Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

A drag path, etched in the surface

As evidence I left there on purpose

ROBB woke up with a start. His breathing was ragged, his lungs aching with every gasping breath he took. His hands immediately grasped at his chest, his heart, feeling for the open and gaping wound he knew would have been there, but he could not feel anything outside of smooth, unblemished skin. 

He looked down, his eyes seeing his hands, yet unmarred with calluses and the ever present blood that had been staining underneath his nails for many moons now. He spied Greywind at the foot of his bed, watching him with an expression Robb could only describe as worried. 

This didn’t make sense. He was in his old bedroom, in Winterfell. When he should have been dead in the ground at the Twins. He felt the betrayal viscerally in his skin, a phantom ache in his chest where Roose Bolton had stabbed him, whispering those godsdamned words.

The Lannisters send their regards. 

He hurries out of bed, uncaring of the chill of the cool stone against his bare feet and the crisp air against his bare skin. He walks to the Myrrish glass mirror in his bedroom, marveling at his face that looked exactly as it had one year ago. 

He was seven and ten again, that much he could gather. But when? How? Why had he come back? Why had the old gods sent him back when he had failed?

He didn’t know the answer, but he was sure he would not be able to find out if he stayed in his bedroom continuing his panic. His father was in King’s Landing, he was sure. 

Sansa and Arya with him. Jon at the Night's Watch. His mother, gone, on her fruitless quest to bring Tyrion Lannister to justice for an assassin Robb was certain the Imp did not hire. 

He didn’t know why he was sent back, but he would make godsdamned sure this second chance at life would bring him success rather than death. 

He got dressed, haphazardly throwing on his leathers and furs in a blur, not quite registering his actions as anything other than muscle memory. He and Greywind set off, his direwolf walking beside him in a subdued trot, watching Robb with wariness. 

He didn’t stop to say hello to Theon or Ser Cassel, ignoring them in favor of marching to the godswood in an attempt to search for some answers. 

He reached the Heart Tree and paused, for a moment. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his father sitting in front of the tree, Ice in one hand and a whetstone in another, sharpening the never dulling Valyrian steel sword. 

He stood in front of the tree. His head bowed in deference, leaning against the tree. The gnarled roots and branches of the aged, ancient tree stood in front of him. The face that was weeping sap seemed to be looking at him serenely, as though beckoning him. 

Approach, seeker, and receive the answers you so desire. 

“Why am I here?” he whispered, his forehead pressed against the cool, white bark of the weirwood. “Did you bring me back here?” 

The wind ruffled the leaves as though in answer, and Robb closed his eyes. He would not allow himself to be frustrated with the lack of concrete confirmation.

Gods were gods, and when did they ever concern themselves with the insignificant realms of men?

“Please,” Robb whispered, so close to the tree his lips brushed against the uneven bark briefly. “Answer me. What must I do?  What is my purpose here?” 

“Isn’t that always the question?” A deep, amused voice sounded from behind him. Robb whips himself from the heart tree, whirling around, his hand grasping for the pommel of a sword that is not resting at his hips. 

“Who are you?” He demanded, eyes surveying the trespasser with trepidation. The man was dressed similarly to him, in grey furs and black boiled leather, a strange chainmail armor decked at his breast. His side held a sword with an odd pommel that Robb had never seen before. His hair was dark brown and long, stretching all the way to his mid back. 

His nose crooked, as though it had been broken. His beard was as dark as his hair, but his skin was fair, unblemished. His eyes were a striking gray, much like his father and Jon’s. Pale in color, like ice. 

A crown rested along his brow, and Robb had to suppress his sharp intake of air.

It was his, Robb’s, crown. 

“I am Torrhen, young one,” The man, Torrhen — The King Who Knelt — spoke to him softly, kindly. As one would speak to a spooked predator. 

Robb shakes his head, barking out a laugh in disbelief.

“I’m going insane,” he murmurs. “There’s no other explanation for—unless I’m dead.” He whispers. “Am I dead?”

“You died,” Torrhen says bluntly. “But you are not dead.” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Robb grits out. “Either I am dead or alive. How can I die, and not be dead?”

“Because, boy,” Torrhen says, his eyes narrowing. “You were given another chance to make it right.” 

