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.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE 

She can’t keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

ROBB read Olenna Tyrell’s letter in the privacy of his solar with Jon. 

His brother sat next to him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

To Lord Robb Stark, 

Your candor is refreshing. Few in the South speak so plainly, and fewer in the North provide polite caution. 

I am well acquainted with lions — their tempers, vanity, and their propensity for the belief they are the only hunters in the realm. They quite often seem to overlook the wolf.

Rest assured, I will not make the same mistake. House Tyrell does not wander into shadows with no lantern. 

And, should the Lannisters think to bare their teeth, they’ll find the roses of the Reach oft grow thorns of a sharper sort than expected. 

Your warning is heard. 

And, yes. It is a rather interesting book, isn’t it? I look forward to hearing from you, Robb Stark.

Olenna Tyrell

“What does she mean?” Jon asked, annoyance leaking in his tone. “Bloody southerners.” 

Robb, instead, smiled, a relieved laugh leaving him. 

“It means she is waiting.” 

“For what?” Jon demanded.

“For me, Jon,” Robb answered. “She’s waiting for me to prove myself. The Tyrells will remain neutral, for now.” 

“Come, Robb,” Jon beckons, Ghost and Greywind standing at the door. “Our guests are waiting.” 

Robb grimaced, pulling himself into his Kingly facade he had perfected in his past life.

“Let’s get this meeting over with.” Robb sat at the table’s head with Jon on his right and Bran on his left. Their direwolves sat primly next to the chairs, watching with attentive eyes. 

The meeting went much the way it had before, with Greatjon losing a few of his fingers in the process and becoming one of Robb’s fiercest supporters. 

Jon had cast a sideways glance at him at that, and Robb had only laughed harder. 

But Robb watched Bolton. His pale, milk-like eyes were cold and cruel. Robb wondered how often he took to the practice of flaying, like his cruel bastard. 

Robb wondered if Bolton had flayed his body after he killed him. 

He looked at Theon, watching the man’s eyes fill with anticipation at a fight, and he mourned him.

Mourned the man he thought Theon was, and mourned the man he could have been. 

“My Lord,” a chilling voice whispered, after the meeting was over and they had made the decision to march South at first light. Jon tensed, and Robb turned. 

“Lord Bolton,” Robb answered coolly. “What can I do for you?” 

“We will be crossing the Twins, my lord, to get to Riverrun.” Bolton began, and Jon cut him off.

“We’re well aware, Lord Bolton,” He said gruffly, his eyes narrowed. Roose stares at him hardly for a long moment, before ultimately deciding to ignore him.

“Walder Frey will demand a toll,” He spoke smoothly, like a slithering, coiling snake.

“Yes, he will.” Robb’s voice was glacier-like. 

“Will you be prepared to pay it?” 

Robb breathes in, closing his eyes for a moment, before opening them once more and allowing his ice eyes to meet Roose’s pale milk-colored ones.

“I will deal with the Late Lord Frey,” Robb answered. “You need not worry yourself with things that do not concern you.” 

Bolton’s eyes turned infinitely colder for a moment, but then he bowed his head in acquiesce, and left.

“I bloody hate that guy,” Jon shuddered.

“You and I both, brother,” Robb muttered. He thinks briefly of knives in his chest and whispered words. He wonders how much gold the Lannisters offered Bolton for his head. Robb was sure it was a hefty sum.

He placed a grounding hand into Greywind’s fur, feeling his direwolf’s calmness bleed through him. 

“Get some rest, Jon,” Robb whispered. “We set off at first light.” 

“Goodnight, Robb.” Jon cast a lingering look at him, before leaving him alone with just his wolf and the night for company.

The reply he sent to Olenna Tyrell ended with the promise that, should she want to send him another raven, it would find him at Riverrun. 

Well, here he was, at the gate of the bloody fucking Twins, with his mother in front of him, telling him she would negotiate with Walder.

He wanted to send her home with a garrison of men to guard her. She did not have the heart for war. She had the heart of a mother, and the boys — Rickon and Bran — would need her. 

He dared not to leave the North unguarded and unmanned as it nearly was last time. 

Twenty thousand strong he was, with ten thousand waiting at home to guard the borders and replenish forces if need be. The Crannogmen had joined him this time, when last time, they had not. 

Howland Reed, a man short of stature yet strong in presence, stood behind Robb, beginning to argue with his lady mother.

