The dawn broke cold and grey over Winterfell, a thin mist curling around the castle's stone walls like the breath of some ancient beast. I slipped from the keep before the household stirred, my cloak pulled tight against the chill. My mother named me Robb Stark in this life, and that name felt heavier every day. I led my horse from the stables—a sturdy bay mare with a steady gait—and passed through the eastern gate without a word to the guards. Their nods were enough; these early rides had become my quiet ritual.
The Wolfswood swallowed me as I rode, its pines rising tall and dark, their needles glistening with frost. The air was sharp, laced with the scent of sap and damp earth, filling my lungs with a clarity I craved. Here, beyond Winterfell's clamor, I could think—really think—without the weight of eyes or expectations pressing in.
I let the mare set her own pace, her hooves thudding softly against the forest floor. The rhythm steadied me, and my mind unfurled like a scroll, tracing the threads of what was and what might be.
Winter was coming. I'd heard the words a thousand times, felt them sink into my bones since I became Robb Stark. But I knew their truth stretched beyond Stark tradition. The snows would deepen, the winds would howl, and beyond the Wall, shadows would stir. A lifetime ago, I'd watched it unfold on a screen: the White Walkers, the Long Night, the ruin of the North if no one stood ready. I'll be ready, I vowed silently, my grip tightening on the reins. But I couldn't show my hand too soon.
The memory of my talk with Mikken flickered through my mind—dragonglass, the black stone that could pierce the dead. I'd asked too eagerly, I realized now. Mikken was a smith, not a merchant with far-flung contacts. He might hammer steel into blades, but dragonglass was a rarity, whispered of in tales from Dragonstone or the Wall. A misstep, I thought, my jaw clenching. I'd overreached, and Mikken likely had no leads to offer. Better to let it lie for now—perhaps he'd mention it later, a passing regret about rumors and dead ends.
I nudged the mare onward, her breath puffing white in the cold. My plans needed patience, layers built slowly like the walls of Winterfell itself. The Old Tongue was one piece, a key I'd pried from Winterfell's dusty tomes. The language of the First Men could bind the North in ways banners never would—a cipher for secret councils, a bridge to the wildlings if it came to that. But I'd keep its full purpose close, letting others see it as a lord's curiosity, not a soldier's stratagem.
Then there were the mountain clans. My thoughts lingered there, heavy with possibility. In that other life, I'd seen Robb march south with his bannermen, leaving the clans untapped—fierce fighters who'd sworn to the Starks since the days of the First Men. A waste, I mused, my eyes narrowing. The clans were one of the North's oldest and fiercest resources, their loyalty forged in blood and hardship. If I could call them when the time came, they'd be a wall against Bolton knives and wildling spears alike.
And it wasn't just strategy. Ned's mother—my grandmother now—had been a Flint of the mountains. Lyarra Stark's blood ran in my veins, a tie to the clans I could wield. A tutor, I thought, the idea taking root. Someone from her kin could teach me the Old Tongue, strengthen Winterfell's bond with the hills. It would be a quiet move, a nod to heritage that hid my sharper intent.
The mare snorted, pulling me from my reverie as we crested a ridge. Below, the Wolfswood sprawled vast and unbroken, a sea of green and grey beneath a sky heavy with clouds. I reined her in, letting the silence settle. The North was mine to protect, but it would take more than swords. It would take roots, deep and unseen, to hold against the storm.
Winterfell's towers loomed as I returned, the midday sun a faint glow behind the mist. I stabled the mare and made for the godswood, my boots crunching on fresh snow. There, I found Ned seated on a gnarled root before the heart tree, its red leaves stark against the white. The greatsword Ice lay across his knees, its Valyrian steel gleaming faintly as he drew a whetstone along its edge. The rhythmic scrape-scrape filled the air, a steady pulse in the godswood's stillness.
I paused at the clearing's edge, watching. His hands moved with care, each stroke deliberate, his brow faintly furrowed. He sharpened Ice to calm his mind, I knew—a ritual to sift through thoughts too heavy for words. Today, those thoughts were of me—and the changes he'd seen since the fall. Good changes, judging by the faint curve of his mouth, a pride that softened the lines of his face.
"Father," I called softly, stepping forward.
He looked up, his grey eyes steady. "Robb," he said, lowering the whetstone for a moment. "Back from your ride?"
"Aye," I replied, closing the distance. "The woods were quiet today."
He nodded, resuming his work with a slow scrape. "Good for thinking. You've been doing a lot of that lately."
I caught the undertone—approval, warm and unspoken. I seized the thread, keeping my tone light. "I've been wondering about our roots. Grandmother—Lyarra—did she ever talk about the mountains?"
His hand paused mid-stroke, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. "She did. Born a Flint, raised in the high hills. She'd say the wind there carried voices the lowlands never hear."
"Sounds like she belonged there," I said, settling onto a nearby root. "Do we still have kin among them? The Flints, or the clans?"
"Aye, distant now," he said, his voice low over the whetstone's rhythm. "They're loyal, though—Lyarra's name holds weight. Why ask?"
I shrugged, casual but deliberate. "Just thinking about the old ways. The Old Tongue, maybe—it could honor her, the older generations. Or…" I let the words hang, then added, "It could be a way to speak privately, keep our councils close."
His brow lifted, the whetstone stilling. "Privately?"
"A tongue only the North knows," I said, my tone soft but edged with intent. "A shield against ears we don't trust. Or a tribute, to show the clans we remember."
He rubbed his beard, considering. "It's rare enough to be a cipher. And the clans… they'd take it as respect, a Stark speaking their blood's tongue." He resumed sharpening, the scrape quieter now. "You've grown and matured in more than a few ways, Robb. I see it more every day."
My chest warmed at that, Robb's pride mingling with my own. "I'm learning," I said, a half-smile tugging at my lips. "From you, mostly.""My inner thoughts were happy at his praise but I knew what would happen to him later and it would be easier for me and everyone else if out of all the fates I changed his would stay the same yet another northern martyr to die in the south but it would only help my cause and make it safer for everyone not just the north later on so I finished my thoughts hopping that their was some honor in that.
A low chuckle escaped him, rare and rough. "Your grandmother would of said it's her blood in you. Fierce as she was—could've tamed a direwolf with a look."
My thoughts snagged on that. A direwolf. My future bond with Grey Wind, the Stark sigil—could it echo in the clans? Is there a warg among them? I wondered. A young clasman Icould foster from the mountains, kin through Lyarra, might carry that old blood—warging, skinchanging, something to bind the North tighter. It was a faint hope, but worth chasing.
I masked it with a grin. "Arya must take after her, then."His smile deepened, the whetstone moving again. "Aye, she does. Lyarra's spirit, that one."
We sat in companionable silence, the scrape-scrape blending with the rustle of weirwood leaves. His pride hung between us, a quiet strength, and I felt it root deeper this bond, this life I'd claimed.