Robb XVI
Each second stretched on endlessly since Robb Stark had learned the grim truth of the White Walkers. The northern wind seemed colder, heavier with the weight of what was coming. In a heartbeat, all the small matters that had occupied his thoughts—appointing a new stable hand, choosing the right swordsmaster for his son, Torrhen—seemed trivial, like scattered leaves before a hurricane. What good were teachers and horsekeepers if the living couldn't even survive the approaching storm?
His mind kept circling back to Torrhen, his young son, and the weight of love and fear that accompanied each thought of him. Torrhen, with his bold little steps and his curious eyes, would one day grow tall and fierce, a Stark worthy of Winterfell and the ancient blood of their line. Robb had pictured his boy as a man many times: a leader, a protector, someone who could make the North proud. He imagined the friends Torrhen might make, the battles he might fight, the victories he might win, and the kindness he would show his people. Robb wanted to see that future so fiercely that it hurt, like a wound he couldn't soothe.
But now, the image of his son's future felt fragile, like a candle caught in an icy wind. The White Walkers would not pause for honour, nor would they spare his boy. If the living could not unite against this unnatural force, the halls of Winterfell would go silent, and Torrhen's bright laugh would become a mere memory, scattered in the snowdrifts.
Robb clenched his fists, feeling the old stone of Winterfell beneath his feet, grounding him. He had to fight, had to do everything in his power to give his son a chance. The name of Stark had withstood the ravages of time and war; he would not let it vanish to the horrors rising in the North. No matter how impossible, how bleak, he would face this storm—for his son, for his family, and for the land he loved.
Roslin had asked him countless times what troubled him, her voice soft yet insistent, concern etched deeply into her expression. She had sensed the weight he bore, the shadow of something dark and unspeakable pressing down on him, but each time she asked, he found himself unable to answer. How could he tell her? How could he speak of creatures that belonged in ghost stories, tales whispered in the darkest hours of the night? He wasn't even sure she'd believe him. And if she did… how would he face the fear that would inevitably bloom in her eyes, the horror he himself struggled to accept?
He'd watched Roslin grow from a quiet girl into a woman that the North could rally behind, a lady who held herself with both strength and grace, someone his people respected and trusted. She had weathered the storms of the past alongside him, standing by his side when the North itself had felt as fragile as frost on a windowpane. She'd proven herself time and again—taking on the burden of their people, learning the ways of Winterfell, even in the face of the bitterness many held toward her family's name.
Yet this news, this unnatural terror creeping from beyond the Wall, was different. It was more than any man or woman should have to bear. Telling her that the dead themselves were walking, marching south with an endless hunger, felt as if it would shatter the steady life they had carefully built together. He feared that her brave resolve might waver under the weight of it, that the knowledge of such a foe would steal her peace and shake her to the core.
And if it broke her, he did not know if he'd have the strength to rebuild her. The truth of the White Walkers was a burden he was barely able to carry himself. But the thought of her carrying it with him... how would they bear it together?
"Robb." A voice called softly from the doorway, slicing through the quiet of the pre-dawn hours. Robb looked up from the stack of neglected papers before him, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. It was early—so early that the sky beyond the narrow windows was still dark, the faintest blush of morning just beginning to touch the horizon. He hadn't slept, haunted by thoughts of the White Walkers and the looming darkness that made all other troubles seem trivial. But seeing his brother in the doorway gave him an anchor in the storm.
Jon stepped inside, the dim light casting long shadows on his tired face. He looked weary, as if the burdens he carried were tangible weights on his shoulders. "I'm leaving," Jon said, his voice low but firm. "Now."
The words stilled something in Robb. He rose from his chair, concern narrowing his gaze. "What's happened?"
Jon's jaw clenched, a shadow passing over his face. "A letter arrived from Castle Black. Stannis has seized the castle, taken it as his own stronghold in my absence. He's using it as his base. I need to go back—now—before he claims it and my men for himself."
Robb absorbed this, nodding slowly. "I understand," he replied, stepping around the desk to stand closer to his brother. "The Night's Watch cannot afford to be a pawn in his game."
Jon's eyes softened with gratitude, but Robb could sense the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. He knew that this mission was more than just duty to Jon; it was a calling, a fight for his very identity and loyalty to the Watch he'd vowed to serve. Robb wanted to tell him to stay, to remind him that they were stronger together, but he could see the resolve in Jon's gaze—the same steely determination he'd admired since they were boys.
"I'll talk to him. I'll try to make him see reason," Jon said, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of resolve. "Stannis is a man of honour, and if I can make him believe, he'll understand how important our fight is. Surely he'll see that this is not the time to make a claim for the throne."
