Ser Rodrik I
293 - AC
The yard of Winterfell rang with the sound of wood striking wood — sharp, rhythmic, alive. The clash echoed off the stone walls and drifted into the grey morning air, mingling with the breath of horses and the distant hammering from the smithy.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, thick fingers pressed against the leather of his belt, his good eye watching closely as the boys circled one another in the dirt.
The Wolf and the Squid.
The pair moved with the easy confidence of youth, but there was purpose in Robb's steps now, a deliberateness that hadn't been there before.
Theon was taller, older, faster in his reach and he wielded that advantage like a whip. His strikes came hard and wide, slashing arcs that would have bloodied a man's face had they been steel instead of oak. But Robb did not yield ground.
He turned, parried, and countered with the precision of a boy twice his age. His movements were controlled — no wild swings, no wasted motion.
When Theon lunged, Robb stepped aside, catching the blow on the flat of his wooden sword and twisting, forcing the other boy off balance.
Rodrik nodded to himself. "Better," he muttered under his breath.
The yard was crowded with watchers — squires, guardsmen, and servants who had paused in their chores to see the lord's son train. Above them, the banners stirred lazily in the wind, grey direwolf on white. The sky was a dull, wintry blue, though the snow had not yet begun to fall.
Six moons had passed since Robb's… illness. He still didn't know what to call it. The boy had gone to the woods one day and returned near lifeless, pale and cold as if death itself had brushed his brow. For a week, the castle had gone silent. Then, as sudden as the sickness came, it lifted.
And the Stark heir had opened his eyes.
Since then, something in him had changed. The lad still smiled — still played with his siblings, still called to the men-at-arms by name — but there was a weight behind his gaze now, something thoughtful, searching.
He spent long hours in Maester Luwin's chambers, poring over maps and histories of war, studying battles fought centuries ago. When not buried in parchment, he was in the yard.
Always in the yard.
He trained harder than any boy he had seen in years. His arms had thickened with muscle, his stance had steadied, and his strikes had grown sharper, more confident. It wasn't just skill anymore — it was purpose.
Theon feinted right and struck left, a clever move, but Robb caught it clean on his blade and shoved him back with a grunt. Theon stumbled, boots skidding on the packed dirt, his face twisting in frustration.
"By the seas, Robb," he spat, regaining his footing. "You've grown a bear's strength these past weeks."
Robb grinned, teeth flashing. "Or maybe you've grown lazy."
The watchers chuckled. Theon's answering smirk was full of pride and good humor, but his next swing came fast and fierce — hard enough that he felt it in his chest when the swords met.
And then — for the briefest moment — he saw it.
A flicker of something red at the point of impact. A wisp of smoke, faint and curling like a dying ember. Rodrik blinked, heart skipping. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of the clash.
He frowned, eyes narrowing. Surely it was the light — a trick of the sun on sweat and snow. Yet before he could think further, the sound of splintering wood filled the air.
Theon's sword broke clean in half.
The upper half spun away, landing in the dirt with a dull thud. Theon froze, staring at the jagged edge left in his hand. Robb blinked down at his own sword, still whole. Then he laughed — not the cold, sharp laugh of a victor, but the easy, familiar one of a boy among friends.
"Gods save me, Theon," Robb said between breaths, "I told you to check for cracks before you fight. You'd not last a moment in a real battle if your sword gives up faster than you do."
Laughter rippled through the yard. Theon shook his head, grinning despite himself. "Next time, I'll make sure to steal one of yours."
Rodrik allowed himself a small smile. The moment felt lighter, if only for an instant.
"Enough," he called, stepping forward, his boots crunching on frost-hardened dirt. "You both fought well enough to keep your hides another day. Theon — you're quick, but your temper blinds you. You fight to win, not to learn. Learn the difference."
Theon nodded, still catching his breath.
"And you, Robb…" his's gaze lingered a moment. "You press too close. Against a man with longer reach, you'd need to feint and draw him out, not meet him head-on."
Robb nodded, though his build was rigid and measured, thoughtful.
Rodrik dismissed them both with a wave. "Go. You've earned your rest. And if either of you break another sword this week, I'll have you both cleaning the kennels with your hands."
Theon laughed as he clapped Robb on the shoulder. Together, the two boys strode off toward the stables, their laughter echoing down the yard.
Rodrik waited until they were gone before stepping closer to where the broken sword lay. He crouched, his knees popping softly beneath his weight. The wood was split down the center — but not as it should have been. The fracture was clean and dark, almost charred. He ran a thumb along it and frowned. The grain of the wood was blackened, as though scorched by heat.
And yet there had been no flame.
He glanced toward the keep, where the faint sound of laughter drifted through the courtyards — Robb's voice mingling with Arya's.
The girl's shrill giggle carried on the cold air, followed by her shouting something about missing stitches and lines, Robb's answering laughter was softer, warmer, the sound of an older brother who knew how to play without breaking.
Further off, Bran's small figure ran after them, his short legs pumping hard to keep up. Robb stopped long enough to lift him onto his shoulders, the boy squealing in delight. Together they disappeared toward the Great hall, Arya darting ahead like a shadow.
He watched them go, a ghost of a smile on his lips. They were children again — or near enough. But even as he looked, a faint unease crept through him, cold as the wind that swept the yard.
