The library tower of Winterfell loomed in the predawn gloom, its narrow window slits spilling weak, ashen light onto shelves sagging under centuries of weight. I prowled the aisles, my boots scuffing dust into lazy swirls that caught the faint glow like spirits rising from the earth. The air hung thick with the musk of old parchment and cracked leather—a scent that tugged at memories from another life, days spent hunched over texts in a world far from here. My fingers grazed the spines—some smooth, some rough with age, a few etched with sharp, unfamiliar runes that sparked a flicker of curiosity. The Old Tongue, I thought, a thrill stirring beneath my ribs. Once, I'd deciphered dead languages for scholars; now, these runes whispered of the North's soul, its hidden strength.
A soft rattle of chains broke the stillness. Maester Luwin stepped from the shadows, scrolls cradled in his arms, his keen grey eyes catching my silhouette. "Robb," he greeted, his voice mild but edged with surprise. "What draws you here so early?"
I turned, flashing a grin—Robb's easy charm laced with my own restless purpose. "Sleep's a stranger tonight. Thought I'd hunt some old tales instead."
Luwin's gaze flicked to the shelf. "Those are relics, even among our records. Histories, mostly, though some bear the Old Tongue. Few can read it now," he said.
My heart quickened. "Who still can?"
"Wildlings beyond the Wall, a handful of mountain clansmen," Luwin replied, easing his scrolls onto a table with a muted thud. "It's a fading echo, lost to time."
I traced a rune with my thumb, my mind racing. If I could wield it, perhaps the wildlings might bend to my will, and ancient secrets could unravel before me. I kept my voice steady. "Anyone close who could teach it?"
Luwin's brows arched. "You wish to learn the Old Tongue?"
"Aye," I said, shrugging as if it were a passing whim, though the intent burned hotter within me. "Winterfell's built on old bones—maybe there's power in knowing them. Besides…" I leaned in, lowering my tone. "What if we used it for messages? Something only the North could understand, a tongue no southron spy could break?"
Luwin's eyes widened, a spark of intrigue flaring. "Secret messages? That's a sharp thought, Robb. The Old Tongue's rarity would cloak words well—southerners wouldn't even know where to begin."
I nodded, pressing the idea further. "Ravens get snared, parchment burns. But if our lords and bannermen spoke a tongue the North alone holds, we'd bind ourselves tighter. A shield of words."
The maester rubbed his jaw, his chains clinking faintly. "It'd be slow—teaching even a few would take months. But it could work, a cipher of sorts, rooted in our blood."
"Do it," I said, my tone firm but warmed with Robb's charm. "Find that tutor. Start with me—I'll carve out the time."
Luwin studied me, a smile ghosting his lips. "You're full of notions lately, Robb. Fortifying the wards, now this. What's stirring in that head?"
I chuckled, slipping into Robb's lightness. "Maybe I've just got too much time before breakfast."
The maester's amusement lingered as he turned to his scrolls. My grin faded, thoughts coiling inward. The Old Tongue could sway clans, shield plans, unearth prophecies. I'd claim it, whatever the cost. The North's survival hung on such edges.
The forge roared with life, a furnace of heat and noise that devoured the morning's chill. Flames danced in the hearth, casting jagged shadows across racks of steel—blades and spearheads glinting like fangs in the firelight. The air bit with the tang of molten iron and sweat, a scent I knew from battlefields of my past life. Mikken, Winterfell's weathered blacksmith, loomed over his anvil, hammer striking sparks from a glowing blade. His soot-stained face barely twitched as I approached, his eyes fixed on his craft.
"Lord Robb," Mikken rumbled, not pausing his swing. "Come to check the steel?"
"Something like that," I replied, my voice cutting through the clangor. I lifted a spear, testing its heft with a grip honed by practice. "Armory holding strong?"
Mikken snorted, dragging a sleeve across his brow. "Strong as Winterfell's walls—been so for ages. We've blades aplenty, and I'm forging more. Need better hands, though—these lads are soft."
