Day had dawned cold and grey over Winterfell, a thin mist curling around the stone walls like the breath of some old, sleeping beast. I slipped out before the household stirred, cloak pulled tight against the chill. My mother had named me Robb after my father's late foster brother and closest friend — and after the king besides — and some mornings that name felt heavier than others. I led my horse, a sturdy bay mare with a steady gait, out through the eastern gate without a word to the guards. Their nods were enough; these early rides had already become a quiet ritual of mine.
The Wolfswood swallowed me as I rode in, tall dark pines glistening with frost, the air sharp with sap and damp earth. Out here, beyond Winterfell's noise, I could think a bit more clearly — even if most of the weight pressing on me came from nowhere but myself, from knowing too much of what was to come.
I let the mare set her own pace, hooves thudding softly against the forest floor, and let my mind unspool like a scroll, tracing what was and what still might be.
Winter is coming. I'd heard and thought the words a thousand times since becoming Robb Stark, felt them settle deeper into my bones each time. But I knew their truth ran further than Stark tradition. The snows would deepen. The winds would howl. And beyond the Wall, something would stir. I'd watched it unfold once already, on a screen and across pages — the White Walkers, the Long Night, the ruin the North would face if no one stood ready. There'd be no script this time to save anyone. I'll be ready, I promised myself, my grip tightening on the reins. But I couldn't show my hand too soon.
My conversation with Mikken circled back through my thoughts—Dragonglass — the one stone that could kill the dead. I'd pushed too eagerly there, I realized now. Mikken was a smith, not a trader with contacts scattered across the North; dragonglass was the stuff of old tales, not something he'd have any real line on. A misstep, however small. Better to let it lie and hope something useful turns up later, on its own.
I nudged the mare on, her breath puffing white in the cold. My plans needed patience — layered slowly, like the walls of Winterfell itself. The Old Tongue was one piece, pried loose from the castle's dustier shelves. The language of the First Men could bind the North tighter than banners ever had — a cipher for private councils, maybe even a bridge to the wildlings someday. But I meant to keep its real purpose close, and let everyone else see it as nothing more than a lord's curiosity about old traditions.
Then there were the mountain clans. My thoughts lingered there, heavy with possibility. In the story I remembered, Robb had marched south and left the clans behind — fierce fighters loyal to the Starks since the days of the First Men, never called on—a waste, and one of the North's oldest, most overlooked strengths. If I could bring them in when the time came, they'd stand as a wall against Bolton knives and wildling spears alike.
And it wasn't only a strategy. Ned's own grandmother — my great-grandmother — had been a Flint of the mountains. Lyarra Stark's blood ran in my veins, too, a thread I could use. A tutor, I thought, the idea settling into place. Someone from her kin could teach me the Old Tongue and strengthen Winterfell's tie to the hills at the same time — a quiet move, and one that doubled as a nod to my own heritage, hiding sharper intent beneath it.
The mare snorted, pulling me from my thoughts as we crested a ridge. Below, the Wolfswood spread out vast and unbroken, green and grey beneath heavy clouds. I reined her in and let the silence settle. The North was mine to protect now, but swords alone wouldn't be enough. It would take roots — deep, unseen ones — to hold and push against what was coming.
Winterfell's towers loomed as I rode back, the midday sun a pale smear behind the mist. I stabled the mare and made my way to the godswood, boots crunching fresh snow. I found Ned there, seated on a gnarled root before the heart tree, its red leaves stark against the white. Ice lay across his knees, its Valyrian steel catching the light as he drew a whetstone along its edge, the rhythmic scraping of a steady pulse in the godswood's quiet.
I paused at the clearing's edge, watching. His hands moved with care, each stroke deliberate, brow faintly furrowed. Sharpening Ice was how he sorted through thoughts too heavy for words, and I could guess well enough what — or who — he was thinking of today. Whatever it was, there was something like pride in the set of his mouth.
"Father," I called softly, stepping forward.
He looked up, grey eyes steady. "Robb. Back from your ride?"
"Aye. The woods were quiet today."
He nodded, the whetstone resuming its slow scrape. "Good for thinking. You've been doing a lot of that lately."
I caught the warmth under the words and kept my own tone light. "I've been wondering about our roots. Grandmother Lyarra — did she ever speak of the mountains?"
His hand stilled mid-stroke, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "She did. Born a Flint, raised in the high hills. Used to say the wind up there carried voices the lowlands of the north never heard."
"Sounds like she loved it," I said, settling onto a nearby root. "Do we still have kin among the clans? The Flints, or others?"
"Aye, distant now," he said, his voice low under the whetstone's rhythm. "Loyal enough, still — Lyarra's name carries weight with them. Why do you ask?"
I shrugged, careful to look more casual than I felt. "Just thinking about the old ways. The Old Tongue, maybe — it'd honor her, and everyone before her. Or—" I let the words hang a moment before finishing. "It could be useful. A way to speak privately. Keep our councils closer."
His brow lifted, the whetstone falling still. "Privately?"
"A tongue only the North still knows," I said, my tone soft but deliberate. "A shield against ears we don't trust. And a mark of respect to the clans and houses who still speak it — proof that we remember, even if the rest of the realm's forgotten."
He rubbed his beard, considering. "It's rare enough now just to read it, let alone speak it. But the clans would take it as a sign of respect — a Stark speaking the old tongue again." He went back to sharpening, quieter now. "You've grown in more ways than one lately, Robb. I see it more each day."
Warmth spread through my chest at that, his pride mingling with something like my own. "I'm learning," I said, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. "Mostly from you."
Underneath the pride, though, I knew what waited for him. I understood, even as it pained me, that some version of that fate might still find him — that he'd remain another Northern name lost to Southern politics, whatever I managed to change. I hoped, at least, that what I was building now might make that path a little safer for him, and for everyone who'd follow me.
A low chuckle broke from him, rare and rough. "Your grandmother would say it's her blood showing in you. Fierce as she was — she could've tamed a direwolf with a look."
The word caught on something in my mind—a direwolf. My bond with Grey Wind, still to come — the Stark sigil itself. Could that kind of gift run in the clans, too? I wondered, half-serious, whether there might be a warg somewhere among them — some young clansman I could bring south to foster, kin through Lyarra, carrying that old blood forward. It was a thin hope. But worth chasing, if it meant one more thread tying the North together, and one more soul who'd see warging as a gift from the Old Gods instead of something to fear.
I covered the thought with a grin. "Arya must take after her, then."
His smile deepened as the whetstone moved again. "Aye. Lyarra's spirit, that one as well as your Aunts," he finished with a somber tone.
We sat a while in companionable silence, the wind moving through the weirwood leaves. His quiet pride hung between us, and I felt it settle into me — into this bond, this life, it was nice.