Robb nodded but didn't look convinced. "Aye, he may be reasonable, but Stannis is nothing if not stubborn. He's carried the belief that the throne is his by right for six long years—years in which he's been pushed into exile, deprived of his home, mocked and belittled. He's lost much, and men like that aren't easily convinced to set aside their vengeance. He may see reason, but it won't come without a fight."
Jon's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed as he replied, "I don't expect him to lay down his sword, only to turn its edge in another direction, for the time being. The Lannisters can wait. The dead cannot."
Robb looked at his brother, a deep, searching expression on his face. "Be safe, Jon. I can't face what's to come without you, brother."
Jon's gaze softened, but something in his expression flickered, as if he wanted to say something more, something unsaid simmering just below the surface. For a brief moment, Robb thought he would speak, but instead, Jon held his silence.
Robb, sensing the weight of what lay unsaid, took a breath and turned to more practical matters. "Go to the castellan; have him rouse the men I promised you. They'll be ready to leave by first light."
Jon's gratitude was clear in his eyes, and he nodded. "Thank you, Robb. I received an offer for help, as well—from your father." Robb's brows lifted in surprise. "I think he feels… that he owes me something. Or maybe he just doesn't want to face the day the dead arrive without doing all he can." Jon paused, looking thoughtful. "He wants to settle whatever debts he believes he holds before the long night returns."
Robb was silent, absorbing this unexpected turn. Ned Stark was a man whose sense of duty was as unyielding as the Wall itself. If he felt he owed Jon anything, then there was more to the tale than he'd ever shared.
"Keep each other safe," Robb said, with a hand of his brother's shoulder. "And I'll see you soon."
Jon offered him a soft, knowing smile, one that needed no words, before turning to leave. Robb watched him go, the quiet sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. Left alone, he returned to his seat, feeling the heavy weight of the responsibilities settling onto his shoulders once more. The next few weeks would demand all the wisdom and caution he could muster; Westeros was the most volatile that it had been since Joffrey's reign.
With Stannis taking up his campaign again from Castle Black, the fragile peace they'd clung to for years felt close to shattering. Jon had a daunting task ahead—convincing a man as unyielding as Stannis to stand down, to set aside his claim in the name of the greater threat they all faced. It would take all of Jon's skill and tact to make Stannis see sense before he threw the North into chaos.
And if that weren't enough, Daenerys Targaryen, the last of the dragons, had begun her march homeward. Word from the East made it clear: she was gathering her forces to sail for Westeros, intent on claiming her birthright. Her army was formidable, her influence sweeping across Essos like a wildfire. Robb could imagine the turmoil her arrival would stir—if Tywin felt Tommen's claim to power was threatened, he wouldn't hesitate to call their banners. Westeros would be plunged into another war one that could leave them in no state to face the larger threat.
Jon had to succeed. He had to make Stannis see that the true enemy lay beyond the Wall, an enemy neither throne nor crown could hold back. And Daenerys… well, they would deal with her when she arrived.
As dawn broke over the horizon, a pale light washed over Winterfell, casting long shadows across the familiar stone. Robb stood alone on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, feeling the weight of generations beneath him. This was where his father had often stood, gazing out over the people he had sworn to protect. The memory of it pulled at Robb—a fierce pride mixed with an unsettling doubt. He felt like an intruder, a pretender standing in a place that had belonged to Eddard Stark, a man of unshakable principles and strength. Yet here he was, watching over his own men as they readied themselves for an uncertain fate.
Below, the men stood lined up in orderly rows, armour gleaming faintly in the first light of morning. They waited, stoic but somber, knowing little of the true horror that awaited them at the Wall. Many of them had likely dismissed the rumours as ghost stories: tales of White Walkers seemed impossible, whispers meant to frighten children. But soon, they would be forced to confront those whispered horrors.
A soft hand came to rest on his arm, warm even in the chill of the morning. Robb turned to find Roslin beside him, still in her nightgown and a thin overcoat hastily thrown over her shoulders, her face pale in the early light.
"Gods, woman," he said, a half-laugh breaking the tension in his voice. "What are you trying to do? Catch your death out here?" He shrugged his own heavy cloak off and draped it over her shoulders, pulling it close around her. The cloak dwarfed her, the edges dragging along the stone floor, but he held it firmly, tucking it snug around her.
"The noise woke me, I couldn't let you stand out here alone," she replied, a determined look softening her face as she studied the lines of men below. Her voice was steady, but he could see the worry behind her eyes, a reflection of the fear he carried with him.