“I will be the one to speak to Frey,” Robb interrupted his quarreling lords and lady mother.

“Robb,” Catelyn said, aghast. “I know how to deal with him and his ilk.”

“And yet, I cannot very well lead a war if I appear to be a boy hiding behind his mother’s skirts, can I?” Robb cut in, shaking his head. “Besides, I know how to deal with men like him.” 

He turned his eyes, and looked at Jon.

“Jon will accompany me.” 

His mother looked as though she swallowed a lemon, but nodded.

“Lord Robb, perhaps, you would like to take another, more experienced Lord with you?” Bolton interrupted. 

Robb appeared to think for a moment. 

“I do believe you to be correct, Lord Bolton,” He said with a sweet smile. “Lord Karstark, perhaps you would like to accompany me and my brother?” 

Rickard Karstark appeared to be flattered yet dreadful at the same time. 

“It would be my honor.” 

The Frey they held hostage was one of the three he was certain were not behind his murder. 

Perwyn. His other, full blooded siblings would be the only ones free of his wrath against the treachery of this house. Olyvar and Roslin, far more Rosby in appearance and heart than they were ever Frey.

“Lord Frey,” Robb greeted, trying to keep his breath stable as he stood in the halls where he and his men were massacred. 

“Robb Stark,” The old, decrepit man croaked. “As I live and breathe.”

“Your liege lords are under attack, Lord Frey,” Robb spoke. “And yet, I see you have made no move to send aid to the man you swore your oaths to.” 

“I made oaths to the Iron Throne as well,” The man sneered. “What do you know of oaths, boy?” 

“I know enough that I have grounds, as a Tully and a Stark, to hang you for an oath breaker in your very castle,” Robb said coldly. “We march to bring your liege aid, should you not allow us the path to cross, you will find yourself with twenty thousand very angry Northmen.” 

“Your holdfast can only handle a siege for so long, Lord Frey,” Karstark spoke. 

“Whoever wants to pass shall have to pay my toll,” Walder hissed. “You will not deny me my right.” 

“Name your toll,” Robb said coldly, stepping forward to the throne he sat himself upon. 

The Frey guards made no move to intervene.

Robb had the feeling that, if he were to kill the man, the sons and grandsons and great grandsons he had sired, would do nothing except to let him pass. Cravens and snakes, the lot of them. 

“Marriage..” He croaked. “You will marry one of my daughters, and one of your sisters shall marry one of my sons, or grandsons.” 

Robb clucked his tongue. “Two marriages of a ruling house for a crossing?” He laughed coldly. “You surely are an ambitious man.” 

“Do you accept?” 

“No.” Robb answered primly. “I will provide you with a counter offer, however.” 

He stepped closer to the man, his sword, Ice, drawn and pointed at his neck. The Frey guards draw their own weapons, only to stall at the snarling of two direwolves and at the sight of Karstark and Jon’s weapons drawn. 

They would not win, the Freys knew. Large in number, perhaps, but lacking in skill. Robb alone could cut through ten of them by his lonesome like a hot knife through butter. 

“You allow me and my army to pass, you send your own bannermen to fulfill their oaths and your own, and I will not take your head where you stand.” 

Walder laughed, but a hint of fear crept into his eyes.

“Not very Stark and honorable of you, Lord Robb.” 

“There is no room for honor in war, Lord Frey. Merely justice, and blood.” Robb hummed, pressing the sharpened tip of his blade further into the soft and old, withered skin of the man. “I think you best make your decision quickly.” Robb could almost see the pulsing of his artery against his sword.

“One marriage then,” Frey tries once more. “Any girl of your choosing. I have many a daughter and granddaughter that would please you.” 

Robb refrains from rolling his eyes.

“There will never be a day where I mar the noble blood of the Starks with anyone birthed by you, Late Lord Frey.” Ice begins to draw a bead of blood, and Frey winces in pain. “Your answer. Now.” 

“Open the gates!” Frey calls to his guard, still standing there, making no move to attack. “Let them cross.” 

Robb smirks and holds out a singular golden dragon. He waits for the gates to open and his army begins to pass before he tosses the coin at Walder Frey. 

“If your men do not grace Riverrun by nightfall, I will come back.” Greywind steps forward, menacingly staring at the man and snaps at the air between them, causing the man to flinch violently for a loud moment.

