A CLASH OF KINGS – CHAPTER [ 2? ] – ROBB

"A brisk autumn wind swept alongside him as Robb gleefully ran through the corridor of the Red Keep, out towards the courtyard where his friends would be waiting for him.

The tiles of the walls disappeared behind him, ever faster, as he became one with the wind. The guards were sharp contours, their plate mail and armour gleaming to the sides of the castle doors as he made his way out and onto the stairway down, giving a quick smile and nod to Lady Piper as he ran past her and skillfully avoided knocking her over. He was fast, faster than he had ever been before, and growing faste for every day. He could chase akapp easily with Gerion, who was slow enough, and Quent, who had never been strong nor fast, and he was close to tied with the others.

He was getting taller as well. Ever since the journey up to Winterfell and back he had gotten the growth spurt that Grand Maester Pycelle had said would be coming. His royal father had known it would come as well, and was thankful that he could grow to manhood before the end of summer was truly upon them.

It would not be long now, though. The blood red comet in the sky heralded the end of summer, the sword that slays the season, as Pycelle put it. From here on out, the days would begin to grow shorter, less warm, and the trees would begin to yellow. Robb had seen the first signs of it already a couple of moons back. He took it seriously, as he knew that his father would want of him, but he found that he was also curious. What woud autumn be like? Would it be as cold as it had been up at Winterfell? He had a hard time ever imagining such a thing, the sky over the Red Keep bearing a solemn grey veil, and the oak trees, lindens, junipers and palm trees of King's Landing covered in a light layer of fresh snow, but perhaps it would be so. Stranger things had happened, or so they all said.

His friends welcomed him smiling as he entered the courtyard, Ser Aron bowing routinely before him and giving him his armour for [Edric[ ] Wendwater ] to help him on with. Edric was ten years of age, small and short, but strong and alert, and most like named after King Eddard, as far as Robb knew. The Starks of King's Landing knew few high-standing friends at court more loyal to their reign than the Wendwaters of the Wendwater, apart from perhaps the Dustins and Manderlys. Lord Tristan/Triston had sworn his fealty to Eddard Stark immediately after he'd taken the throne from The Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, and had him exiled to the Wall. Lady Helaena was a friend of Queen Catelyn, and the little Haelda a constant little chippy shadow to the side of Arya, even though she mostly paid her less attention than a wayside gull, preferring the company of her Braavosi swordmaster, and practicing with her wooden swords, all of whom Haelda was terrified of.

"My prince!" Lord Triston called out, just then, as a spectator. "The red comet promises the coming of a great warrior in you, who will shed the blood of his enemies with Ice one day, just like your royal father."

"I thank you, Lord Triston", Robb said gratefully, "though I do not know if stars fall for men, even for princes. My royal father says it is for the coming winter that the sky is painted so red."

"Your father is wise, as ever. His words, and yours, ring true. Even so", Lord Tristan went on, "His Grace shall need the help of his son to grow strong in his footsteps before long. Good battle!"

"To good battle", Robb replied with a bow, lowering his visor and stepping into the ring to face off against Gerion, as so many times before. The others would give him no match. After he had bested his friend Buckwell, if so he did, he would spar against Ser Aron, and that would prove far more challenging. But the day was young, the sky was bleeding as red as the leaves of the weirwood tree they had seen up at Winterfell, and Prince Robb Stark felt the bloodlust coming on inside him, as little Edric counted down the numbers.

"Three... Two... One... Charge!"

Robb and Gerion smashed together, blade against blade, armor against armor.

He always began it hard, just like this, only to topple over from some stupid mistake later on. Robb knew the game all too well by now, though it tired him the same. It was nigh impossible to make his huge, stocky friend fall over. His legs were as if they had been created from the very stone he stood on. Instead, Robb relied on surprise tactics and finding the small gaps in his defence which came with much jumping around and zig-zag parrying. If he could get a hit or two in he would make him angry, or confused, or both, and then he'd have his chance coming. Ser Aron taught the same techniques to Gerion, of course, but he seldom listened.

…

When they were done with the first match, Roderick Dustin came over to join them. Nineteen years of age, he was a man grown, although young, but still would come to training from time to time. Robb was happy for it. He had always looked up to the older boy, ever since they had been little.

"Your Grace", he said, as he nodded towards Robb. He met the greeting enthusiastically.

"Roderick!", he smiled.

"Ser Roderick, now, isn't it?" Gerion teased.

"Indeed", Robb agreed. "I was glad to see that you were knighted. You deserve it more than anyone", he commended his friend, who he saw to all the world as an older cousin, someone whom he had always looked up to.

Roderick was usually somewhat stiff, as he was in charge of being the lookout of his father's tower in the castle, apparently sleeping only four hours every night, but out here in the sunshine of the courtyard at least, he managed to for once silen down to a type of measured calm.