"Thank you," he murmured, his hand lingering on her shoulder. She grounded him, reminding him of why he was fighting—for the future they had built together, for the family they hoped to protect, for the lives that would carry on beyond the war.
Roslin looked at him, her gaze fierce yet kind. "They'll come home, Robb. The gods will watch over them." Her words, though softly spoken, struck a chord within him. She simply stood beside him, her presence a balm to his own troubled heart.
He leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers as the first true light of dawn touched the castle walls. For this brief moment, in the quiet before the storm, he allowed himself to believe in her words, to hope that the men below would see Winterfell again, that the world would hold together just a little longer.
Robb's gaze lingered on his father as Eddard Stark mounted a black stallion, the aging yet resolute figure now flanked by Jon and Gendry. The trio made a striking sight in the cool dawn light, each man focused, determined, and ready to face whatever the North threw at them. Robb exhaled slowly, his brows knitting together in a mix of pride and frustration.
"I don't understand him," he murmured, his voice a blend of admiration and bewilderment. "For years, he's said how he's grown tired of the fighting, how he wants nothing more than to live out his days here, with us and the children. He speaks of peace, of wanting to see Torrhen grow up, he wants to see Arya as a wife and an explorer, Sansa as a mother. And yet…" His words trailed off, and he shook his head. "And yet, he jumps on a horse without a second thought, ready to ride into the unknown, without so much as waiting to be asked."
Roslin's hand tightened around his, her gaze soft as she watched the departing men. "Robb…please let me in. Tell me what's happening, this is more than just Stannis. Lighten your load."
Robb felt his heart tug as he looked at Roslin's earnest face, the worry softening her features, her hand warm and steady in his. He wanted to shield her from the weight of it all, but Roslin had stood by him through the storms of war and loss. She deserved the truth—and he needed someone to carry it with him, to remind him of why he kept going.
He drew in a slow breath, glancing back out at the emptying courtyard, then returned his gaze to his wife. "It's… hard to put into words," he started, his voice quiet but intense. "The dead are rising in the North, Roslin. White Walkers. The old stories—legends I heard as children—they're real."
Her eyes widened, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she held his gaze, steady and unwavering.
"This isn't just another war. It isn't armies and banners. It's a threat to all of us, to everything we know," he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. "My father is riding north with Jon to confront Stannis, to get him to stand down and maybe even join us until they are defeated, but I can't shake this feeling… this fear. If they don't come back, if they can't hold them back…"
The words trailed off, and he swallowed hard, his throat tight. He could barely even allow himself to picture it, his father and Jon, swallowed up by an army of the dead. Yet that vision haunted his every waking thought, a shadow pressing down on his every breath.
Roslin's face softened, and she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around him. She rested her head against his chest, and he felt her warmth, solid and real, grounding him in the present, even as his thoughts wandered to far grimmer futures.
"You're not alone in this, Robb," she murmured, her voice a gentle reassurance against the storm within him. "Winterfell stands, and you stand at its heart. Whatever comes, we face it together."
He exhaled, releasing a tension he hadn't even known he was holding. "I just don't want this for Torrhen. I wanted him to know peace, to grow up without the weight of a war hanging over him, without the fear of what's beyond our walls."
Roslin looked up at him, her eyes fierce, filled with love and defiance. "He has known peace, Robb and he will know it again. Because of men like you and your father. Because you're willing to fight, even when you're weary of it."
Her words settled over him, both a comfort and a reminder of the burden he carried—a burden they all shared, though not always equally. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, feeling a surge of gratitude he couldn't quite put into words.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick. "For understanding. For staying by me."
She gave him a small, brave smile, though he could see the fear lurking in her eyes, as well. "Always, Robb. Now, come back inside with me. We may have battles to fight, but right now, let's have breakfast together, with our family. Let's give Torrhen one more morning of peace."
He nodded, realising how much he needed that—just one more moment to hold on to the warmth and comfort of his home, to keep it close as a shield against the dark days that lay ahead. They walked back into Winterfell, side by side, ready to face the morning and whatever else the future might bring.
A week had stretched into a tense, agonising silence with no word from either Jon or his father. Each morning, Robb would rise before dawn and scan the horizon, hoping for a raven or a rider carrying news from the Wall. Yet, each day brought nothing, the only answer a cold wind that whispered of uncertainty.
In their absence, he'd poured himself into fortifying Winterfell, rallying the North for the threat he knew would come. Every able-bodied man and even some women had been called to prepare for battle, farmers instructed to bring what food they could spare from the season's last harvest, and blacksmiths were working from dawn till dusk, their forges churning out weapons at an unyielding pace. Winterfell had opened its gates to the Northern families seeking refuge, the great hall and spare chambers filled with children and the elderly, those too vulnerable to face the approaching storm.