The stench of piss fills the air as a yellow tinged puddle begins to form from underneath Walder. Robb’s nose scrunches in disgust.

“Come,” Robb beckons his men and his wolf. “It’s time for us to leave.” 

As they passed the crossing and made it officially on the other side, Karstark leaned over to him and spoke.

“You’ve got balls of iron, boy.” 

Jon laughed. 

“That he does, Lord Karstark.” 

The battle of the Whispering Wood as well as the feint, work as beautifully in this life as it did in his past one. 

Except, now, Robb had his eyes exclusively on Daryn Hornwood, and Torrhen and Eddard Karstark. 

He will not allow Jaime Lannister to kill heirs to the North and his kin to boot. Not when it would save him many problems down the line.

Mainly, he would prefer not having to behead Karstark in this lifetime. 

It happens as though in slow motion. He watches Daryn engage Jaime first, and sends Greywind to them as quickly as he can. It was immediately obvious that Daryn was outmatched and outclassed by Jaime, and Torrhen and Eddard noticed it as well as they attempted to help their friend.

Greywind makes it just in time to bite Jaime’s arm. The sword arm that was about to slash at Torrhen’s throat. 

Jon enters the fray, beginning to fight against the Lannister as Greywind and Ghost give him sidelined support, whilst also protecting Daryn and the Karstark brothers. 

Robb moved slowly through the fight, slashing and stabbing and dodging whatever and whoever he could. 

Enemies fall and fall and fall to his blade as he makes his way to his brother, who is holding admirably well against the arguably best swordsman alive — Barristan Selmy not withstanding — but Robb can see Jaime slowly begin to gain the edge.

As Lannister is about to disarm his brother, he comes blade to blade with Ice, and face to face with Robb.

His face screws up into something ugly as he snarls.

“Stark.” 

“Lannister,” Robb greets calmly. They begin to clash in earnest, and every thrust and parry is so powerful that Robb has to grit his teeth and return it tenfold.

Eventually, though, they manage to subdue the Kingslayer. 

Robb cannot help but survey the others, Daryn, Torrhen, and Eddard, as though in disbelief that they are alive and that he managed to change one of the things that haunted his rule so early on. 

“Secure the Kingslayer,” Robb said to his bannermen. “They have lost.” 

Lannister casualties litter the ground. Twenty, for every one man of the North. 

“Bury our fallen with honor,” Robb says softly to Smalljon Umber. “And bury the Lannisters in a large hole, for all I care. The Kingslayer and Riverrun are now ours.” 

“Come, Stark,” Jaime attempts to taunt. His mother and Jon stood one either side of him, with Eddard and Torrhen holding the prisoner. “Trial by combat, just you and I.” 

“If we did this your way, Kingslayer, you’d win.” Robb snarls, though he was unsure of how true that statement really was. “We’re not doing it your way.” 

Jaime opens his mouth to speak, but Robb cuts him off, looking at Eddard.

“Gag him.” 

Eddard grins wickedly.

“With pleasure.” 

The first Northern victory of the war, with many more to come. Yet, Robb felt a dull ache in his chest. An emptiness.

The raven announcing his father’s death would soon arrive, and with it, his crowning. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR 

And I don’t blame you if you want to

Bury me in your memory, I’m not the [boy] I ought to be

OLENNA chortled into her tea upon hearing the latest news, Robb Stark’s freshly opened letter in front of her. 

In Riverrun, indeed. The boy impressed her further and further with every escapade. 

Not only had he lifted the siege upon Riverrun and captured the Kingslayer, but he had hoodwinked Tywin, and freed the castles that had been captured by the Lannister’s mad dog, the Mountain. 

His army had doubled in size and Tywin had been sent running to Harrenhal. She could not be happier. 

Until news had reached her of the beheading of Ned Stark by that stupid, idiotic, bastard, incest born child. Then, the declarations of kingship sent out by Stannis and Renly Baratheon.

She felt a chill settle in her bones.

“What does this mean, grandmother?” Margaery asked her, eyes wide and doe like. Innocent, yet Olenna knew her granddaughter well enough to see the calculating gleam in her eyes. 

“It means, my dear, we must pick a side.” Olenna said, brushing her beautiful granddaughter's long, brown, hair away from her eyes. 

“Loras will back Renly,” Margaery hummed, taking a sip from her tea. “He has declared himself king, and I,” She inhaled deeply, and Olenna watched her, knowing exactly what she was going to say.

