Chapter Text
Greyjoy Rebellion, Robb 8 years old {Part two}
The Lannister fleet was burned down.
Robb only barely contained a smile at the news.
The Ironborn had swept in during the night, their ships gliding soundlessly into the harbor. Before dawn, the Lannister fleet was ash and smoke, the rest scattered or sunk.
Satisfaction prickled beneath his skin. He could almost see it: the golden lion banner being devoured by fire and sea. They should have burned the entire port down while they were at it, he thought vindictively. Maybe attempt a sack on the Rock to get Tywin Lannister sweating. But one couldn't expect much from the Ironborn after all.
At least the fleet was gone and it would take years and much gold to build it up again. Small victories.
It was quickly soured when he heard the name of the man responsible for the act: Euron Greyjoy.
The name struck some buried chord in him. A memory not quite his own. A whisper from a dream.
When he heard the name he thought of Silence, of a great kraken rising from the sea, of maiden's blood and bastard's blood, of tens upon tens of prayers to the many gods.
The following nights he had trouble sleeping. First perturbed by Euron Greyjoy, then anxious about the War Council that was to be held.
The Northern army was to gather at Winterfell before riding out to Seaguard, where they would meet up with the King.
The lords were quick to arrive with their hosts, filling up the winter houses and crowding the town.
Even Winterfell itself was crowded. The guest rooms and towers were filled to the brim. The yard rang to the sound of sword and axe, the rumble of wagons, and the cacophony of men training. The armory doors were open, and Mikken was in his forge through the day and night, his hammer ringing as sweat dripped off his bare chest. Mother and Sansa were constantly on the move, catering to the guests, and even Jon was roped in.
Sansa had suggested Robb invite the young sons and daughters of his lords to Winterfell to hold their liege lord and his siblings company whilst their fathers went off to war, so preparations had to be done for their continued stay as well. No doubt many of them hoped that the stay would extend into a fostering, and perhaps even that their daughter's would catch Robb's eye and become the future Lady of Winterfell.
Robb and his family made sure to greet every Lord that arrived, whether they be great lords or petty lords. He felt glad for his relentless study on the Northern Houses for he recognised the sigil of every Lord, even the more obscure ones.
He could feel their judgement upon him, searching him from head to toe for the rumoured signs of illness.
Each of them tested and judged him in their own little ways.
Lord Manderly arrived in grand style, his carriage reeking of the wealth of White Harbour. He brought both of his granddaughters, who curtsied prettily before Sansa, and spoke warmly of how well the girls might get along. But the compliments soon turned to hints—their virtues, their good breeding, their loyalty to House Stark—and then to talk of ships. “A northern fleet,” he’d said, “would do much to keep our shores safe from reavers.” The meaning behind his words was plain enough.
Maege Mormont, dressed as a man, came with her nephew, Jorah the Lord of Bear Island, and two of her daughters, Jorelle and Lyra. The older two, Dacey and Alysanne, were to stay guard on Bear Island. The she-bear wasted no time with pleasantries. “You’re young enough to be my grandson,” she told Robb bluntly, “but I'll have you as my good-son.” Her men roared with laughter, but Robb caught the sharp gleam in her eyes.
Lord Hornwood brought rich gifts— a jewelled horn, smoked boar, furs— and spoke wistfully of land that had once belonged to his great-great-grandfather but now lay under Bolton control. He had smiled as he spoke, but his meaning was clear.
Lord Bolton himself had arrived soon after, pale-eyed and soft-voiced, and requested a place of leadership. His gaze lingered far too long on Robb, and it took all of the his strength not to quiver under those unsettling eyes.
Lord Cerwyn, before he could hint at anything, was dragged off by Lady Jonelle with a sharp look, little Cley tumbling after to keep up with his father and older sister.
Others followed with similar ambitions: lesser lords asking after forgotten lands, some ambitious ones pressing for a chance to have some small part of command ("only a hundred men will do, m'lord. I'll take one of those god-forsaken salt rocks with only a hundred"), some were eager to offer up fourth and fifth sons to serve in Winterfell’s guard and daughters to serve the Lady Sansa or his mother.
Robb responded to each of them with cool courtesy, just as his mother taught him.
Finally, the last of the lords’ contingents came in with the Kastarks. His jaw had tightened at the sight of the man, but he remained outwardly cordial. The man had brought with him his three sons and his daughter, intending to leave all four at Winterfell.
With them the number of boys left behind was brought up to 9 and the girls to 6.
He already felt another headache forming on top of his existing one at the thought of entertaining the lot of them for the next moon turns.
Robb sat upon the throne that once belonged to the Kings of Winter. His feet did not yet touch the floor.
