Chapter Text
AS SON OF the Warden of the North, Robb had been well-schooled in the way of Winter. It came slowly, so slowly that it was often missed until the last. Until it was too late. 'Winter is coming' — the words of the Stark family, which he knew well. His father uttered them more and more every day, under his breath when he thought none could hear. But Robb did. And he wondered.
He was the eldest of the Stark children, a strapping lad of sixteen with short curls the hue of conkers in the Summer. For Winterfell town and its surrounding estates, he was considered the pride and joy of the North.
He stood there now, in the courtyard of his castle home. His keen blue eyes followed the whistling of an arrow through the chill air. It landed in the ground, just short of the woven target. Bran, his younger brother of only ten years, lowered his bow and stamped, frustrated by another miss. They had been at it for an hour now. Arrows littered the mud before them. Ever a Stark, the boy refused to give up.
Robb had never been much for archery himself. He always preferred the dull weight of a sword, favouring strength over accuracy. This was yet further, undeniable proof that he was his father's son. The thought of getting to hold his legendary greatsword, Ice, once a day secretly thrilled him. It was almost as tall as him and as wide as his wrist, forged of the strongest and most precious metal of all: Valyrian steel.
It was starting to grow cold — colder than he liked, even in a land where snow fell more often than not — and his feet were starting to ache from standing idle. Still, he did not say a word, arms folded across his leather tunic.
It was Jon who gently grasped the boy's shoulders and urged him on. The second eldest, he looked more Stark than any of the siblings, with brown hair and eyes like a stormy sky. He could not bear the name, though, and carried the Snow title like every other bastard of the North. "Go on, Father's watching." The two looked up to the beamed balcony, where their Lord father stood in his great fur cloak, beside his wife. She was a Tully by blood and the source of Robb and his other siblings' features. "And your mother."
The young boy sighed and nocked another arrow. This one missed, too. This time, the brothers failed to stifle their laughter. Even little Rickon, perched on a saddle astride the paddocks, burst into a fit of giggles.
"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" their father enquired. Though Robb noted the hint of a smile on his face. "Keep practising, Bran. Go on."
His apprehension clearly improved, though embarrassment still tinted the tips of his ears red, partially hidden by locks down to his chin. Jon leaned in once again to encourage him. "Don't think too much, Bran."
Watching every movement, Robb finally put aside his brotherly jests to instruct him, "Relax your bow arm."
He could hear the string pull taut, the friction of it against his leather archery glove, and the dull thunk of the target's piercing.
All turned their attention at once to the little girl hidden in the paddocks — Arya, the wildest of the children and often the victim of his mother's worst nagging. She lowered her bow and Bran cried out in indignation, lunging for her. With hearty laughter, Jon called after them, "Run, Bran!"
"Faster!" Robb cheered. But his amusement faded quickly.
His parents no longer watched. Their backs were turned, their attention on the grave words of the master-at-arms. Ser Rodrick Cassel's round face was reddened from haste, forming an even stronger contrast with the white sideburns he had grown out and knotted below his chin. It was often subject to the others' secret ridicule but Robb couldn't help his fondness towards the man who had trained him since boyhood. Whatever news he brought, it could not be good.
They rode out within the hour, under the grey direwolf banner of House Stark — the boys; their father; Cassel; Jory, son of the master-at-arms and captain of the guard; and Theon Greyjoy, a sly boy from the Iron Islands, come as a ward to their house years ago.
Robb knew the proceedings well. He had been coming to the cutting tree since his fourteenth nameday. It was a fallen trunk in the hill beyond his home, a dent honed into its middle and stained by the blood of every deserter of the Night's Watch. Any man who abandoned his post at the Wall was bound for execution. There had been more incidents recently.
This time, Bran rode with them, too, on his pony. The brothers watched as the deserter was marched forward. Robb could not be sure, but he thought the man may have been muttering to himself. His hair was once blonde, now greasy and plastered across his bloodied, grimy face. He could not have been much older than himself.
"I know I broke my oath," he stammered out. "I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them, but... I saw what I saw. I saw the White Walkers."
It was the first time Robb heard that name outside of a fairytale. Old Nan had a taste for storytelling and would beguile the children with the myths of the realm. The White Walkers were the worst, most fearsome of all. But only fiction. So he was unsure as to why his father and Cassel seemed to pale at the news.
"People need to know. If you can get word to my family, tell them I'm no coward. Tell them I'm sorry."
His father simply nodded to the guards on either side of the deserter. They forced him to his knees and pushed his head onto the tree. Theon pulled back the scabbard so that his father could take out Ice. It had not known battle since Robb was an infant, now an instrument of execution. Its tip dug into the rocky ground below as Ned Stark took his own pledge. Robb watched closely, knowing that it would one day be his duty. "In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, first of his name..."
Behind him, he heard Jon's warning to their brother. "Don't look away. Father will know if you do."
"King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and protector of the realm... I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."