“I want to be queen,” Margaery spoke, her lips pursed.

“And I want you to be alive at the end of this,” Olenna countered, watching her beautiful rose wilt slightly. “We must be smart, Margaery.” 

“You want to back the Stark boy?” Margaery murmured. “Why?” 

“He is not to be underestimated,” Olenna clucked her tongue. “In fact, I’d wager to say he’s the most dangerous of all the Kings.” 

“Robb Stark is no King,” Margaery countered. 

“Not yet,” Olenna hummed. “But he will be, darling. And you? You will be his winter rose.” 

Margaery said nothing, and simply stared at her grandmother for a long moment, before nodding. Olenna knew her granddaughter well enough to see the doubt in her eyes. She supposed Margaery will just have to wait and see the man for herself, and she’s sure she will soon understand why he has impressed Olenna Tyrell. 

Robb had prepared himself for the inevitability of the raven arriving, declaring his father dead. What he didn’t expect was what followed. 

Unlike his last life, his father did not die a traitor's and liar's death. 

His father, in this life, stayed true until the very end. Proclaimed Joffrey and his siblings bastards born of incest for all of King’s Landing and its citizens to hear. 

Robb didn’t know if the thought that his father remained firm until the very end comforted him or not. He wondered, idly, briefly, what had changed in this timeline. He wishes he knew. He wished he could have said goodbye. 

He slashed and stabbed and howled at the tree with an enemy sword and screamed until his throat was raw, as he did in his last life. Only this time, his mother was not the one to find him.

It was Jon. 

Jon, who took the information as stoically as he could — and then went to Robb’s tent and wept like a babe in his elder brother’s arms — and Robb could only hold him. Could not show him his own emotions because he had lived this hell before and Jon needed him to be strong and be brave. 

But he couldn’t. Because his father had been taken from him twice and he had, once again, not been able to say a proper goodbye. 

“I’ll kill them all,” He echoed once more, and Jon’s answering response was as somber as his mother’s was, in a past life.

“We’ll get Sansa back,” Jon whispered, because he knew Arya was no longer in King’s Landing, not anymore. “And then we’ll kill them all.” 

“We must declare for a King, Renly Baratheon is well loved.” Bracken expressed later in the meeting. Robb had tuned the conversation out, dreading the moment that Greatjon Umber would open his back fat mouth. 

“Stannis has the right,” Blackwood countered, because he would never agree with a Bracken. 

“I don’t care who has the right and who does not,” Mallister countered. “Stannis has been dealing with a witch from Asshai, he burns his own men—” 

“Fuck Stannis,” Greatjon snarled. “And fuck Renly. Why should they rule me and mine from some flowery seat in the South?”  He growled, brandishing his sword, gaining rumbles of agreement from the Northmen. “We bowed to the Dragons once,” he stated. “But the dragons are dead. What do they know of the Wall? Of the North? Of the Wolfswood? Even their bloody gods are wrong!” 

He was gaining traction, and Robb felt his head spin as the Greatjon whirled around, brandishing his sword in Robb’s direction. He had lived this once before, and it had been his greatest burden and worst failure. 

He would not fail again. 

“Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again?” He demanded fiercely. “They can keep their Iron chair. There sits the only King I mean to bend my knee to.” His voice grew even more gruff as he landed roughly on his knee, head bowed, sword point now in the dirt, pommel in the air as he faced Robb with the dedication of a northman for his lord in his eyes. “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” He bellowed. 

“Aye,” Karstark growled out. “I’ll have peace on those terms.” Far more of a fierce supporter of himself and Jon, after hearing the brothers had saved his sons’ lives.

The Northmen followed, echoing the same phrase. The Riverlanders began to murmur, each of them lowering onto their knees. 

“He fought with us. He protected our homes. He bled with us. He has Tully blood in his veins!” Blackwood said loudly. “The King of the Trident!”

He watched the late Freys grumble amongst themselves, and reluctantly take a knee with their riverlander kinsmen. Robb would have to deal with them soon, he knew. 

Jon knelt, slowly in front of him. 

Theon then spoke.

“Am I your brother, now and always?” 

The words felt like a knife in his heart and ash in his mouth as he responded.

“Now and always.” 

“Then my sword is yours, in victory and defeat.” 

Jon merely stared at him, his eyes telling Robb more than anything ever would. His mother stared, pride and heartbreak in her face. He couldn’t bear to face her. Not when he knew what he was about to do would cause her immense pain. 

