Robb XV
Robb had always feared the godswood at night. As a boy, the whispers of old Northern legends haunted him—the stories of the ancient dead, the spirits of the First Men who wandered beneath the twisted branches when darkness fell. It was said that the ghosts of ancestors filled the woods at night, and even now, the memory of those fears clung to him. He could still recall the night his father, Ned, had tried to soothe him, sitting by the weirwood tree, urging him to listen to the wind as it whistled through the ancient trees. But the cold had seeped into his bones, and the shadows seemed to breathe around him. Robb had cried that night, overwhelmed by the strangeness and stillness of the godswood.
But now, Robb was no longer that frightened boy—he was a father himself, and the lord of Winterfell. He had long conquered that fear, standing tall beneath the looming branches and the eerie stillness of the weirwood, and he was determined that his own son, Torrhen, would never inherit the same dread of the godswood. Not when it was a place meant for family, for tradition, for the Starks. Tonight, the space was softened by the warm glow of candles, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the snow-dusted ground as they prepared for the ceremony.
Beside him, Arya stood, clad in a dress she never would have chosen for herself. It was a gown of pale silver, woven with northern patterns and the Stark sigil subtly embroidered into the fabric. She tugged at it, fidgeting with the tightness where the seams clung too snugly to her figure, clearly uncomfortable in the trappings of femininity that she had spent most of her life avoiding. Her wild spirit was evident in the tension of her body, the way she shifted her weight as if ready to bolt into the woods at any moment. Robb glanced at her, seeing not just his sister, but the fierce wolf she had become, caged temporarily in silks and lace.
He took her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I know this isn't what you would have chosen for yourself," Robb said quietly, his voice low and soothing, trying to ease her restless spirit. "I know it feels like a burden now, but it doesn't have to be the end of your life, Arya." He looked down at her, his blue eyes filled with the gentle understanding only a brother could offer. "It can be a new beginning, if you let it."
Arya turned her head, meeting his gaze, her grey eyes hard but searching, as if looking for the truth in his words. She was always wary of what others wanted for her—always on guard, always resisting any attempt to shape her future.
"Alyn Umber is a good man," Robb continued, nodding toward the large figure standing at the edge of the godswood. Alyn stood tall, his broad shoulders wrapped in a thick fur cloak, watching the ceremony's preparations with quiet determination. Though not yet twenty, Alyn was built like the mountain—strong, loyal, and fiercely protective. "He'll be a good husband. He respects you, Arya. And in time, you might even come to like him."
Arya's jaw clenched, and she exhaled sharply through her nose. "I don't need a good husband, Robb. I never asked for any of this," she said, her voice edged with frustration, though it was quieter now, more resigned than defiant.
Robb's hand remained steady over Arya's, anchoring her to the moment with a gentle yet firm resolve. "I know this isn't what you want, but this marriage isn't about trapping you, Arya. It's about keeping you safe, giving you a life with all the freedom you've ever dreamed of."
Arya looked away, her face set in defiance, but her brother held her hand a bit tighter, pulling her attention back to him. "Alyn is a second son," he continued, his voice gentle but resolute. "As his wife, you'll never have to bear the duties of a ruling lady. You wouldn't be tied down by the expectations of a household. He's not looking for an heir from you, or a Lady of Deepwood Motte. You could just be Arya, free to shape your life however you want."
Arya's gaze softened slightly, the rebellious edge easing as she considered her brother's words. Robb saw the glimmer of doubt in her eyes and pressed on.
"If you want to travel," he said, a small smile breaking through, "you could do it. You and Alyn could roam the world together. Think of it—seeing the Summer Isles, the Free Cities, maybe even venturing into the unknown lands of the east. Being his wife wouldn't keep you from that."
His words painted a picture of possibility, one that he hoped could satisfy Arya's unquenchable thirst for freedom. "With Alyn, you'd have a partner who doesn't expect you to sit in a hall, tallying stores and organising banquets. His father tells me he's never been one to care about traditional roles either, and he understands what it is to live outside of expectation. I think he would want this for you as much as I do."
She was quiet, the firelight flickering in her eyes as she absorbed Robb's words, the dreams they held, the visions of a life far from the weight of duty that had marked her family's existence.
"And besides, you'll be all right," Robb assured her, though in his heart he worried for his sister, the wild wolf in her that would never be fully tamed. "You've always been strong. Stronger than most."
Arya looked up at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "And what about you, Robb?" she asked, her voice softening. "Are you all right?"