I scanned the forge, counting swords and axes. Enough for raiders, but not for the legends we'd need to become. I kept my tone easy. "You've been here long, Mikken. Your kin have hammered for the Starks since… what, the First Men?"
The hammer stilled. Mikken straightened, squinting through the haze. "Aye, since the old days. My line's Northern to the marrow, same as yours, Lord Robb. Served Winterfell since the stones were laid."
My lips twitched. Loyalty's bred in. "So your craft's old too—passed down like the Starks' oaths. Know any tricks from before the Andals?"
Mikken's chest swelled faintly. "Some. Tales say my great-grandsire stoked fires for Brandon the Builder himself. We've kept the ways—iron's our blood."
Good. Roots that deep don't snap. I stepped closer, voice low. "Ever worked Valyrian steel?"
The blacksmith's eyes lit with a flicker of awe. "Once—your father's Ice. Light as a whisper, cuts like a scream. Why ask?"
"Curiosity," I said, though my mind churned. It slays the dead. We'll need more. "What of dragonglass?"
Mikken scratched his matted beard. "Obsidian? Tricky stuff—shatters easy. Good for arrowheads, maybe a dagger. What's this about?"
"Old stories," I deflected, offering a half-smile. "Might be wise to stock some. Quietly."
Mikken grunted, resuming his pounding. "Can ask traders—Dragonstone's got it. Won't be cheap."
"See it done," I said. "No noise about it." My gaze snagged on a plain dagger cooling by the forge, its edge sharp despite its rough state. "That claimed?"
"Yours if you want it," Mikken muttered, focused on his anvil. "Needs wrapping, but it's sound."
I slid the blade into my belt, its weight a cold comfort. For bastards who bite too close. I stepped into the courtyard, the forge's din fading, my thoughts already shifting.
The godswood stretched wide and silent, a cathedral of twisted roots and snow-dusted earth. I knelt before the heart tree, its white branches clawing at the dusk sky, its carved face weeping red beneath hollow eyes. The air carried pine and wet loam, a stillness that pressed against my skin. I held no faith—Robb's gods were shadows to me, and my old world had little use for prayer—but this place offered solace, a space to wrestle with my own mind.
I sank to my knees, the frost biting through my wool, and shut my eyes. Robb's echoes flickered—boyish vows, whispered fears—but I shoved them aside. Reach for it, I urged myself. Warging danced in the tales, Bran's gift threading through beasts. If it slept in Robb's blood, I'd wake it. I steadied my breath, stretching my senses into the dark.
Minutes bled into a haze. A leaf rustled, then—a jolt. I smelled fur, felt snow crunching under paws, saw a grey streak darting through the trees. My pulse leaped. Grey Wind? No, that wasn't right—he wasn't born yet. Perhaps his mother, unclaimed by that stag. I reached for it, but the thread snapped, leaving me gasping. It's there, I growled to myself, anger flaring. I'll damn well find it, no matter how long it takes.
I opened my eyes, meeting the weirwood's stare. "I'll be back," I rasped, a promise to the tree, to myself. "Every day till it bends."
Standing, I brushed off my cloak and caught a stableboy's fleeting bow at the grove's edge. I squared my shoulders, aware of the image of Robb Stark myself, praying like a true son of the North. Let them whisper, I thought. It ties them to me.
A wolf's howl keened on the wind with what I thought was also an owl's hoot on the wind, faint but sharp. My hand settled on the dagger, my jaw tightening. Roose Bolton with his psychopathic bastard Ramsay's plots, wildling and free folk banding together the war, the five kings as well as Daenerys and her dragons, the insatiable dead lurking beyond the wall, all these future events were soon to be closing in. In these ancient woods, I'd have to sharpen myself be a scholar, warrior, once more in a new world and perhaps even a warg. The North demanded nothing less, and I'd rise to meet its call or die yet again before I gave up on this chance of opportunity I pledge once more to myself.