I woke in my chambers at Winterfell, the familiar weight of the furs pressing against me as I stirred. It had now been two weeks since I'd set my plan in motion to rid the north and myself of a future thorn in our side, Ramsay Snow, in motion, and as I lay there, staring at the stone ceiling, I couldn't help but feel a bit of pride. Things were slowly, but steadily, starting to align, yes. Today might bring news of whether my gambit with a younger, less refined Ramsay Snow had paid off. Slipping out of bed, I pulled on my tunic and boots, the floor cool but not cold beneath my feet, with the warm water pipes running through most of the walls, and the servants stoking the hearths, their efforts a quiet hum in the morning stillness.
The stone corridors of the castle were silent, save for the quiet scuttle of the few servants making their rounds, as I made my way to the mess hall. The early hour kept most of Winterfell asleep, as most did not have a set routine to wake. When I reached the hall, it was nearly empty this morning, except for Father, Maester Luwin, Jory, and a chosen servant of the household breaking their fast at this hour. I slid onto the bench beside Jory, giving him a quick nod as I grabbed a hunk of crusty bread. Across from me, Father sat with his porridge.
I tore into my bread, chewing slowly as my thoughts drifted to Tom and Bernard. Two weeks ago, I had sent them off on a "camping trip," a chance for them to get accustomed to riding and sleeping rough outside Winterfell's walls. It was good practice for when the brothers would join my retinue for travels through the North as my chosen swords. At least, that was the story. Their real task was to quietly hunt down the mad little psychopath Ramsay Snow before he could help his father stab me in the back and cause more trouble than the ironborn did during the war.
I had described Ramsay to them: pale, watery eyes, dark hair, and the twisted smirk he wore like a mask. I warned them he might not be alone; he could be with a gang or even that foul creature Reek trailing after him. Tom and Bernard were good, hard northern men, brothers from a generational, loyal Stark-serving family. I had been pushing them hard in the training yard, slipping them extra-large portions and extra attention for their trouble. They weren't the type to be squeamish about using live steel or getting bloodied during training, which is one reason I chose to keep them close. They also had a slight rise as the household and other guards knew I favored them, and they seemed inclined to stay in my very skilled and competent as well as generous good graces. Still, doubt gnawed at me. Had they found him? Had they finished it? Were two fully grown and well-trained veteran warriors enough? Father's voice cut through the haze of my thoughts. "Your guards should be back soon, Robb. A training exercise, you said?"
I swallowed my bite of bread and met his gaze, my voice even. "Aye, Father. They've been keeping up with me in their sword and endurance training in the yard lately, so I figured a week or so in the woods and going along our roads would give them a bit of Experience riding and camping to round them out and have them be able to lend me that knowledge when I start going out to see our land. They'll ride in today or tomorrow, I'd wager."
He, as well as Luwien, gave approving looks to my reminder of my original reasoning and father a short grunt, the sound of approval I'd come to recognize, and returned to his porridge. I saw my chance to nudge things further. "Father, I've been thinking about our close history recently and somewhat more about the Boltons lately. They've held faith and haven't caused much trouble since the days of the Red Kings, but we don't know them truly. Maester Luwin was telling me about Roose's son, Domeric. He's fostering in the Vale, same as you."
Father's brow lifted slightly, a silent prompt to go on. "And?"
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. As you know, "I've been studying with Luwin House Stark's older history and their ways. The first Starks married into rival houses to bind them closer, didn't they? I was thinking, what if we invited Domeric here to finish his fostering? Get another northern lord under our roof as a ward and sign of goodwill, let him join the other future lords of the next generation, and you can also see what he's made of. If he's half as honorable as the Vale made you, he might even be a match for Sansa someday."
Father's mouth quirked into a rare half-smile, his spoon pausing midair. "A match for Sansa? You have no need to think of things so many years ahead, Robb."
I grinned back, shrugging one shoulder. "Just a thought, and like I said, if he was anything like how the vale made you, he would be good for her and their union, the north, Father."
He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm in the cool hall. "Aye, there's honor in the Vale. I'll grant you that. I'll mull it over." He took another bite, then tilted his head. "And how's that Old Tongue coming? Luwin says you've taken to it."
"Slow going, but I'm getting there," I said, tearing off another piece of bread. "Bran keeps begging me to teach him, though he's more interested in the sounds than the meaning. It's mostly Luwin and me puzzling it out by candlelight. I want to know it well, as it could be one of my most useful skills one day, and bring us closer to the mountain clans."
Father studied me for a long moment as if trying to read something deeper. Then he nodded and returned to his meal. I didn't tell him the real reason I was learning it for obvious reasons. I wouldn't want them to think I was insane by telling them I really wanted to know the old tongue to recruit giants or the Thenns, who were the most advanced clan of the free folk on the north side of the wall, with their own laws and farming settlement.
I threw the rest of my breakfast down, and I pushed up from the bench, grabbing my cloak from where it hung by the door. "Fancy a spar, Jory?" I asked, swinging the light wool over my shoulders.
He smirked, brushing crumbs from his hands. "Aye, but don't expect this older man to go easy on you, though it might be better if you put some pity on me."
We stepped out into the courtyard, the air sharp and biting, snow crunching beneath our boots. The sparring yard wasn't far, just past the stables, and by the time we reached it, a few other guards had allready been gathered and training, their breath fogging in the cold. I picked up a blunted practice sword, testing its weight, while Jory grabbed one for himself. We squared off in the center of the yard, the packed snow slick underfoot.