Robb's expression faltered for a moment, but then he nodded. "We all have our part to play, don't we?" he said, his tone steady, though Arya's question lingered in his mind longer than he'd admit. He had his own burdens to bear—the weight of the North, of Winterfell, and of his family. But tonight, it was Arya's turn to take on a role she never wanted, and as her brother, he would be there to help her through it.
As the ceremony began, the candles flickering in the cold wind, Robb stood by Arya's side, holding her hand as she took her first steps into a new life. Though the godswood was filled with shadows, the light from the Stark candles flickered defiantly against the darkness, just as Arya would in the days to come.
As they walked down the aisle together, Robb couldn't help but take in the sea of faces gathered in the godswood, each one representing the strength and unity of the North. The ceremony was more than a simple wedding; it was a gathering of nearly every Northern house, a testament to their shared history and mutual allegiance. Among the attendees were representatives from far-off regions, their presence a nod to the broader alliances that were slowly forming.
At the front, Robb spotted Sansa and Tyrion standing together with young Damon. The little lordling was a striking figure, standing still and stoic like a statue, his wide eyes reflecting a mixture of awe and apprehension. Robb could see that he was a good lad, though he was quiet and reserved. Sansa's hand rested gently on Damon's shoulder, offering a sense of calm amidst the bustle of the gathering.
In stark contrast to Damon's stillness, Robb's attention was drawn to Roslin, who stood in the front row with an air of determined grace. She was bending down to Torrhen, their son, who squirmed and wriggled restlessly in her hold, unable to contain his youthful energy. The sight of Torrhen's antics almost made Robb chuckle, but he held back, keenly aware of the solemnity of the occasion.
As they reached the altar, Robb stole a glance at Arya beside him, her expression a mix of resolve and apprehension. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, his heart swelling with a sense of hope. They were surrounded by their loved ones—by their family—each face a pillar of support in this new chapter.
The moment felt heavy with promise, the flickering candlelight illuminating the faces of those who had come to witness this union, to celebrate the bonds that tied them all together. In the shadows of the godswood, the past lingered close, but Robb felt a renewed strength, a sense of purpose. He was not only the lord of Winterfell; he was also a father, a brother, and a son, standing together with his family to honour the ties that would shape their future.
The ceremony unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of the weirwood, a blend of solemnity and warmth that was characteristic of Northern weddings. Though it was a short affair—like most in the North, designed more for practicality than extravagance—it held a significance that was palpable in the crisp air.
Robb stood at the altar, his heart swelling with mixed emotions as he prepared to give Arya to Alyn Umber. He felt the weight of tradition pressing down upon him, the responsibility of a brother passing his sister into the care of another. Arya, in her silvery gown, looked both beautiful and fierce, embodying the spirit of the Stark family. Alyn stood tall beside her, his expression earnest, a man ready to embrace the duties that came with marrying a Stark.
He had witnessed Arya grow from a spirited child into a strong woman, one who would not only take on her new role but would also bring her wild spirit to Alyn's life. With the ceremony drawing to a close, Robb took his place beside Roslin, who stood at the edge of the gathering, her eyes bright with joy and pride for her husband and his sister. The warmth of the moment enveloped him as he settled into his role as a supportive brother and a loving husband.
Robb then turned to Torrhen, who was practically bouncing with excitement, his little feet shifting on the ground as he watched the festivities unfold. With a soft chuckle, Robb lifted him effortlessly onto his hip, feeling the familiar weight of his son nestled against him. Torrhen's eyes sparkled with curiosity, his small hands gripping Robb's shoulder as he peered over the crowd.
"Did you see that, Father?" Torrhen exclaimed, his voice brimming with youthful enthusiasm. "Arya looked like a real princess! And Alyn is so big! Can I be as big as him someday?"
Robb laughed, the sound light and genuine. "You'll be bigger, my boy. Stronger, too. And when you are, you'll protect those you love just as Alyn will protect Arya."
Torrhen nodded solemnly, taking his father's words to heart. The bond between them felt solidified in that moment, a quiet understanding that they would always look out for one another, just as the Starks had done for generations.
As the guests began to mingle, offering their congratulations to the newlyweds, Robb felt a wave of warmth flood through him. This gathering, this family, was what it meant to be a Stark. They were bound not only by blood but by the unbreakable ties of loyalty and love.
Looking out over the gathering, Robb caught a glimpse of Sansa, Tyrion, and little Damon off to the side, their expressions a mixture of pride and joy. As laughter and chatter filled the air, Robb felt a sense of hope for the future. He held Torrhen a little tighter against him, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders but knowing that he was not alone in this journey. With Arya starting her new life and the promise of brighter days ahead, Robb's heart swelled with pride. They were Starks, and they would face whatever came their way, together.
