. I gave Jon a quick nod of thanks for walking with me and letting me know my guards were back. "Good luck with Arya and Dacey," I said, glancing toward the yard where they waited. "I'll handle Tom and Bernard myself."
As the two approached, I waved them over before they could speak. I wanted privacy for this—no interruptions, no eavesdroppers. The godswood was the spot: Jon was busy with Arya, Father was in his solar, and no one else would wander in. We slipped behind the weirwood, their grins already telling me half the story. Still, I needed the full tale.
How'd it go?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
Tom's grin widened. "Clean and quiet, my lord. We tracked Ramsay to the mill like you said—rumors of missing folk and bodies half-chewed by dogs led us right to him."
Bernard dipped his head. "We watched him for days. The Bastard Boys stuck close, but on the third night, he went hunting—just him, Reek, and two hounds. He let a girl loose, some poor peasant he'd snatched, gave her a head start, then set the dogs after her."
"We followed," Tom picked up. "Set up along the path with crossbows. The dogs got the girl—couldn't stop that—but when Ramsay and Reek rode by, we loosed. Two bolts in Ramsay's chest. He was dead before he hit the dirt. Reek tried to run, but we caught him and finished it."
A shadow crossed my thoughts as I pictured the girl, running for her life only to be torn apart. Guilt gnawed at me, brief but sharp—I'd sent them to stop Ramsay, but her blood was on that choice too. Yet, as the weight settled, I saw the other side: Ramsay's end now, before he could grow into the monster I knew he'd become, meant fewer would suffer that fate.
I looked at Tom and Bernard, their faces lit with quiet pride. "I wish we could've saved her," I said, voice steady but low. "Her death sits ill with me. But taking him out has spared me and the North some pain down the line.
"And the Bastard Boys?" I asked, eyes narrowing.
"Still at the mill, none the wiser," Bernard said. "They'll find out when the dogs wander back, but we were long gone by then."
A sharp wave of relief hit me—Ramsay was gone, a rabid beast put down before he could do worse. I clapped them each on the shoulder. "Well done. I knew I could count on you, and I thank you as your future lord and friend for letting me trust you with this, but remember, this stays between us." I say while handing over a small pouch of gold I'd stashed from my allowance. "You've earned it." They bowed, grins splitting their faces, and we left the godswood together.
Later, I spotted Theon on the battlements, his arrows sinking into targets with that effortless precision of his. I climbed the steps and called out, "Got time to teach a rusty archer?"
He smirked, nocking another arrow. "Think you can keep up? You've bested me in the yard, but the bow's my ground."
I gave a mock bow. "All hail the Kraken of the North, master of the bow." Once more, I used the nickname and title I wanted to catch on with Theon, hoping that by slipping it into our talks now, it'd stick later, subtly tying him closer to me. A small thread, but one that might weave him tighter into my trust—and my plans.
He laughed, his ego clearly stroked. "At least you know talent when you see it."
We started training, Theon jabbing at my stance—"Feet wider, Robb, you're not dancing with a lady"—but his pointers sharpened my shots. I'd never rival him, but I could feel the bow's promise: a scout dropped mid-stride, an enemy downed before he reached the line. Some in this world sneered at ranged weapons, calling them craven, a coward's tool. Lords and knights clung to swords and lances, honor bound to steel in hand. But I wasn't blind enough to let that chain me. Honor wouldn't stop a charging destrier or a dagger in the shadows—pragmatism would. If a bow kept me alive, I'd use it, honor be damned.
We leaned against the wall to rest, breath steadying. I nudged the talk sideways. "Been meaning to say, we haven't talked since you mentioned your grandfather. I've been reading Stark history too—thought it might give us more to share."
Theon's gaze wandered as he spoke. "Luwin gave me some Greyjoy scrolls. We once ruled the Riverlands before the Targaryens burned us out. If I ever lead the Ironborn, I would keep us strong—raiding Essos or the Summer Isles instead of fighting in Westeros and earning the hatred of all the other realms."
"Smart," I said, encouraging his thought. "Your grandfather would have been proud, and your uncle, the reader, would appreciate it too." I wanted to suggest that he write to his other blood relative, but I hoped it would happen organically as well. "You could guard trade ships too. Merchants would pay well for Ironborn strength at sea, I say."
His eyes sparked. "Been thinking that myself. Power without picking fights."
As Theon spoke, my mind turned to his father, Balon Greyjoy, and a hot rant boiled up inside me. What a bloody idiot that man was. Declaring a second rebellion and hitting the North instead of the Westerlands—what was he thinking? The North's sprawling and poor, a nightmare to hold with winter looming, and we Starks were already stretched thin in the War of the Five Kings. The Westerlands, though? Fat with gold, softer after Lannisport's last sacking by his own house, and the Lannisters too busy fighting me to guard their own backyard. In Robb's original time, he already defeated almost their entire army—Ox Cross, the Whispering Wood, and Golden Tooth—leaving only Tywin's 15,000 holed up at Harrenhal. They had nothing left to defend the Westerlands, just green boys and old men who'd scatter at the first sight of longships. If Balon had half a brain, or at least the one he used to decide on who to attack like in his last rebellion, he'd have maybe not allied with us, but have a total war nonaggression, like pact, even just long enough to raid the Westerlands and, in his own house's words, reap the spoils. Instead, he turned on the family who raised his son, all for petty pride and a misguided hatred of Ned Stark—because, like a fool, he believed Ned was why Theon was taken, when really it was his own botched rebellion that cost him everything. It was strategic madness—Lannister plot armor, more like, something George R.R. Martin conjured to keep the lions clawing. It still made my blood simmer. But I swallowed it down. Theon wasn't his father, and I could use him. If I played this right, nudged him closer with a few well-placed words, maybe he'd steer the Ironborn down a smarter path like his grandfather tried to.