But it was his desire. And he so wanted to be selfish, just once in this life. This one act was what he would allow himself.

“My Lords,” he spoke now, into the quiet knight, surrounded by thousands of men and hundreds of kneeling lords. “I cannot begin to express how grateful I am that you should choose me to bear the burden of a crown. That you are willing to fight, die, and bleed with me and mine.

I vow to always listen to the advisors I hold close. I vow to never take advantage of the trust and loyalty you have given me. I vow that we will make the roads bleed with Lannister blood, to avenge what they have taken from us. But, before I do that, I wish to enact my first action as King. An action I know I have been wanting to have the power to do since I was but a lad.” He took a deep breath, and met his brother’s eyes.

“Jon, please stand up.” 

Jon’s eyes widen, and Robb ignores his mother, who grasps at his arm and hisses his name in alarm. The Lords watch, the Northern Lords understanding what was about to happen. 

Eddard and Torrhen Karstark cannot hold in their grins as they watch. 

“You kneeled for me as Jon Snow, my natural half brother. But you rise as Jon Stark, Prince of the North. My brother in arms and my brother in blood.” 

Jon’s eyes widened.

“Robb—” he whispers.

“Shut up,” Robb interrupts, clasping his brother’s shoulder. Their eyes are misty. “You are my brother. And you are a Stark. It’s high time you have our name, since you already have our blood.” 

Robb presses his forehead to his brother’s. 

“You are my brother.” 

“Now and always,” Jon whispers. 

“Everybody!” Robb gathers, bolstering. “Hail Jon Stark! Prince of the North! The White Wolf!” 

It’s silent for a loud moment, until the booming shouts begin. 

“THE PRINCE OF THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE WHITE WOLF! THE WOLF KING!” All echoing throughout the riverlands.

Ale, wine, mead, and whatever else flowed copiously that night. Northerners and Riverlanders danced and sang and ate together as though from one kingdom — which, Robb supposes, they now are — and hailed their King. 

Robb Stark awoke the next morning with a bronze and iron crown of swords awaiting for him, and he rested the familiar weight of it on his brow. 

“We go South,” Lord Blackwood said, resting the direwolf at King’s Landing. “Take King’s Landing.” 

“No,” Lord Glover countered, shaking his head. “We’d have to pass by Harrenhal and the remainder of Tywin Lannister’s army. We must go West.” 

“Lord Glover is right,” Jon murmured, looking at the map on the table. “If we go West, we’d take the Golden Tooth, The Crag, and Ashemark. Stafford Lannister is mustering an army to go aid Tywin,” 

“Which means we have to cut off the army at the stem,” Robb nodded, as though he hadn’t lived this before.

He’d taken Oxcross and the Goldentooth in his past life. 

“The goal is King’s Landing,” Bracken countered. “Why would we go West?” 

“To take the pride of the Lion,” Robb grinned. 

“You want to take Casterly Rock?” Lord Mallister gasped. “That’s never been done before.” 

“If you pay attention to the histories of the first men, yes, it has,” Robb smirked. “But first we must focus on the Golden Tooth at Oxcross. Cripple Stafford Lannister’s army, and whatever resistance the Westerlands has will be negligible at best.” 

“Lord Umber will lead the vanguard to the Golden Tooth,” Robb continued, nodding at his Lord. “Wherein Lord Karstark and Lady Mormont will split off, each to take the Crag and Ashemark respectively. Uncle Brynden, you will take a contingent of 2,000 riverlanders to Harrenhal and wreak havoc. Block their food supply, attack in the night, whatever you wish. Return what the Mountain did to your lands tenfold.” 

“Where will you be, Your Grace?” Karstark asked, and Robb grinned.

“Wherever the fighting is the bloodiest, My lord,” He quipped, causing laughs to erupt from his war meeting. 

“Robb!” His mother burst into the tent, a letter clutched in her hand. “From the Tyrells.” 

Murmurs began breaking out amongst his men as Robb excused himself, allowing Jon to take the lead.

He took the letter from his mother and scanned it, eyes widening. 

“What does it say?” His mother asked, and Robb grinned.

“It says that they’ll arrive at Riverrun with a contingent of 10,000 men, leaving the rest of their army to defend the borders and cut off the food supply being sent to King’s Landing.” 

Catelyn gasps, eyes wide.