“Why me?” Robb blurts, eyes wide. “I lost the North, my family, my bannermen — everything!” 

“Aye, you made mistakes, lad,” Torrhen says softly, stepping forward. “But you are needed. A war is coming.” 

“I know,” Robb snorted. “It killed me, in case you forget.” 

“Not a war between men,” Torrhen snorts. “A war against man,” He whispers, eyes haunted and distant. 

“What?” Robb frowns, confused. “What do you mean?” 

“The dead march upon us once more, descendant,” Torrhen says, his voice deep and haunted. Speaking of untold terrors. “The Night King stirs.” 

“The Others?” Robb frowns. “That’s just an old story.” 

“It is no story,” Torrhen snaps slightly. “You are needed, Young wolf,” Robb flinched at the moniker. 

“What must I do?” 

“You must unite the Kingdoms,” Torrhen said, a sad, small smile on his lips. Pitying. 

“And do what?” Robb asked, stomach turning in dread. He feels the heavy burden of a crown resting on his head, a phantom weight that he still bore, even if the crown was not yet upon his brow.

“Bring the Dawn.”

Robb opened his mouth to speak, a multitude of questions whirling in his mind, but Torrhen, as quietly and quickly as he appeared, disappeared. 

Robb felt his knees wobble and his head spin. He needed to breathe, but he couldn’t. He could feel his chest tighten and his lungs constrict. The Heart Tree began to spin, his vision began to blacken at the edges.

He needed to breathe. Just breathe. The ringing in his ears was surrounded by the sounds of Greywind whining and pawing at his chest. When did Robb get to the ground? 

He needed Jon. 

“Jon,” he croaked. “Jon.”

The final sight he saw was Theon’s worried gaze over him, he wanted to get away, to edge away from the man that was his brother and the man that betrayed him so heavily.

“Jon.” 

Jon Snow awoke in his bed at Castle Black with an ache in his chest and a vision of his brother collapsing in front of the Heart Tree seared in his eyes. 

His ears rung with his brother’s hoarse and constricted voice calling for him. 

He didn’t know if what he dreamt was real, but he knew what he needed to do. A tether in his chest was pulled taut, a reminder of how far from home he truly was. Every step he took further away from Winterfell, from his brother, pulled the tether ever tighter. 

Jon Snow thought he knew his destiny. To live and die at the wall, in the brotherhood of the watch. 

But his real brother called for him. His brother needed him so viscerally that Jon was dreaming of it. 

Jon moved as though on autopilot, Ghost as restless as he. The weirwood colored direwolf pawed at the ground and whined, an odd sight for those who knew the direwolf to never make a sound.

Ghost knew his brother needed him too. Jon pulled his clothes haphazardly into his bag, slinging it across his shoulder and sheathing his sword at his hip.

He left his room, ignoring the calls of Alliser Thorne and the following of the people that would have been his brothers. He saddled his horse and left, leaving Castle Black at break neck speed. 

He had taken no oaths. He was not yet a man of the Night’s Watch. 

He rode and rode and rode, not stopping unless he absolutely must. He rode home. For Winterfell.

He rode to Robb. 

“I’m coming, Robb,” He whispered into the wind, hoping the gods would carry his words as truly as dark wings carried dark words. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO 

Wise men once said

‘Wild winds are death to the candle’ 

ROBB grew weary of the looks being aimed at him as he walked the halls of Winterfell.

He understood that his collapse in the godswood a few days ago was worrying. He understood that his decisions since then had been unconventional at best, foreboding and odd at worst. 

But his decision to write to Lord Manderly and urge him to build a fleet — something the North had not had since Brandon the Burner — was a harrowing omen. Robb had sent the coin, Manderly had the men and the resources. 

His agreement was jovial — old Wyman had been begging his father for years to build a fleet, as the North had no seafaring defense, and it was a liability — but his father had always denied him.

The North has endured, Ned would say. 

Robb was holed up in his father’s solar for the past three days, writing ravens and answering them. Urging the Lords to gather their supplies for the winter, to gather their men. To discreetly gather their banners.

That little birds had been singing songs in Winterfell, and they must be prepared for the worst. 