"I thank you, my prince", he said. "I am sure that the honour will be given to you in soon time as well. Your Grace has always had steady ground to stand on, and your father's strength, but now... Your wolf Grey Wind has certainly enhanced your powers and concentration, ever since you returned from Winterfell."

"Had you noticed that much, eh?" Gerion said. "Some of the washerwomen name him shapeshifter when they think he's not listening." He laughed raucously, slapping Robb on the back. "Though you northmen have a far better name for it, do you not?"

None of them spoke a word. It was not a pleasant word, not a polite one, as his royal father had made clear to him many years ago. Instead, Quentyn came to their rescue and glanced politely over to the next topic.

"Do you have a new sword as well, Roderick?" He inquired.

"I do", he confirmed, his temper level. "My lord father thought it only right that I have one made with our sigil on the hilt, now that he has been raised to His Grace's Small Council."

His father had said more than that, praised him, surely, supposed Robb, but Roderick was humble as ever, and his severity shone through whatever pride he would have.

He would not allow himself to feel successful of his and Lord Dustin's mission of guarding their family until even Bran and Rickon had reached manhood, or until the Lannisters had left court for good, Robb suspected, whichever of those things would come first.

"You are most welcome, my young ser", the master-at-arms told Roderick. "Would you like to show the prince and his friends how to do the footwork?" He asked, in his sultry southern tone of mirth.

"Of course", Roderick nodded, as Ser Aron handed him a practice blade and shield.

…

The sun hung high over the courtyard of the Red Keep, casting warm light over the hard stone ground as the clang of practice swords filled the air. The five young men stood in a loose circle, each gripping a wooden training sword, their tunics damp with sweat.

Santagar watched them with a keen eye, arms folded over his chest.

"Again," he commanded. "Your enemy will not wait for you to catch your breath."

Roderick adjusted his stance, his grip firm on the hilt of his practice sword. "Gerion, your wrist is too loose. If this were a real fight, you'd have lost your fingers by now."

Gerion Buckwell grinned, rolling his shoulders. "Aye, but my fingers are still here, aren't they? Maybe I'm just lucky."

Robb chuckled, giving Gerion a playful shove. "Luck won't save you when you're facing iron, Buckwell."

Quentyn, standing beside Robb, laughed softly, though he remained quieter than the others. He adjusted his grip as he watched the others, eyes darting between their movements.

Joffrey, slightly apart from the group as always, twirled his practice sword in his hands. "Luck or not, it's skill that makes a great warrior. Not endless chatter."

"Then show us some skill, Joff," Robb smirked, stepping forward. "Come, let's see if the great Lannister heir has the bite to match his words."

Joffrey's golden hair glistened under the sun as he lifted his chin. "Fine," he snapped, stepping into a ready stance. "Let's see how well the Stark prince fights."

Ser Aron clapped his hands. "A bout then. First to land a solid strike wins. The rest of you—watch their footwork."

The two circled each other, training swords raised. Robb moved with steady confidence, his steps firm, while Joffrey danced on the balls of his feet, flicking his sword experimentally.

Roderick murmured to Gerion and Quentyn. "Joffrey moves well, but he favors flourish over form. He'll leave himself open."

Gerion snorted. "Aye, bet you three silvers he swings wild and gets himself caught."

Quentyn smirked. "I'll not take that bet. We both know how this ends."

Joffrey lunged, aiming a quick jab at Robb's side. Robb sidestepped, knocking the strike away with ease. Joffrey swung again, harder this time, but Robb met the blow, twisting his wrist to deflect the momentum.

Joffrey snarled, stepping back to regain his balance, but Robb seized the opening. He moved in, quick as a direwolf, and rapped Joffrey's ribs with a solid whack of his practice sword.

Joffrey gasped, staggering back, his face twisting in anger.

Ser Aron raised a hand. "Point to Stark. You lost control of your balance, Lannister."

Joffrey glared at Robb, his face red with frustration, but Robb only grinned and extended a hand. "You fight well, Joffrey. Just keep your feet planted."

Joffrey hesitated, but then took his hand, glowering.

Gerion leaned in toward Quentyn, whispering. "Called it. You owe me nothing."

Quentyn chuckled, while Roderick sighed, shaking his head. "Come on. We've more training to do."

Ser Aron nodded. "Enough boasting. Back to practice. Next time, I expect better from all of you."

The young men readied their stances once more, as the clang of training swords rang through the courtyard again.

...

They drove a few more sparrings, as Ser Aron watched their footwork with the intensity of a Dornish sand hawk, before finishing up with some light pikework.

...

Just as they were about to call the training off and head towards the armory, Ser Dontos Hollard suddenly came out from behind the corner of a wall, as drunk as any man he'd seen, stumbling along the cobblestones with his trousers halfway down.