From his viewpoint he could see the entirety of the Great Hall.
The Karstarks had heralded the end of one test, and the start of another more important issue that left his council - consisting of his mother, siblings, Maester Luwin, Sers Rodrik and Alaric, Lady Jonelle, and the newly added Coren - fretting over since the King called his banners: who was to lead the army.
All clearly knew that it would not be Robb or Jon, both were too young. They did not have uncles or older cousins who could lead on the Lord Stark's behalf and his lords would see it as an insult if Robb were to command them to fall under his Uncle Jon or Grandfather Hoster. They would surely want command from amongst themselves.
Already his lords discussed it at the tables below.
Lord Bolton and Glover had outright requested to his face much earlier. The Umbers refused to march behind any Hornwood's or Cerwyns, and even spat at the hint of a Glover in command.
Lord Kastark thought it natural that he lead as the oldest kinsman to House Stark - even if that bond was thousands of years old, as pointed out by a few others. Lady Maege seemed to find it amusing if they all ended up following her as a woman. Lord Ryswell spoke of the friendship between him and his Grandfather Rickard, and Robb only just contained an eye-roll at the hypocrisy.
The Clansmen, of whom only the closest managed to arrive in time after receiving word of there being Ironborn skulls to crush, refused to be led by the Umbers or Glovers. Hornwood bristled at being led by a Bolton, but suggested Lord Manderly's son Wylis, who was kin to the Hornwood's through his wife, have command of a portion of the army.
Lord Flint of Widow's Peak swore at any possible authority the Flint's of Flint's Finger might snatch up - which almost ended in a brawl between the two Houses.
The smaller Houses also spoke up in favour of their overlords, adding more noise to the room.
It was both amusing and nerve-racking to witness the stubbornness of his people.
However, his council, had already came to a decision. He knew there would be much grumbling and protesting, but Robb would hold firm to what was decided.
But before he could begin to talk himself into calling for silence, the GreatJon's voice boomed through the hall.
“I’ll be the one to lead,” he declared, shoving back his chair with such force that it toppled behind him. His announcement brought a hush over those gathered. "Boy,” he said, directly to Robb. “you’ve called us here to march to war, but war is a man’s game. Let me lead the army, and I’ll bring back some squid head for you to chew on."
A few men laughed uneasily, but most watched, waiting.
“You will not be the one leading, Lord Umber,” Robb said, relieved beyond belief when his voice came out firm, though his heart hammered in his chest.
“No?” the GreatJon said, his tone rough with disbelief. “You tell me no, boy?”
The word boy burned in Robb’s ears. He could feel the eyes of every lord and their kin upon him. If he showed fear, he’d lose any respect he managed to gain. If he panicked, he would remain just a boy.
Robb heard the sharp intake of breath from his mother, and he quickly spoke before she could. He didn't need his mother coming to his defense in front of all his men.
"I decide who leads and who does not, and I've already made my decision. You will not be in charge of the northern host."
The GreatJon’s smile widened, but it was not a pleasant thing. "What would a boy so green he pisses grass know about leading an army?"
His face burned, but he did not rise to the bait. Robb knew that the GreatJon Umber was a man of pride, not malice, and was one of Winterfell's most leal vassals. He knew this was part of a test that would decide how his lords would see him for the rest of his life, but still the public defiance chafed at him.
"Lord Umber," Robb said. “You have sworn oaths to House Stark. If those oaths mean nothing, then perhaps I should not call you GreatJon, but Oathbreaker.”
“Oathbreaker, am I?” he roared, kicking over a table, and unsheathing the biggest, ugliest greatsword that Robb had ever seen. All along the benches, his kin and sworn swords leapt to their feet, grabbing for their steel.
In response, half the hall reached for own swords. Men shouted. Benches scraped. Tables were overturned.
"Mind your words, boy, or I’ll teach you how men settle insults!"
His bowels almost turned to water.
Sansa gave a small gasp from beside their mother, her eyes wide and frightened. Jon’s chair scraped, his body half-risen, dark eyes burning. His hand twitched towards the hilt of his sword. Ser Rodrik took a step forward, his hand on his own blade, but Robb lifted a hand and immediately the old knight and Jon stepped back.
The air in the hall seemed to tighten. The fires popped. Men shifted uneasily. Gazes darted between Robb, to Lord Umber, and back to Robb again.
Robb’s heart thudded so hard he thought the whole hall might hear it. But he did not move from the high seat, did not even blink or look at anyone else. He kept his gaze solely on the red-faced giant.