He told the Flints and Norreys to guard the Northern Borders along the coast. He sent letters to Deepwood Motte, Bear Island, Karhold, every holdfast and castle he could think of. 

He wrote to his father’s closest friend in the North, Howland Reed. 

Fortify and rebuild as much of the Moat as quickly as he and his crannogmen can. 

The old man had not left the Neck in twenty years, not since Robert’s Rebellion. But he needed the proficiency of the crannogmen, who were not only the fastest assassin-like soldiers in the North, but the best archers and builders.

He’d neglected them in his last life, he would not do so in this one.

He sighed, massaging his temples in an effort to alleviate a headache. 

His final raven, the one he was most wearisome and worried to send.

Joffrey would not make the declaration of his father’s ‘treason’ for another two weeks.

His raven to his father and sisters carried nothing worth mentioning, just an oddly worded warning. He was too far into the timeline to be able to alter the course of events that would lead to his father’s death, he knew that now. 

He had tried, and in the night the gods came to him in his dreams. 

Some things are written in stone, Young Wolf. Your father's fate is one such thing.

He had grieved his father once more, in the silence of his chambers, where the summer snows landed softly on his windowsill and his only witnesses were the moon and his gods. 

This particular raven was addressed most notably to Olenna Tyrell, the queen of thorns.

If he could get the Tyrells to declare neutrality at the very least, the biggest threat to his cause against the Lannisters would be gone. 

Robb had nearly decimated the Lannister army entirely before his death and before their alliance to the Tyrells. 

To the queen of thorns, I know it may be odd that I am writing to you, as we Northerners tend to stay away from the affairs of the South. Yet, word of your wisdom reaches even the far North. It is in the spirit of friendship that I offer a courtesy — or perhaps, a caution — as your House stands within the grasp of the lion’s den. 

Their gold shines bright, but brightness can oft cause blindness. A lion’s smiles are beautiful, but few show their true teeth. You will know best what truth lies beneath their polished words. 

Yet, still, I feel it prudent to speak these truths to you. Allies, I’ve found, cast larger shadows than enemies.

I’ve been reading a very interesting book, called Westerosi Lineages by Archmaester Hothar. It is very enlightening.

Faithfully, 

Robb Stark

He read over his letter once, twice, and thrice, before he sealed it with his direwolf sigil and walked to the ravenry, intent on sending this particular raven himself. 

After tying the scroll to the leg of the raven with its instructions, he watches as the dark bird carries it away far into the sky. He watches until the raven is far out of sight, and breathes out a shaky breath.

He extended the hand of friendship and knowledge, and now, it was up to the Lady if she decided to take it. 

As he walked down the halls of the castle, he heard the bells toll, signaling a visitor at the gates.

His brow furrows, and he walks outside, waiting to see who it could be that would grace the halls of his home. 

The sight he saw was one he was unprepared for.

Jon dismounting from his horse, his hair haphazard and his face pale. His stark grey eyes lined with grimness and his mouth pursed into a worried line.

“Jon?” He breathes, and watches with wide eyes as his brother turns to face him, face slackened with relief.

“Robb,” Jon whispers, breaking the distance between them and reaching him in two long strides. Robb pulls him into a fierce hug, feeling safe and relaxed for the first time since he awoke in his bed. 

Jon pulls away from him, his hands resting on Robb’s shoulders as his eyes assess him worriedly. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I left,” Jon answers. “I had not yet taken my oaths, and I had the strangest dream—you…you collapsed in the godswood and you were calling for me. I had to come home.”

Robb’s heart stopped for a long moment, eyes wide and beginning to fill with tears.

The gods had sent Jon to help him. The gods had given him his brother back in this life, and he felt the gratefulness nearly send him to his knees. But he held fast.

“There is much we should discuss—” Robb began, but was interrupted by the child-like voice of their little brother in his wheelchair.

“JON!” Bran yelled in excitement, and Robb watched Jon’s expression lighten.

“Bran,” Jon whispered, dropping his shoulder back like a sack on the ground and running to their brother, enveloping him in a hug and kissing his brow gently. “I cannot tell you how great it is to see you.” 

“But—I thought you were at the Watch?” Bran’s eyes widened, his voice a whisper. “Did you desert? We won’t tell.” 

Jon laughed.