...

"Summer wine", Ser Aron said, shaking his head as Gerion laughed.

"Summer will soon be over", [ ] said. "The days are growing shorter ever slower. His Grace's words ring true. Winter is coming."

"How long can one summer drag on for? It has already been more than nine years."

"Ten, almost. It is more than any summer in living memory. Almost more than in recorded history as well. Though I would ask the Grand Maester about that. He knows better."

"It will end", Robb declared, in a decided tone, "even if we do not wish for it to be so. Will it not, Ser Aron?"

He looked to the side of the master-at-arms to get his confirmation. The Dornish knight nodded.

"I have seen many winters and summers come and go. Or, well... More than you all have, at the least. The summer that we are in now has went on for most of your royal father's reign. But yes, Your Grace, even this one will come to an end. The question is only whether it will be in this year, or in the next one, or in the next after that...-"

"What do you think, then?" Gerion urged. "What is your guess?"

"I do not guess or bet upon the season, my lord", Ser Aron said. "That is up to the maesters to count, and to consult with their instruments, and their charts, and to decide. I am no betting man."

"But if you were a betting man, what year would you say?" Gerion insisted.

"Who cares?" Joffrey interrupted, in his usual impetuous tone. "There is no point in betting. He couldn't foresee the death of his own bloody people at a banquet. And neither can any of you. Who's to say that he wasn't even in on it himself as well? It was Dornish wine who killed them, or have you already forgotten?"

The courtyard became deahtly silent at those words.

"I would rather much like to have an apology out of you, if you please", Ser Aron said slowly, deliberately, his tone as posion, like a snake slowly gathering up its coils behind its neck to prepare for an attack.

"And I would have an admittal out of you that you were in knowledge of that bloody wine master!" Joffrey retorted. "You killed your own people. Those Dornish boys. And my father's bannermen, the Braxes. And you killed the Princess Sansa's friend as well!"

"My lord of Lannister, you forget yourself", Robb said in an icy tone, trying – and barely having to try – in order to emulate his father.

"It seems young lord Joffrey is quite out of his better mood for the day", Ser Aron commented. "Your sword, boy. Give it here, and return back to your chambers for the moment."

"'Boy'?" Joff was outraged. "You call me boy? My father is Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Hand of the King. You will address me better if you want to lay your filthy Dornish hands on my blade!"

"But of course. Your fine golden sword, if you would, my lord."

The mime on Joffrey's face looked like a heinous mixture of scowling, anger, regret and shame. He was no doubt mortified, as he was wont to be, and angry, angrier than last time, as every time.

"Fine! Here, have it!" He shouted, as he gave the sword away to Santagar. "I don't need my sword anyway! My father can have a thousand golden swords freshly forged from Casterly Rock if I ask him!"

"See to it that you do, then, my lord", Ser Aron replied, caressing his thin dark moustache.

"Bah!" Joffrey smashed through the wooden gate of the courtyard, thrashing and throwing away his armor and gear to the servants by the side all the while scowling and muttering curses high and low.

"No surprise there", Gerion commented. "That's a pure and proper bastard for you."

"A what?" Robb asked him, unsure if he had heard his friend's words right.

"A bastard", Gerion said, putting emphasis on the word. "The golden bastard of Casterly Rock."

"A bastard...", Robb mumbled to himself, echoing the word.

"A Lannister", Quentyn corrected him, his mood as black and sour as a rain cloud about to burst.

"A boy", Ser Aron judged, surmising the entire situation for what it was.

"He may be insolent, but he is but the youngest of you all still. The smallest rooster in the coop is always the one who struts about the most. There is no helping it, it is the way of nature. And he will not grow stronger, more balanced, or more chivalrous for his years if he cannot harness his anger in the right way here. You will all need to be better to him, if we are to avoid such things as this."

"Better to him? He's the worst prick I've ever encountered in all my life!" Gerion shot out, incredulous.

"That may be so, but his father is the Hand of the King to His Grace. We do not want any more bloodshed in the Red Keep, after what has already happened."

Robb stood surprised at how Ser Aron could keep his calm so well, even after Joffrey had offended his entire people and land. Santagar's mood felt like a coiled viper, he mused, as still as the sand of the ground but always ready to strike if the need would arise.

Gerion muttered something inaduble about gold and fools before throwing his sparring gloves away and giving a spit at the ground.

Robb stood a long while staring at the back of Joffrey's golden tunic as he walked off, in towards the castle again, probably to meet up with his small-statured uncle, the Imp, who was now Master of Whispers, as well.

Bastard... he thought. Lannister, like his father and uncle, both of them our honoured guests...

No, a boy. He decided in the end. Ser Aron was right. He was only a stupid young boy. And he will never get his little wretched hands on my sister."