He felt the weight of each decision, each order, pressing down on him with the certainty of a gathering snowfall. Every hour he could feel Winter growing stronger, the days shortening, the cold settling in deeper. And yet, while he fortified his walls and trained his men for what was to come, a part of him was consumed by fear, for the unknown—both in the North and beyond.
It wasn't until a raven arrived late one night, its parchment emblazoned with the gold lion of House Lannister, that he was snapped back to another looming threat. The threat he'd almost allowed himself to forget in the midst of the chaos.
Robb broke the Lannister seal with steady fingers, though his pulse quickened with each movement. He unfolded the letter slowly, feeling the weight of the words within before he even began reading them. Tywin's message was meticulously composed, each phrase a carefully balanced warning and command—a challenge, veiled in the tone of a reminder.
"To Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell," it began, the ink as dark and sharp as the man who'd written it. "I trust you understand the continued duty of the North to honour the crown, now and in all times. I will not insult your understanding of loyalty, nor the value your family has placed on it since the days of old."
Tywin's formalities grew cold and unyielding, each word a clear assertion of dominance as he outlined the stakes. "Stannis Baratheon has once again reared his head, and word has it that he is bolstered by your bastard brother, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and—most troubling—your father. That same father who was so graciously allowed to live out his days in peace following his previous treachery and now he stands among those who, from all accounts, would set themselves against King Tommen."
Robb felt a tightening in his chest, his father's shadow cast even here, in Tywin's words. "Should you choose to stand alongside the crown to squash these threats, perhaps there will yet be mercy for your father and brother. Send word to them swiftly, before they take further steps against the King, and perhaps their lives might be spared."
But the next line left Robb bracing himself, the sharp language of Tywin Lannister now inescapably clear. "The crown's forces, led by myself, Ser Jaime, and Ser Loras, have already departed King's Landing, and we expect to be joined by your uncle Edmure Tully's forces at Riverrun. From there, we anticipate your Northern banners meeting us at the border. Signed, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock."
Robb's mind raced, a flare of anger warring with dread. Tywin was already mobilising; Jaime, Loras, and the might of the Reach and the Westerlands were moving northward as he read these very words. His fists clenched as he reread the ultimatum, his jaw set in defiance.
Yet Tywin's mention of his father and Jon hit like a blade's twist. He knew his brother and father wouldn't have sided with Stannis when the true threat laid at their feet. They wouldn't turn against their plan with no forewarning but if they were allowing Stannis refuge at the wall, Tywin would see that as condemning as giving him an army. His chest tightened as he thought of the risks they would face. They were no longer just facing an ancient threat from beyond the Wall; they were now entangled in a war that would put them at odds with every force of the South, including Tywin's unstoppable machine.
Without realising it, Robb had crushed the letter in his fist, the wax seal cracked and the parchment crumpled beyond recognition. He stood there, trying to draw in a steady breath, fighting the growing storm that Tywin's words had ignited within him.
"Robb?" Roslin's voice came softly from the doorway, a gentle presence cutting through the silence that had settled around him. Her voice, warm and concerned, was a quiet balm against the fury roiling in his chest.
He turned to her, his expression grim, but softened at the sight of her. She stepped closer, her eyes flicking from his face to the crumpled letter in his hand. Concern etched lines into her brow. "Is it news from Jon? From your father?" she asked, her tone filled with both dread and curiosity.
He looked down at the letter he'd mangled, a mess of Lannister words and threats, and nodded, exhaling slowly. "No. Its a warning from Tywin. His words are as sharp as his blade; he wants me to reaffirm my fealty to Tommen, to promise Northern support in squashing Stannis… and to turn my back on my father and Jon." His voice was quiet but laced with a raw anger, the words clipped.
Roslin reached out, resting a comforting hand on his arm. "And if you don't?" she asked, her eyes searching his face.
He hesitated, struggling to find words that could convey the sheer ruthlessness in Tywin's letter. "Then he'll march on the North. He's already mobilising forces from the South—Jaime and Loras Tyrell lead his armies, and they'll meet my uncle's men at Riverrun. He expects us to join him at the border." He laughed bitterly, though there was no humour in his voice. "He offers mercy for my father and Jon if I fall in line, but we both know Tywin's promises are empty as dead men's whispers."
Her hand tightened on his arm, her face filled with a quiet strength. "You don't have to bear this alone, Robb," she whispered. "We'll stand behind you, whatever comes. The North has faced worse storms."
He looked into her eyes, finding some measure of calm in the resolve he saw there. "Aye," he said softly, "but not with threats closing in from both sides."