After finishing the archery lesson, we continued discussing grandfathers and their legacies until Jon, Arya, and Dacey arrived for their lesson. I ruffled Arya's hair and said, "Listen to Theon—he's pretty good with a bow." I smirked at him and then gave Jon a teasing look, raising my eyebrows as if to suggest something about Dacey. Jon glared at me, his face flushing, as I wished them luck and headed for the yard.
As I made my way into Winterfell's sparring yard, descending the battlements, I noticed Smalljon Umber was hauling himself up on a pull-up bar, and as he dropped when I neared, grinning wide. "Rematch, Robb? Your drills are sharpening me—I've never seen anything like 'em. Your guards would put ours to shame. Mind if I show my lads a thing or two when I get back?"
I replied while grabbing a practice greatsword, knowing I would need the practice for when I handled the Stark greatsword, Ice, which I hoped I could convince my father not to take to the capital. I met his grin with a nod. "Of course. You're here to foster and bind our houses closer. If my lessons help, take them back to the Umbers. Every stronger Northman is a boon to the North." Let him carry my methods home, I thought. A stronger Umber force loyal to our banner strengthens us all—and keeps Smalljon tied to me. It was a small gesture, but alliances are built on such trades.
He laughed, a deep rumble. "Aye, that's the truth."
We squared off, and he came at me hard, swinging a heavy blow I barely parried, the jolt rattling my arms. He's got power, more than most, I noted, sidestepping to circle left. I slashed at his ribs, testing him. He twisted, blocking with that ox-like strength, but I was already moving—feinting high, then dipping low to tap his knee. He stumbled, grunting, and reset. Speed's my edge, I reminded myself. Keep him off balance.
Another clash: he drove me back with a wide arc, his blade whistling through the air. I ducked under, slipping to his flank. My blade nicked his side, and I darted behind, hooking his leg with mine. He hit the snow with a thud, my sword at his spine.
He laughed, brushing off snow as he rose. "You're still top dog, but I'm closing the gap."
"Top wolf," I shot back, grinning. "And you're getting faster." I clapped his shoulder, firm but friendly, and I meant what I said; every strong man's a boon to the North." And every friendly rival's a blade I can aim, I thought. His size and power surprised me; he was sometimes near as strong as me, even with him having a bigger build as well as being older, but I had speed and better footing. It was enough for now. Let him think he's close. It'll push him harder, keep him loyal.
After a few more rounds, I wiped the sweat from my brow and trudged back to my room. Hedwig, my snow owl, sat by the window on a stand for birds It was just a nicer and open version of what Master Luwin used for the crows. I had Mikken adjust an old one by basically taking the top part of the cage off and leaving the rest. I'd left small items on the ramparts last night for practicing fetching drills as well as wordless commands. I tore off bread, feeding him as I sent commands through our bond. He glided out, snagging each one and swooping back. Not perfect, but solid. I refilled his water, gave him more bread, and left, heading to Luwin for the evening, chuckling at the name I gave him, Hedwig, a little jest from Harry Potter even if this wasn't the same magical world and Hedwig was a boy, not a girl.
I met Maester Luwin to wrestle with the Old Tongue. The words scraped my throat, but I was getting it. He tapped the scroll.
"Skjoldr," he said.
"Skjoldr. Shield?"
"Correct. Vargkonungr."
"Vargkonungr. Wolf King?"
"Well done."
I echoed them, feeling their heft. This wasn't just history—I needed it for the Thenns and giants, to lock in alliances while earning their trust It'd also hide my plans from spies too if it came to it, and I could teach some people to speak or write it, looking at Luwin as he rolled up the scroll.
"You've a gift for this, Robb. Most wouldn't trouble themselves."
"It's useful," I said, shrugging.
He smiled. "A practical mind."
My thoughts turned to Benjen. As First Ranger, he understood the wildlings—respected by some and feared by others. He could carry a message to the Thenns and initiate talks early. This might help him avoid disappearing and becoming what most believed was Cold Hand. I wasn't entirely sure about that theory, but one less dead Stark was a good thing—excluding my father, of course, but that morality issue could wait for later. With Jon staying here, the Wall would need a new leader to take his place if the old Commander Jeor Mormont was still fated to die.
Benjen could be Lord Commander if I nudged him in the right direction. The next time he visited, I would play the eager nephew and heir while I ask him about the Wall and the Thenns. Hopefully, I would have already talked to my father about my idea concerning the Thenns and have Benjen act as the knowledgeable expert. But that could wait; I still had time. With my foresight and patience, I knew I could continue to change things for the better.
As my lesson with Luwin came to an end, I got up and headed to bed, reflecting on my successes of the day and my plans for the future.
I thanked Luwin and headed back. Hedwig perched nearby as I flopped onto my bed, grinning at his name again. A dumb joke, but it cut through the weight—Thenns, giants, Benjen—spinning in my head. I had time. Sleep came as the pieces settled.