“No, I didn’t, little one. I had taken no oaths yet.” 

“Oh,” Bran’s nose scrunched adorably in confusion. “Then why are you here?” 

Jon chanced a glance over his shoulder and met Robb’s eyes, who watched the scene with a distant, sad, fondness.

“I had a funny feeling that my brothers needed me,” Jon whispered.

“We did,” Bran whispered back. “Things have been…strange.” 

Robb felt his stomach do a flip at Jon’s face, which remained impassive yet inquisitive.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m back, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” It was Robb who answered this time. “Yes, it is.” 

It was a few hours later, the two brothers sat in the solar with an empty bottle of ale in between them and only the firelight and their two wolves as company. 

“Shit,” Jon breathed, and Robb chuckled bitterly. After spilling his heart and his soul, his future and his conversation with Torrhen to his brother, they needed to get drunk. 

“Indeed,” Robb groused.

“What are we going to do, Robb?” Jon murmured, eyes slightly glassy but worried nonetheless.

“We go to war in the South, and we win,” Robb answered. “And then, brother, we turn our gaze Northward.” 

Jon took a big gulp of the remainder of his ale, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Is there anything in this time that is different from the last?” Jon asked, grimacing slightly.

Robb nodded his head briefly. 

He pulls out a sword that he found that morning in his bedroom, sitting innocuously against his wardrobe, as though it had always been there. 

“Ice,” Jon breathes, confusion in his gaze. “But, father had it with him—” 

“I don’t know how it got here,” Robb mutters. “But better here than in Lannister clutches.” 

Jon grips his glass with a white knuckled grip.

“What did they do?” 

“They beheaded father with it,” Robb gritted out. “And then Tywin Lannister melted it down, and fashioned Lannister swords from our family’s ancestral Valyrian steel.” 

Jon’s eyes grew ever colder, like dark glaciers floating in the waters.

“They will all die, Robb,” Jon whispers into the night. “I swear it.” 

Ghost and Greywind growled lowly in unison, as though making their own oaths. 

“Yes,” Robb whispered. “Yes, they will.” 

Olenna Tyrell sat in their gardens on a warm summer's day, drinking her tea and watching her grandchildren joke around in the vast gardens in front of their heart tree. 

She sipped at her tea and was about to bite into a lemon tart when a courier interrupted her from her musings. 

“What is it?” She demanded brusquely. The courier bowed and presented her with a letter. She raised a brow, and took it, brows raising only further in her surprise at the direwolf sigil. 

“You may leave,” She waved the boy off, and watched him go before she opened the letter. 

As she read the contents, she found her brows rising to a height she never thought they could reach. Her breath quickened only slightly in anticipation, and her surprise grew only further as she spied the name of the sender.

Robb Stark. 

What did she know of the boy? Whispers of the wolf heir reached even here. 

His prowess with a sword, his intelligence, his direwolf. The Heir to the North was one of the most whispered about Heirs in all the Kingdoms.

Handsome, or she had heard. Honorable, as much as his father. But this letter in her hand gave way to another side of him that nobody had whispered of.

His shrewdness. 

Everyone knew the Northern barbarians cared not for politics, and yet, this young wolf had made one of the most important — and risky — political moves he ever could have. 

Whispers of the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon’s(?) cruelty had reached her ears for years now. 

“You,” She said to a servant, one of her own. “Fetch me Westerosi Lineages from the library. Now.” 

The girl scurried away, and Olenna watched, and waited.

She had long wanted to make her granddaughter a queen. But, perhaps, that dream would have to wait.

Anticipation filled the old woman as she sipped at her tea and watched her grandchildren running with one another in the gardens, with Willas watching fondly from a shaded tree. 

Oh, Robb Stark. You interesting little Northman. 

You have my attention. 

One week later, Robert Baratheon was dead, and rumors of a certain lineage flew into the air, the wind carrying them far and wide.

The day after that, Eddard Stark was arrested on whispers of treason. Olenna stayed in Highgarden, hearing whispers of Kings on Dragonstone and Kings of Storm. 

But, she declared not for either of the three. She, instead, sat in her solar and drafted a letter to Robb Stark. 

A day after her raven had been sent, she heard word that Robb Stark had called his banners.