“You best remember where you stand, Lord Umber,” he said. “Draw your sword against me, and you draw it against every man here who swore to House Stark. That would be treason, but no doubt you only drew your sword to cut my meat for me. I thank you for the offer — but I’ve teeth enough for my own supper.”
Astonishingly, the GreatJon burst out laughing, and he rammed his sword back into its sheath. “Ha! So you’ve teeth, have you? Yer a Stark, after all!"
That broke the tension for the rest of the hall. Others soon followed in the laughter. Robb managed to crack a smile of his own, one that was entirely false.
"Tell us what you've decided then, my Lord!"
Robb decided the army was better off split under the command of three of his lords, rather than having a single one in charge of the 10,000 men. These three would defer to Ser Rodrik, who would serve as a neutral representative of Robb's, and Ser Rodrik would defer to the either the King or the Hand, both of whom Robb knew for certain would not take advantage of his people.
The GreatJon would have his command. The man would do well in a battle where the intention would be to storm in and kill.
Lady Maege was the second, since she was most familiar with the Ironborn. This seemed to take even her by surprise, and she accepted with her mouth half agape. Robb hadn't even considered the actual Lord of Bear Island for even a moment, and paid no mind to his reaction.
Robb would have liked to choose Lord Manderly - and place his three most loyal allies at the centre of command - but the merman had grown to fat to go out into war, and his heir Wylis, a splendid sailor and a knight who fought on the Trident, hadn't turned 30 just yet. So he reluctantly chose Lord Karstark, even though he didn't really like the man. This way the proud man wouldn't have to feel slighted.
As expected, the lords grumbled, but none objected. He seemed to have earned their respect with his earlier handling of the GreatJon, and they didn't seem eager to test if he truly had the guts to order them to lock up anyone who defied him.
Somehow, the night had gone better than expected.
Later, in the privacy of his chambers Robb removed his tunic with hands that still shook. It was damp with sweat. He checked his breeches, just to make sure nothing had slipped out when the GreatJon drew his sword.
Gods, but he’d been terrified. Umber was leal, he assured himself repeatedly. Then and now. Still, he thought he was mistaken and the man might actually kill him. But he wasn't the worst, only the loudest.
He felt Lord Bolton's stare on the side of his face all through the night, even more so when Robb passed over him thrice for the command position. All Robb could think of was a dagger to the heart and the man's voice whispering in his ear. If the man got angry enough with him, would he capture Robb and take him to that room they have in the Dreadfort where the Boltons hanged the skins of their enemies and turn him into a freak? (Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak)
He had just steadied his breathing when the door flew open. He jumped out of his skin. Lord Bolton?!
Jon burst in without knocking, his face red with rage. He threw the door close behind him.
“You could've warned me before coming in," he said, annoyed at the fright he had just gotten.
Jon didn’t seem to hear him. He paced the length of the room like a wolf trapped in a pen, hands opening and closing at his sides.
Robb shook his head, and started on with his nightly routine of a hundred brush strokes. By now, he'd gotten immune to Jon's teasing of his vanity. He knew his brother's curls didn't come naturally either. 36, 37, 38...
“He would have killed you,” Jon hissed. “That great ox—” His voice broke off as he turned, fists trembling. “If he’d swung— gods, I should’ve—”
“He wouldn’t have,” Robb said.
Jon whirled on him. “You don’t know that.”
“I do," he said. "The Greatjon’s loud, not mad. He meant to test me. They all did."
Jon’s brows drew together, the anger in his eyes not dimming at all.
“They’re loyal, every one of them — Umber, Karstark, Glover, Flint, all of them. If the Greatjon had truly meant me harm, half the men in that hall would’ve had their swords out before his foot moved an inch. He knows it too.”
Jon gave a harsh snort. “Loyal? That’s a fine sort of loyalty, waving a blade in your lord’s face.”
“They needed to see what I’d do — whether I’d stand for myself or let someone else speak for me. They were weighing me. Seeing if I am my father’s son.”
"You’re the Stark of Winterfell. They’ve no right to weigh you,” His eyes were dark, almost black, burning with something fierce and reckless.
“They should weigh me,” Robb said quietly. “They follow the Stark name. If I can't prove myself worthy of that name, then I don’t deserve it. You can’t rule men by force or fear, not in the North. You rule them by trust.”
"So if they decide you've failed their test, then what? They would act out like Umber did? They disrespected you,” he said finally, voice sharp again. “Our father’s seat, our house. I’ll not forget it. If he ever draws steel again—”
“You’ll what?” Robb asked softly, setting the comb down. “Challenge him?”
Jon looked at him then, and there was no jest in his face. “Aye. I would.”
Robb studied him, wary now. “You would lose.”
You don't know that.”