He turned his gaze back to the broken sword, still lying blackened in the dirt.
There was a whisper of warmth against his palm when he touched the burned edge, fleeting but real. He pulled his hand back quickly, flexing his fingers as if uncertain of what he'd felt.
"By the gods, the boy grows strange everyday." he muttered.
The wind gave no answer — only the distant sound of children laughing, and the faint hiss of snow beginning to fall.
—----------
Robb III
293 - AC
The candlelight flickered low in Maester Luwin's chambers, shadows crawling like ink across the shelves of parchment and tomes. The hearth was lit, but the winter chill clung stubbornly to the stone, biting at the fingers and nose. Outside, the courtyard was muffled with a dusting of snow — the world quiet, still, wrapped in frost.
He sat by the table, his shoulders straight, his expression composed but alert. His auburn hair caught the firelight as he bent over a spread of maps and letters, sealed with wax in colors of house and allegiance — grey, green, red, and the occasional gold. Maester Luwin moved beside him, the small grey chain around his neck catching the light as he sorted through a small pile.
"You've had more correspondence this moon than your father does in a season," Luwin said, adjusting his spectacles. "It seems you've found a taste for quills and seals."
He smiled faintly, though his eyes remained fixed on the paper before him. "My father writes of duty, Maester. I write of coin."
Luwin's brow lifted. "Men do tend to lean more to one than the other."
The boy hummed in quiet agreement, picking up a sealed letter stamped with a Merman and a Trident— House Manderly.
"Some replies came sooner than I thought. Lord Wyman sends word from White Harbor — he thanks us for the timber from the wolfswood and says he'll send back a shipment of grain before the next frost. Good man."
He set it aside and picked up another. "Lord Cerwyn sent his son's greetings, and Lady Flint wrote of her daughters making a bard's song. But…" He glanced at the few unopened letters, still resting at the edge of the table. "Some haven't answered. I expected as much."
Luwin tilted his head. "And you take no offense?"
"No," He said simply. "The North moves at its own pace. The hills are long, the snows are deep. Letters take time, and trust even longer."
Luwin nodded with quiet approval. "Spoken like your father."
Robb leaned back in his chair, stretching his hands before resting them on the arms. "Perhaps. But I've also written to others — across the Neck, to the Vale, and one to Lord Redwyne in the Reach."
The maester blinked, surprised. "You've been ambitious, I see."
"I only wish to understand," He said, his tone thoughtful, calm. "Father says the North stands strong because we know our people. But I think we should also know the realm beyond us. Every man who sits a seat of power, every House that commands ships or gold. Even those who care little for Winterfell."
Luwin gave a small nod. "A fair mind for your age, my lord." He shuffled a few parchments aside and gestured to another stack of scrolls. "And what will you do when all these answers come back?"
"Read them," He said with a small smile. "And remember them."
For a while, silence filled the chamber — only the crackle of the hearth and the scratching of Luwin's quill as he marked notes in the margins of a parchment. Then, as if a thought had been lingering too long to keep, Robb spoke again.
"Maester Luwin… I've been thinking about Arya."
Luwin looked up from his writing. "What about?"
He nodded, his tone slow, deliberate. "She doesn't take well to her lessons. She says her stitches are knots and her letters are dull. She'd rather chase Bran through the yard or follow Jon to the stables."
Luwin's mouth curved into a soft smile. "She's young yet. Some girls are born with quiet hands, others with quick feet. It will balance, in time."
"Maybe," He said, though his gaze had gone distant, thoughtful. "But she needs more than lessons and scoldings. She needs a place that challenges her. I was thinking…" — he paused, choosing his words carefully — "of asking Father to send her to Bear Island. As a ward to Lady Maege Mormont."
Luwin blinked, clearly taken aback. "Arya? She's only six, my lord. A child should be with her family, not sent away across the sea and snow."
"I know," He said quickly, though his tone didn't waver. "But she might find her strength there. Maege Mormont's daughters — Dacey and Lyra — they're said to be fierce women, warriors in their own right. Arya might not like it at first, but… I think she'd come to understand. The Mormonts have been ruined by their former Lord but they are still loyal. It would strengthen ties between our Houses, and she would learn things no septa could ever teach her."
Luwin sighed softly, setting down his quill. "Your reasoning has merit, Robb. But the decision rests with Lord Eddard. Perhaps you should speak to him first before you write to Bear Island."
He inclined his head. "Aye. I will."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled in the hearth, and snow drifted softly against the window. Robb's expression was calm, but Luwin noted the way his hand absently tapped against the edge of the table — a small, restless rhythm.
The boy thought deeply now, more than he once did, and though his laughter had returned, there lingered something else beneath it — something Luwin couldn't quite name.
Finally, he broke the silence. "What lesson today, Maester?"
Luwin turned a page in his ledger and smiled faintly. "The War of the Ninepenny Kings. A fitting study for a young lord so intent on understanding the world."
He leaned forward again, his eyes sharp with focus. "Then let's begin."
And as Luwin spoke of the Stepstones and the sellswords who bled for crowns they'd never wear, the boy who would one day be Warden of the North listened intently, the firelight dancing across his face — thoughtful, solemn, and far older than his years.