The next morning greeted Robb with a pounding headache, a sharp reminder of the previous night's festivities. Trying to match Tyrion drink for drink had been a mistake, one he was now paying for as the dull throb behind his eyes made him wince. He groaned softly, running a hand over his face in an attempt to shake off the remnants of sleep and the aftereffects of too much wine.
Beside him, Roslin slept soundly, her face serene in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Robb leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek, careful not to wake her. It was a small gesture of affection, one that brought a fleeting smile to his lips despite his discomfort. As he pulled back, his eyes caught the sight of their son, Torrhen, nestled in her arms, fast asleep.
The boy's small form was curled against his mother, his chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of deep slumber. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed with the warmth of the blankets, and one tiny hand clutched Roslin's sleeve as if to anchor himself to her even in sleep. Robb's heart swelled at the sight, a moment of pure contentment washing over him despite the dull ache in his head.
For a few quiet moments, he simply watched them, his wife and son, wrapped in the tranquility of the early morning. It was in these moments, the quiet ones, that Robb felt most at peace. The weight of leadership, the pressures of the past and future, seemed to fade away as he took in the scene before him.
Torrhen stirred slightly, his small face scrunching up before settling back into the comfort of his mother's embrace. Robb smiled, shaking his head gently.
Carefully, Robb slipped out of bed, mindful not to disturb either of them. The aches and pains from the night before would fade, he knew, but the sight of his family like this—safe, content, and wrapped in love—was something he'd carry with him for much longer. With a sigh, he stretched and prepared himself to face the day, knowing that despite the challenges ahead, he had something precious to protect.
Both Jon and Tyrion had requested to meet with Robb that morning, so he dressed quickly, shaking off the remnants of his headache, and made his way to the Lord's study. As he crossed the courtyard, he couldn't help but notice Arya, already awake and fully immersed in her sword practice. She was sparring with Gendry, the young steward Jon had brought with him from Castle Black. Their movements were sharp and precise, the clashing of steel echoing through the cool morning air. Both were deeply focused, until Arya, with a sudden burst of speed, caught Gendry off guard and sent him tumbling to the ground.
Robb paused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched them laugh together. Arya extended her hand, offering to help Gendry back up, and with a mischievous grin, he took it—only to pull her down into the dirt beside him. They both fell into a fit of laughter, rolling in the dust like they were children again, their playful ease a rare and welcome sight.
Seeing Arya like this—carefree, happy, and entirely herself—warmed Robb's heart. She had always been fiercely independent, more at home with a sword in her hand than playing the role of a lady. Gendry seemed to understand that, Robb wondered if that was why she looked so at ease with him, why her laughter sounded more genuine.
But as much as it pleased him to see Arya smiling, a pang of regret gnawed at him. He knew her marriage to Alyn Umber wasn't what she would have chosen for herself, and though Alyn was a good man, Robb couldn't shake the feeling that Arya's true happiness still eluded her.
Robb lingered for a moment longer, watching them as they playfully sparred again. He wished Arya could feel this same joy with her husband, that the life she had been thrust into would allow her the freedom she so clearly craved. But duty and family weighed heavily on all of them, and Robb knew that Arya would continue to honour her commitments—whether or not her heart was fully in them.
With a deep breath, he turned away and continued toward the Lord's study, his mind already shifting to the business ahead. Jon and Tyrion would be waiting for him, and there were matters of the realm that could not be ignored. But even as he prepared himself for the responsibilities that lay before him, the image of Arya's laughter lingered, a bittersweet reminder of the lives they could have lived, if only the world had been kinder.
Robb arrived at the Lord's study, pausing as he opened the door to see Jon, Tyrion, and Ned already seated, clearly waiting for him. "Good morning, all," he greeted, slightly taken aback. "I'm sorry, I thought I was meeting Jon first this morning."
Jon stood, his expression serious, though there was no trace of hostility in his brother's eyes. "I asked for them to come," Jon said, his voice calm but laced with a certain gravity. "I need to speak to all of you."
Robb raised an eyebrow, curiosity stirring. Whatever Jon had to say, it was important enough to bring both their father and Tyrion into the conversation. He crossed the room and took his place at the table, ready to hear what Jon had on his mind. The air in the room felt charged with unspoken tension, and Robb had the distinct feeling that whatever this meeting was about, it would have far-reaching consequences for all of them.