“I do. He fought more battles that you have, and you've seen the man yourself in the yard. You can’t go around challenging our men, Jon. That’s not how this works. If you do, I'd look weak and you would look like a reckless fool."
Jon scoffed and turned from him again, pacing. Robb was tired just from watching him, so he got into bed and pulled the covers over himself. Today was a stressful day, and tomorrow would bring more stress. He needed his sleep.
Jon finally stopped pacing. His shoulders sagged. "I know that you're right, but what's the point of being your sword if I just sit back and let people insult you?"
"It wasn't insults, not really."
"Whatever it was, if it happens again I might just cut his tongue out."
Robb snorted at the image. His brother who was just over 4ft trying to cut out the tongue of the GreatJon who was almost 7ft tall and wider than Hodor. “You’d have to reach his head first.”
"One day I will.”
Robb's amusement faded at the serious note in his brother's voice. “He is loyal,” he said firmly. “And he is our bannerman. We don't rip out the tongues of our bannermen over an insult."
“Loyal,” he muttered again, shaking his head.
Robb looked at him — the firelight in his dark hair, the fury still simmering in his eyes — and felt both warmth and worry. (Let it all burn, he'd said. Let it all burn, and turn to ash)
"Jon. You will not challenge Lord Umber, or anyone else. Promise me."
The silence stretched, but Robb kept staring at his brother until the words were said.
Then Jon sighed — long and tired — and the fight seemed to drain out of him. “I promise."
"Good," he said, relaxing at last. "I don't want to hear that my heir has been killed after challenging grown men to single combat."
“I might just win," Jon muttered, but Robb chose to ignore him.
The anger was buried now — Robb could see it — sealed away like a sword in its scabbard. It wasn’t gone, just set aside.
“You did well tonight,” Jon said, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“You think so?”
Jon nodded. “You got them to listen to you. All that practice paid off, after all."
He gave a soft, tired laugh. “I almost soiled myself doing so.”
Jon huffed, the faintest hint of amusement in it. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”
Jon stayed with him a while after that, and Robb was able to doze off more easily now that he was being guarded. Bolton wouldn't be able to get to him with his brother here.
Half asleep already, he vaguely felt a pressure on his forehead and heard the door shut.
Robb watched the last baggage wagon disappear on the horizon.
The army marched out early before dawn. They had to leave soon before they ate the countryside clean, or missed the chance to meet up with the King's forces.
A familiar voice, low and calm, spoke behind him. “Lord Robb"
Robb turned. Approaching him was Lord Howland Reed. He was small and slight, his clothes plain and his boots splattered with mud. He could be mistaken for a young man from behind and a servant from in front, if not for the way he carried himself — quiet, watchful, certain
“Lord Howland," Robb greeted, genuine warmth breaking through his solemnity. “I hadn’t heard of your coming.”
“I arrived late last night,” he said, smiling at Robb.
Robb flushed. He didn't want his father's closest friend to mistakenly think he was being slighted. “Forgive me. I should’ve greeted you properly.”
“Bah.” Howland waved a hand. “I managed to skip them asking me the same old questions." He lost his joviality and looked closely at Robb. "You handled yourself well last night.”
“You saw?”
“I saw enough,” Howland said. “You held them, and that’s more than most grown men could’ve done. Your father would be proud."
Robb was torn between pleasure and embarrassment. Praise from Lord Howland meant much to him, but he didn't do as well as the man made it out to be. "He wouldn't if he knew how scared I was," He said sullenly, remembering how he had to check his breeches.
“The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid," Lord Howland placed a hand on his shoulder. He was taller than Robb, but he knew soon that wouldn't be the case. "Your father was just as terrified when he had to call the banners to march against the Targaryens, and he was much older than you. You did well, Robb."
Robb nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Lord Howland squeezed his shoulder before letting go.
"I want to introduce you to my children," he gestured behind him and two shadows appeared. Robb hadn't even noticed them.
The taller one could easily be mistaken for a boy, but Robb knew that the elder who was the same age as himself was a daughter. The boy was two years younger than him. Both were dressed from top to bottom in green garbs, the same as their father.
“Meera and Jojen.”
He had heard the names before. Lord Reed visited Winterfell every year and stayed for a few days before returning to his own lands. He brought with him stories of their father and his siblings and all the mischief they got up to. Robb loved the stories of his father, of course, but his uncle Brandon sounded like such an amusing person that he wished he would have met the man even once. He also brought his own stories of his House and the lands in the Neck.
They both knelt before him, and together they spoke. "To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you.”
“I swear it by earth and water,” said the boy.
“I swear it by bronze and iron,” said the girl.
“We swear it by ice and fire,” they finished together.