The blade fell as quick as a Summer storm. It sliced through flesh and bone like nothing. Robb ignored the twisting of his gut and thought of home.
It was done. "You did well," Jon said. Turning, Robb saw Bran's eyes still fixated on the body and nudged his shoulder, guiding him back down the hill to where their horses grazed.
The ride back home was quiet. None felt like discussing what they had witnessed, not even the deserter's bizarre confession. Whatever truth laid behind it, it disturbed his father's usual stoicism. Behind him, Robb could see the tensing of his broad shoulders beneath his fur cloak and the hanging of his head.
A call up ahead brought their party to a sudden stop, still in the thick of the forest. A body lay at the end of the old stone bridge. The weight of the stag's great antlers forced its head to the side and its empty eye stared back at Robb. A great tear in it bared the mess of its innards to the leaf-scattered ground.
"Mountain lion?" Theon helpfully offered.
Father shook his head. "There are no mountain lions in these woods."
He led the way and the boys dutifully followed. Down the bank of earth that sloped beside the bridge, they found another body. Robb was sure he had forgotten to breathe. The creature was stretched out on the forest floor, longer than he was tall and three times as wide. Its shaggy maw had been stained red with the pleasure of a last meal. What had killed the direwolf was obvious — the shard of an antler embedded deep into its side. The blood seeped steadily into the creek beside it. Movement caught his eye.
Hastening down the rest of the slope, his hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed sword, his lips parting to warn his father and brothers away from the beast. He could now see the source of the movement. A litter of cubs nestled at its breast. They were not so young, their fur grown. They nuzzled their little heads against their fallen mother but likely would not find the comfort they sought.
None of the men could muster a word. Only Theon, eager to run his mouth. "It's a freak."
"It's a direwolf," Father corrected. "Tough old beast." He patted it almost apologetically and pulled the prong free.
Robb still could not believe the sight before him. "There are no direwolves south of the Wall," he said, though he knew this to be proof of his misgivings.
Jon was always curious, and far more ready to accept truths Robb struggled even to fathom. "Now there are five." He plucked a pup from the litter. "Do you want to hold it?"
Their little brother did not get a chance to say aye or no before it was placed in his arms. "Where will they go? Their mother's dead."
Wary as ever, Cassel spoke up, "They don't belong down here."
Father agreed. He took up his greatsword. "Better a quick death. They won't last without their mother."
Jumping down from the bank, Theon took out his dagger. "Right, give it here."
The boy cried out when he snatched the cub from him. "No!"
Despite his initial guardedness, the sound of such upset stirred something protective inside Robb. "Put away your blade," he snapped.
"I take orders from your father, not you."
"Please, Father!"
He took no pleasure in the thought of it, that was clear. Robb often wondered, though he knew it impertinent, how such a gentle man had ever succeeded in battle. He assumed one had to be cruel to be ruthless. The father he knew didn't seem to be either. "I'm sorry, Bran."
Before he could turn away, Jon called for him. "Lord Stark. There are five pups, one for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is a sigil of your house. They were meant to have them."
All looked to the Lord for his decision. He had never been able to deny his children. "You will train them yourselves," he decided with a long sigh. "You will feed them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves."
Robb still hesitated, but with a nod from his father, he stepped closer. All of his doubts melted away when he took one of the pups into his arms. It was light and small. Still squinting with infancy, it butted its head softly into his chest, searching for food in the pelt of his cloak. He tightened his hold on it.
He passed the next two to Theon and kept the third, too. It licked its lips and shielded a yawn behind soft paws, almost delicately. He decided it would do well for his sister. Hesitating, Bran looked to Jon. After the theft, he hugged his pup close. "What about you?"
"I'm not a Stark. Get on."
They started up the hill. Another sound stopped Jon in his tracks, a whimpering. Robb peered curiously at the crop of rocks to which he had reached. "What is it?" He pulled out a final pup that had somehow managed to crawl away from the rest. Unlike the others, it was white with pinkish eyes.
Theon snickered. "The runt of the litter. That one's yours, Snow."
Two weeks passed. The cubs grew fast, almost double their size. Robb had taken a stronger liking to his than he expected. It knew him so well that he hardly needed to bother with training. Every command was anticipated, he needed only look in a direction and his companion would dash there, so fast that he seemed just a streak of grey. For this, he named him Grey Wind.
Jon's was silent, following in his wake without a sound. He stood out, whiter than snow. Fittingly, he became known as Ghost.
Sweet Sansa declared hers a twin, dainty as her, and knew her as Lady on sight. She was the only one to follow their mother's rules and keep the wolf at the foot of her bed rather than sleeping beside it like some uncivilised Wildling.
Bran did not yet know a name for his but it followed wherever he went. So did little Rickon's Shaggydog, who howled at the moon like a wild beast, much to the child's amusement.
And Arya had taught hers to fetch and chase, swearing that one day she would ride it to battle and make the Stark ancestors proud. She named hers after the fierce warrior queen of old, Nymeria.