"There's something coming for us," Jon began, his voice low but filled with an urgency that immediately grabbed everyone's attention. "It's coming from beyond the Wall, and it won't stop."
Robb leaned forward, his brows furrowing as he took in Jon's words. "What do you mean, 'something'? What exactly are we facing?"
Jon met his gaze, his expression grim. "The dead," he said plainly. "An army of the dead. I've seen them—White Walkers, wights—creatures that were once men but are now something else. They are coming, and if we don't prepare, we'll be wiped out."
"The White Walkers aren't real," Robb insisted, though his voice wavered slightly. "They were just stories told by Old Nan to scare us into behaving. We've heard those tales all our lives."
Jon's gaze sharpened, the urgency in his expression deepening. "They are real, Robb. I swear it to you. I've seen them with my own eyes. I've watched men die at their hands—and I've killed some myself."
Robb shook his head, struggling to reconcile Jon's words with everything he had ever known. The legends of the White Walkers had always seemed distant and fantastical, mere myths to entertain children around the hearth. But now, confronted with Jon's fierce conviction, those comforting tales began to unravel, exposing a harsh reality that sent a shiver down his spine.
"What do you mean, killed some?" Robb pressed, desperate for clarity, as though grappling with a nightmare he couldn't quite escape. "How can you kill something that's dead?"
Jon inhaled deeply, steeling himself as he recalled the horror of that night at Hardhome. "They can be killed, but it's not easy. They are powerful, and their magic is ancient. We lost so many before we figured out how to fight back. The only way to stop them is with dragonglass, Valyrian steel or fire."
Robb glanced at Ned, seeking reassurance from his father, who sat silently, his face betraying a mixture of concern and disbelief. Yet, he could see the acceptance creeping into Ned's expression. Jon had always been the most steadfast of his siblings, and if anyone had the will to face such dangers, it was him.
"Do you really expect us to believe this?" Robb asked, struggling against the gnawing fear rising within him. "That the dead are marching on the living?"
"They do," Jon said, his voice fierce. "I've seen it. Men I once called brothers, risen from the dead to fight for them. We're facing something that can make the living into the dead, Robb. We're facing an enemy unlike any other. I swear to you on my word as a Night's Watch man and as your brother."
Robb felt his defenses crumbling. The weight of Jon's conviction was heavy, and the more he listened, the more he felt the reality of the situation seep into his bones. "So what do we do?" he asked finally, a mix of frustration and fear spilling into his words. "How do we fight something that can raise the dead?"
Jon's expression softened, a flicker of hope shining through the darkness. "We unite, Robb. We gather our forces and warn everyone. We have to convince the lords of the North—and those in the South—that this is a threat they can't ignore. We need to forge alliances and prepare for what's coming."
Ned leaned forward, his voice steady and commanding. "Jon is right. We may have been divided by our differences, but this is a fight for our very existence. If the dead march, we need to be ready. Our banners must fly together."
Robb looked between his brother and father, feeling the weight of their shared resolve settling on his shoulders. "Then we will rally our bannermen," he declared, determination flaring within him. "We will send ravens to the other houses, warn them of the threat we face. We'll gather every sword we can and stand together against this."
Jon nodded, relief washing over him. "It's the only way we stand a chance and we need to reach out to the Free Folk as well," Jon added, "If anyone knows how to survive in the cold, it's them, we need to let them passed the wall or we may as well offer them up to the White Walkers now."
Robb felt a fire igniting in his chest. They were not just reacting to a threat; they were taking the fight to the enemy. They had the opportunity to forge a new path, not just for the North but for the entire realm.
"You've seen this yourself?" Ned asked quietly, his tone even but full of authority.
Jon nodded. "At Hardhome. I watched thousands fall, only to rise again under the command of the White Walkers. They're real, Father. This isn't a myth or an old tale to scare children—this is happening."
"You won't convince my father," Tyrion said, his tone laced with a mix of skepticism and resignation. "He won't believe in snarks and grumpkins, let alone the threat of the dead walking among us."
"Then you need to convince him," Jon replied, a note of urgency threading through his words.
Tyrion leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he considered the weight of the task ahead. "Or I can offer an alternative," he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "It's why I wanted to speak to you, Robb. Daenerys Targaryen is ready to come home."
The moment the name left Tyrion's lips, Ned stood from his seat, his posture rigid, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and caution. "Daenerys Targaryen?" he echoed, the name heavy with the echoes of history, stirring memories of a time when the Targaryens were both revered and reviled.