"I, Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, accept your oaths," he said. "In return, I pledge my protection, my justice, and my honor. No harm nor shame shall come to you from me or mine, and your faith shall be repaid with fairness and fealty. So I swear before gods and men. Rise."
They rose, and the girl's eyes briefly met his. Deep moss green. He felt himself blush as a memory of those same eyes came to him unbidden. "I hope that we may be friends, as our fathers were," he said, hoping no one noticed his little blunder.
Jojen nodded in response. He seemed a sullen sort for a boy so young. While Meera smiled widely. "It would please us greatly to have the same friendship as our fathers, my lord."
"Will you be staying with us, Lord Howland?" He asked, turning back to their father. Robb hoped the man would choose to stay in Winterfell. He could use the counsel and companionship.
Howland shook his head, and Robb deflated. "I will not be staying, or joining the host. We Crannogmen have no gift for open battle, but we’ll keep the southern roads safe. No Ironborn will come near Moat Cailin while I draw breath.”
He could see the sense in that. The crannogmen served better at keeping defense in the North, than taking part in a full-on assault. "I understand. I hope that when the army returns, you'll be back in time to properly join the feast. Your absence only makes them want to see you even more."
"I make no promises to that," Howland chuckled. Robb could tell the man was already planning only to return to Winterfell once the lords left.
Lord Howland left immediately, going the way he came, while Robb showed the Reed siblings to their guest rooms.
This brought the number of boys to 10 and the girls to 7. A grand total of 17 young lords and ladies were to be his guests for the foreseeable future
The number was enough to make him want to spend his days in the Crypts, but he could no longer do that. The younger him might have done so, but he'd sworn that he would be the greatest Lord there was, and no great Lord avoided their future bannermen.
Let's think about how to sway them to my side.
Extra scene: Harrion Karstark POV
Harrion could hardly believe that the pale boy sitting on Winterfell's Throne was the same Robb Stark he’d seen two years ago; shrieking with laughter and running about underfoot. That boy had been all bright cheeks and wild hair, loud with life.
This one looked carved of something colder.
The red in his hair caught the firelight like a burning leaf, and the white of his skin was as pale as the frost outside. But it was his eyes that struck Harrion most — a deep and burning blue.
When the Greatjon rose roaring, Harrion’s own hand had flown to his sword — as had many others — but Lord Robb had not moved. He’d sat in that great carved chair, his feet not even touching the floor, and stared down the Lord of Last Hearth, calling him an oathbreaker.
Even when the Greatjon drew his blade, the boy hadn’t flinched. The hall had gone silent in anticipation, awaiting the Lord's response, and Harrion was amongst them who wanted to see what it would be. He sat everyday at his father's side as his heir, and he wasn't sure how he would respond if put in a similar situation.
He’d half expected the boy to flinch, to look to his mother, maybe to cry, or hide behind his brother (who had quite the temper). That’s what they’d all come to see, hadn’t they? His father among them, who had said on the ride north that they must “see what sort of Stark the boy is.”
They’d tested him that night. All of them.
And Lord Robb stood undaunted and unshaken.
By the end, the Greatjon was laughing and swearing to rip apart anyone who spoke out against their young lord.
Father, as well, was satisfied after having been given a position of command. "The boy's got some sense, at least."
The choice of Maege Mormont surprised him even more. Harrion respected the woman and her daughters, but to choose her over her nephew and every other experienced lord was unprecedented. An insult even, if one were sensitive about such things.
"Wonder what bear-face did to piss the little lord off?" Eddard whispered, cackling under his breath at the look on Lord Jorah's face.
Harrion glared at his younger brother, resisting the urge to give him another knock. The boy had made a comment about Lord Robb earlier as well, saying he looked like a girl, and causing Harrion to sock him over the head. His great-uncle Arnold's brood was beginning to become a bad influence on him, and he was dragging their youngest brother Torrhen into his shenanigans. Harrion hoped that both of them would end up staying in Winterfell for fostering, as his parents wanted. It would do them good to be away from their cousins.
Harrion had hoped to accompany his father and the men, but he was forbidden from doing so. Instead he was to stay back with the children and women. He wasn't even allowed to be the acting Lord of Karhold, no, he was given the task of watching over his younger siblings, and gaining Lord Robb's ear.
He had been furious. He was six and ten, already a man grown! He’d thought it a grave insult - one his cousins most likely mocked him for behind his back.
His only consolation was that the Smalljon and Osric Dustin, who were of an age with him, was to stay back as well.
But after seeing the earlier display by Lord Robb, he was curious to see how their stay at Winterfell would play out.
There were worse fates, Harrion decided, than being told to stay home.