News came not long after the execution, telling of Jon Arryn's passing. He had been close to Father and the news greatly troubled him, more so the knowledge that the King himself would be coming to visit. Robb was not yet a man but he had been trained in the doings of a lord and warden. It was clear to him what the true purpose of the visit was. Arryn was the Hand of the King, and with him dead, a new one was required. No doubt it would be his father's calling.
The thought filled him with apprehension. With a new job to attend to, he did not know if he would find himself appointed the new Warden of the North before long. He had always wanted it, but not so soon.
He still worried over it when the day of the visit came, though he never let on to a soul. He sat in the warmth of the bustling kitchen, neck craned for a servant to shave away the stubble he had grown out. The bareness of his jaw felt strange, and he tried not to see any sort of metaphor in the sensation of the sharp blade against his throat.
Awaiting his turn, Jon shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Why is your mother so dead set on us getting pretty for the King?"
Theon winked jovially. "It's for the Queen, I bet. I hear she's a sleek bit of mink. Or the princess. Maybe your father's already on the hunt for more heirs."
Robb knew that particular jape was directed at him and wrinkled his nose, saying nothing. It was his brother who spoke up in confusion, "The princess? I thought she was the same age as Bran."
"Not that one, you dolt."
Eager to move on from such thoughts, Robb sighed, "I hear the prince is a right royal prick."
"Think of all those southern girls he gets to stab with his right royal prick."
He didn't understand why Theon had to be so crude. Then again, he'd heard enough about the Iron Islands to expect as much. His father had taken him to the brothel on his last nameday, as every lord must, to prepare him for the other duty he would one day be required to fulfil. And, of course, there were plenty of girls he had sated his curiosity with. Even then, he did not see why it was something to rave about.
Getting up from the stool, he clapped Jon on the back. "Go on, Tommy, shear him good. He's never met a girl he likes better than his own hair."
The King's party rode through the gates of Winterfell in their droves, horse after horse, banner after golden banner. Robb counted at least two dozen knights and still more to come. Some bore the red and gold lion sigil of House Lannister, the Queen's house, other's the black stag of House Baratheon.
He waited at his father's side, with Sansa and Bran after him and Rickon clinging to Mother's hand. She, like Sansa, wore her red hair loose with a braided circlet to keep the tresses from her face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the turning of her head. "Where's Arya?" she hissed. "Sansa, where's your sister?" The girl shrugged innocently.
The crowd behind them ruptured and a little form scurried towards them, head hidden by a rounded helmet that fell over her eyes. Father caught her before she could run past him, confiscating the armour. "Hey, hey. What are you doing with that on?"
Biting back a smirk, Robb watched her give Bran a shove so that she could take her place by her sister.
First to ride into the party was a blond boy with an unpleasantly smug face, followed by a knight in the strangest armour Robb had ever seen — the helm shaped like a dog's, with a face hidden within it's bared jaws. But what unnerved him more was the sight of his sister's blushing face, her gaze locked with the boy's.
Next came an immense wheelhouse, painted scarlet and adorned with Lannister banners. Behind it, a pitch steed. He followed his father's lead and sunk to one knee, his head bowed. Though he did not dare to look up, he could hear the King's heavy footsteps as he neared them and the beckoning of a gloved hand, telling his father to stand. Once he had done so, everyone else rose.
The King looked older than Robb had expected, and certainly larger. His hair and bushy beard were far more grey than black. Whatever pelt he wore, it looked a good deal softer and thicker than anything found in the North. He reeked of perfume and ale. Pushing all judgements aside, Robb awaited the first words of the great man he had been raised with heroic tales of. "You've got fat."
None dared to react, awaiting the Lord's response. Father simply nodded to the King's pot belly. They both started to laugh, embracing each other as old friends. He then went for Mother next, with a jovial cheer of, "Cat!"
"Your Grace," she shyly replied, taken aback by the familial squeeze.
He returned to Father. "Nine years. Why haven't I seen you? Where the hell have you been?"
"Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."
The door to the wheelhouse finally opened and a woman with golden hair alighted, holding up her silken skirts with a glare of disgust at the muddy ground. After her followed a young boy and girl. He lost track of his thoughts at the sight of the last.
Beautiful was not the word, though he was not sure if there was another to do her justice. Unlike her fair-haired siblings, long tresses cascade around her face, black as night. Delicate braids kept them from hiding her strong features — an angular jaw and high cheekbones. She could have been cut from marble.
Even as she stepped onto the ground, without a care for the dirt under her feet, her height changed little and she came a fraction taller than her mother. Robb found himself praying that she might turn her fascination from the high, stone turrets and give her attention to him instead. A crease formed between her slanted brows and eyes pierced into his, bluer than any sea he could dream of. She blinked once and her lips turned up at the corners into a shy smile. Robb did not know whether to curse the Gods or grovel at their kindness.