"Yes," Tyrion confirmed, his voice steady despite the gravity of the topic. "She is backed by an army of Unsullied and a horde of Dothraki fighters, not to mention three dragons." The last word hung in the air like a thunderclap, and for a moment, the room was silent as the implications settled over them.
Robb blinked, processing the information. Dragons—real, living dragons. He'd heard the stories, had marveled at the idea of their existence, but now the possibility felt both exhilarating and terrifying. "And you expect us to trust her? A Targaryen?" he asked, skepticism creeping into his tone. "Her family has done nothing but bring ruin to our houses."
"She's not her father, Robb," Tyrion insisted, leaning forward, his eyes earnest. "Daenerys has spent her life fighting for her right to rule. She's not just a claimant to a throne; she's an experienced leader who has freed slaves and built a loyal following. She knows what it means to be oppressed, to fight for the living."
Ned remained silent, his brow furrowed as he absorbed the gravity of Tyrion's words. After a moment, he spoke, his voice steady but cautious. "You say she is ready to come home, but to what end? Does she wish to reclaim the Iron Throne? And how can we be certain she would not turn on us once she has it?"
Tyrion sighed, sensing the doubts swirling in the room. "I cannot speak for her intentions, only for what I've seen. Daenerys desires to end the cycle of violence and oppression. She is a different kind of ruler, one who values the lives of her people."
"But can we trust her?" Robb asked, his voice firm yet uncertain. "After all that's happened, after the chaos her family caused? The North has long memories."
"If the dead are coming," Tyrion said, his expression serious, "we need something bigger than ourselves to fight them." He turned his gaze to Jon, a spark of determination igniting in his eyes. "You say fire can kill them? Then we need her dragons." Tyrion leaned forward, his hands clasped together as if he were crafting a strategy. "They can provide the advantage we desperately need. Fire can destroy the wights and the White Walkers. If Daenerys Targaryen is willing to lend us her dragons, it could turn the tide in our favour."
Robb felt a flicker of hope at the mention of dragons. "Let me get this straight," he said, raising an eyebrow. "You want us to convince Daenerys to join our cause, to bring her dragons here to fight the dead, and in return, we help her reclaim the Iron Throne?"
"Yes," Tyrion replied, his voice steady. "Let me write to her. Let her prove herself against the dead, and then we can help her in her claim. If she can demonstrate that her dragons can truly vanquish the threat we face, then we can rally the North and beyond to her cause. It's a gamble, but one that might pay off."
Ned, still processing the idea, crossed his arms, deep in thought. "And if she refuses? If she sees the dragons as her means to power and nothing more?"
Tyrion shrugged, unperturbed by the question. "Then we'll know she's not the ally we hoped for. But she is coming to Westeros regardless. It's better to engage with her now than to wait for her to land with an army and dragons, expecting fealty without understanding the stakes."
Jon looked at Robb, gauging his reaction. "This isn't just about the North. It's about the future of all of us. The longer we wait, the more we risk losing everything. Daenerys could be the key to fighting back the darkness."
"And how do we approach her?" Ned asked, breaking into their thoughts. "What if she sees us as a threat rather than an ally?"
Tyrion smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I'll ensure she knows that we come with open hands, not weapons drawn. I can write to her personally, explain the situation, and offer our assistance. Daenerys is not like her ancestors. She seeks to do right by her people, and if we can convince her that our enemies are the same, she may just listen."
Jon nodded, the plan starting to take shape. "If we're going to do this, we need to present a united front. We should emphasise the importance of this alliance and how it could benefit both parties. We need to convince her that helping us fight the dead is not only noble but necessary."
Robb felt a surge of resolve as the plan solidified. "Then let's move quickly. I'll gather the necessary information about our situation, and you can draft a letter to Daenerys. Time is of the essence."
Tyrion's expression shifted to one of urgency. "I'll get to work on the letter immediately. We must be clear about the stakes involved. This isn't just about thrones; it's about survival."
Ned nodded, a deep sense of purpose emerging in the room. "We'll prepare for her response while also readying our forces. We need to be vigilant and ready for whatever comes next."
As they began to formulate their plans, a sense of determination filled the air. They were no longer just reacting to threats; they were taking proactive steps to secure their future against the encroaching darkness. The idea of dragons and the potential for an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen seemed like a distant dream, but with every passing moment, it felt more and more attainable.
Robb took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. They had a battle ahead, not just against the dead, but against the complexities of politics and trust. But he knew they were united in purpose, and that gave him hope. Together, they would fight for the living—and for the future of Westeros.