Jory moved first, lunging with a swift strike. I parried, the wooden blades clacking loudly, and stepped to the side, swinging back at him. He blocked it, grinning as he circled me. "Faster every day," he said, his tone teasing.
"And you're slower," I shot back, ducking under his next swing. I darted forward, tapping his ribs with the flat of my blade before he could recover. He laughed, shaking his head, and came at me again, harder this time. Our swords met in a flurry of thrust, parry, and block, riposte until I caught his arm with a quick twist and sent him sprawling into the snow.
Before I could catch my breath and offer a hand, Hammond stepped up, his broad frame looming as he hefted his practice sword. "May I have a turn, my lord?" he rumbled. I nodded, and then he immediately started stepping forward with a heavy swing without warning. I spun to the left, my right foot digging into he ground to meet him, our blades crashing together with a force that jarred my arms. He was strong and built like an ox, but I was nimble and, for reasons I did not think too much about, just as strong. I feinted left, then struck right, catching his wrist and forcing his sword down. He pressed harder, trying to muscle me back, but I sidestepped, hooking his leg with mine, and with a great heave of force sent him crashing down right in the same spot as Jory did.
"Yield," Hammond wheezed, raising a hand as he lay there panting.
I offered Jory a hand up, pulling him to his feet. "Good bout," I said, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Too good probably," he replied with some ache, brushing snow from his cloak. "I'll be sore tomorrow, that's for sure, old gods, you're talented, Lord Robb."
Hammond continued to lumber up, grinning despite the fall and pain. "You've got a devil's speed, Robb. Keep that up, and no one will stand a chance."
I laughed, feeling the slight ache in my muscles as I shook out my arms. After a few rounds of pull-ups on the wooden bars I'd rigged near the yard—something to keep myself and the man in better shape I headed to the kitchens. The cook handed me a fresh loaf, still warm from the oven, with some meat allready inside, and I tucked it under my arm as I made for the godswood.
The path twisted through the trees, their skeletal branches clawing at the grey sky. Snow dusted the ground, muffling my steps, and the air carried the sharp scent of pine and wet earth. By the time I reached the heart of the godswood, my breath was steady, the quiet wrapping around me like a cloak. The weirwood stood stark and pale, its red leaves trembling in the faint breeze, and there, on a low branch, sat the snow owl. Its feathers were white as the drifts around us, its yellow eyes bright and unblinking.
I'd been coming here for days, trying to bond with the creature. Some pieces of my Bread, patience, and sitting still beneath its perch, it was a slow dance, but I could feel it working. Today, as usual, I tore off a bit of the loaf and tossed it into the air. The owl launched from its branch, wings cutting silently through the cold, and snatched the bread mid-flight. It landed a few feet away, talons sinking into the snow as it cocked its head at me.
I settled cross-legged beneath the weirwood, the bark rough against my back, and closed my eyes. Reaching out with my mind like a searching hand in the dark, frustratingly fumbling to find the switch on the wall so I could see. The wind whispered through the leaves, a crow called somewhere far off, and I pushed harder. Then, a spark of faint tingling, something new that I had never felt in my past life of meditation, like a thread brushing my thoughts. I held onto it, coaxing it stronger until it tightened into something tangible, and then a burst of color and a split-second picture of me from above, and it was gone, and my eyes opened as the owl let out a sharp hoot, wings flapping as it rose and landed on my shoulder, its talons pricking through my cloak.
I opened my eyes, a slow grin spreading across my face. The bond wasn't full skinchanging not yet, but it was there, a quiet hum of thread tying us together, a new skill worth training. I tore off another piece of bread and held it up; the owl nipped it from my fingers, its beak brushing my skin.
Snow crunched behind me, and I turned to see Jon striding through the trees, his dark cloak dusted white. He stopped a few paces off, eyeing the owl with a faint smirk. "Spent the last week trying to get that owl to like you, finally paid off, has it?" he asked, his tone light and teasing.
I grinned but didn't answer, letting the silence speak for itself. The owl shifted on my shoulder, its weight a strange comfort.
Jon stepped closer, his boots sinking into the snow. "Thought you'd want to know your guards are back. I saw them riding up from Winter Town just now. They looked pleased, laughing even. Training must've gone well."
My chest loosened, a rush of relief washing over me. If Tom and Bernard were in high spirits, it wasn't just a successful trip but a victory. Ramsay Snow was gone, cut out like a rot before he could fester. I kept my face calm, nodding as I stood, the owl shifting to stay perched. "That's good to hear. I'll head down and meet them."
Jon fell into step beside me as we left the godswood, the owl riding my shoulder like a sentinel. We walked in companionable silence, the exit from the Godswood looming closer with every step. My plans were working, Ramsay was dead, the Boltons none the wiser, and now this bond with my owl humming in my blood. The future was shown to me once on TV and in the pages of a book, but with every change I made, I wouldn't know for sure what would happen. But if I didn't change anything, it would all be the same, And I'd much rather use my knowledge before it was wasted and train repair as best I could with the butterfly effects to come but with my new owl on my shoulder and another skill under my belt as well as a successful plan perhaps completed I gave myself a mental pat on my back as I let a side escape my breath So far things are going pretty well Though I didn't see any reason for them not to I wouldn't grow complacent.