many pails as you can find. Sam and Maester Fell, your task is to move everything up to the next floor to prevent damage."
"Gilly can help with water removal." Sam offered.
"Good, that's settled." Robb acknowledged, turning a stern gaze to his mother. "I expect you to help. Your daughter created this castle; it is her hard work. Don't let it go to waste. I will tell her if you don't help." he warned.
Catelyn, despite her initial resistance, took a deep breath and agreed, her glare meeting Robb's determined gaze. "I'll help."
"Good. Now we don't have time to waste sitting around here talking. Let's go!" Robb ordered, a call to action that resonated with the urgency of the impending threat. The assembly dispersed, each member now armed with a specific task, their collective efforts aimed at preserving the laboriously built castle from the encroaching floodwaters.
Robb's choice of Tormund as his partner to open the sluice gates wasn't arbitrary. The recommendations from Jon, Arya, and Sansa painted a picture of a man loyal to the North and a trustworthy friend. Robb, recognizing the value of alliances, was determined to understand the person behind the legendary figure. Aware of the disparities in Jon's upbringing compared to his own, Robb acknowledged that the life of an heir and that of a bastard were vastly different. Jon's familiarity with mingling across social strata was a contrast to Robb's more sheltered existence.
Opting to traverse the terrain on foot to spare the horses, Robb and Tormund embarked on their journey, with Greywind following them. Tormund insisted Robb don the waterproof furs of a wildling, practical in the face of the relentless rain despite their pungent odour—a compromise Robb readily accepted.
Navigating the ankle-deep mud along the right bank tributary toward the lake, Robb grappled with the harsh weather. Tormund, however, appeared impervious to the elements, forging ahead with a seemingly stoic demeanour.
Curious to understand more about the land that Tormund held dear, Robb ventured, "What is it like in the North?"
"Fucking freezing, compared to this. But it is still warmer than when winter comes," Tormund remarked, casting a critical eye over the landscape. "We don't see grass in the summer. It is still snow, apart from the Haunted Forest. Bah, don't like that place. I prefer the snow."
Robb, eager to glean insights into the harsh realities beyond the Wall, probed further. "And the Whitewalkers?"
"They kill you and turn you into one of them. That's all you need to know," Tormund replied with a blunt simplicity.
A sigh escaped Robb, sensing the conversational stumbling block between them. Despite Jon, Arya, and Sansa attesting to Tormund's camaraderie, Robb found it challenging to connect with the wildling.
"Do you not like me?" he ventured, hoping to bridge the gap.
Tormund, halting in his tracks, turned to face Robb. "I don't know you. How can I say I like you? I don't trust you; you're a kneeler." The frank admission hung in the air, revealing the underlying tension that persisted between the two, born from their cultural differences.
"A kneeler?" Robb frowned, seeking clarity.
"Like your cousin and sisters. They kneel to kings. We kneel to no one," Tormund declared proudly.
Understanding the stark contrast in their cultures, Robb inquired further, "I thought Mance Rayder was your king."
"He is, but we don't kneel to him. He would never ask us to."
"Would you kneel to a king of Westeros if he asked?" Robb asked.
"Fuck that!" Tormund retorted, resuming his stride.
Robb persisted, matching Tormund's pace. "Even if it meant you had to go back north of the wall?"
Tormund, ever defiant, threw the question back at Robb. "Would your king want me to kneel?"
"Depends. The king on the throne now, he would force you to kneel, or he would kill you all. But there is someone else. The boy who sits on the Iron Throne isn't the rightful king. The one who is wouldn't expect you to kneel for him," Robb explained. "Would you fight for the right to be free?"
"We'll see what freedom means," Tormund responded cryptically.
"As long as there's no raiding, raping..." Robb began, laying down a clear expectation.
"I've already been told by your pretty cousin. I might not be educated like you, but I don't need telling twice," Tormund retorted gruffly, his straightforward demeanour earning Robb's appreciation. In truth, Robb's wariness extended more toward Ygritte. Jon had shared details of their past, and Robb couldn't shake the feeling that she harboured hopes of Jon reciprocating her feelings.
"What happened between Jon and Ygritte?"
Tormund, his expression turning serious, questioned Robb's motivation. "What makes you ask that, boy? Why would anything have happened between them?"
"I thought she seems preoccupied. I wondered if something happened between her and Jon," Robb explained.
Tormund halted and laughed. "She wishes. The pretty one only has eyes for one woman kissed by fire, your sister. Ygritte has never been turned down before. Her pride is hurt."
Robb huffed in response, expressing his concern. "She needs to leave Jon alone."
Robb, taken aback by Tormund's audacious claims, coughed, attempting to regain composure. "Jon spent every night wanking at the thought of his wife. Well, I think it was her. She's called Sansa?" Tormund casually inquired, and Robb nodded in confirmation. "I heard him grunt her name out a few times after he'd fumbled with himself under the furs. Ygritte probably heard him, too. She sees him as a challenge."
Disgust and disbelief etched across Robb's face. The notion of Jon engaging in such behaviour, especially while thinking of his sister, left him repulsed. "Seven hells," he muttered.
Tormund, laughed heartily and gave Robb an affectionate thump on the back. "I like you, boy. Too fucking easy to wind up. Never wanked once, from what I could tell. Don't know how he does it. My balls would ache so much I wouldn't be able to walk. Though I'd probably find something to fuck."
"Something?" Robb queried, a mix of curiosity and incredulity.
"I'll tell you after we've gotten back and I've introduced you to sour goat's milk," Tormund grinned mischievously. "Then I'll tell you about Sheila."
As they wrapped up with the sluice gates, the encroaching darkness bore witness to an unyielding rain. Robb couldn't shake the worry for Jon and Sansa, hoping they had sought refuge from the relentless storm. Greywind, though drenched and muddy, revelled in the chaotic weather, darting around and rolling in the mud.
Upon re-entering the castle, evidence of Sansa and Rodner's flood barriers became apparent—the waters had receded. Despite the village enduring some flooding, the castle and Maesters Keep remained intact, a testament to Arya's diligence in keeping the waters at bay.
Once they were dry, Robb and Tormund settled in Jon and Sansa's solar. In this cosy setting, Robb was introduced to the peculiar delights of sour goat's milk, accompanied by the unforgettable tale of Tormund's exploits with a bear named Sheila. The continuing storm outside contrasted with the warmth inside, where tales of wild adventures and unconventional choices painted a vivid picture of life beyond the Wall.