“But why would they declare for you?” She asks, brows furrowing. “The Knight of Flowers is a longtime bedfellow of Renly Baratheon.” 

“I’ve been writing to Lady Olenna for many weeks now,” Robb admits. 

“What?” His mother asks, her eyes still wide and getting wider still. “But, Robb—” 

“If this raven arrived today, it means she sent it perhaps three nights ago,” Robb murmured, more to himself than to anybody else. “Ready the castle. The Reachmen will be arriving within the next two days.” 

Preparations — for battle and their new guests — were well underway, and Robb and his family, as well as the most prevalent and important of his bannermen stood as a contingent, waiting to greet their guests. 

His brother on his left, and his mother next to Jon, much to her chagrin. 

“You look nervous,” Jon hissed. 

“It’s the queen of bloody thorns,” Robb hissed back.

“You’ve done well presenting a certain image of yourself to her, Robb,” Jon reasoned. “It will not do well for you to look like a green boy.” 

Robb inhaled shakily. Olenna Tyrell. In fact, the whole Tyrell family would be the only people he had not met in his past life that he was meeting now.

They were the biggest change and alteration he had made in the timeline, other than Jon leaving the Night’s Watch. But, that was less something he had done and something that gods had done for him instead. 

Uncle Edmure and Uncle Brynden stood next to his mother, followed by Lord Umber, then Lord Mallister, then Lord Karstark. Howland Reed stood somewhere, a bit farther off, observing. 

“You’re right, brother,” Robb murmured. “It’s just nerves.” 

Jon was saved by answering as they made it to their line of sight. Thousands of men on horseback, with carts and carts of what Robb deemed to be supplies, and a carriage, which he believed housed Margaery and Olenna Tyrell. 

At the front of the army rode Willas, Garlan, and Loras Tyrell. 

Robb assumed Mace Tyrell stayed back in Highgarden with his wife (thank the gods, for the man could not make a good decision to save his life), and some other Tyrell cousins and lords that were needed to protect their borders from Dornish and Stormlanders alike. 

Robb watched with baited breath as two large twins opened the carriage doors and Olenna Tyrell stepped down onto the soil, and his breath hitched at who followed her.

Margaery Tyrell was as beautiful as whispers said she was to be. 

She stood about a head shorter than him, dressed in a dress that flowed like a river, blue as the waters of the Trident. It plunged lowly, and he noticed a simple golden rose hanging from a long chain resting upon her breast. 

Her hair was long and brown, brushing her lower back and reaching the curve of her bottom. But it was her eyes, hazel and doe-like, framed by thick black lashes with a dainty nose and pretty pink lips that caused his chest to flutter. 

He nearly shook his head physically to clear his thoughts. He could not afford to be distracted by pretty southern women. Not again. 

The Tyrells reached them first, and the first to greet him and his family was Loras Tyrell, who merely nodded in acknowledgement at him. 

“Your Grace,” He said, though it was clear it was not Robb whom he wished to address that way. 

Robb inclined his head in response. 

Garlan was next, appraising them with shrewd eyes and an impassive face.

“So you’re Robb Stark,” He hummed. 

“Yes,” Robb answered dryly. “In the flesh.” 

“I’ve heard you turn into a direwolf,” Garlan says in response, and Robb’s answer is a purely wolfish devilish grin. 

“Would you like to see?” He bared his teeth in his smile, and his smile turned genuine when Garlan laughed. 

“Oh, I like you.” Garlan hummed, before moving down the line and greeting Jon and his lady mother. 

Willas Tyrell was next, and inclined his head with a respectful “Your Grace.” 

“You must be Lord Willas,” Robb hummed. “I’ve heard good things.” 

“As I have about you, Wolf King.” Willas answered. 

“I look forward to this newfound allyship between our Kingdoms.” Robb responded mechanically, though the sentiment was true enough. Willas eyed him for a moment, before nodding. As though he liked what he found. 

“As do I, Your Grace.” 

Olenna Tyrell was next. 

“My Lady,” Robb greets, bending down to kiss her knuckles. “As I live and breathe.” 

“Robb Stark,” Olenna Tyrell greeted with a dry smile. “You’ve provided me with quite the entertainment these past weeks.” 

“I live to please, Lady Tyrell.” 

“Oh, posh.” She waves off. “You and I are going to have many a discussion, I think.” 

“I would never deny you anything, Queen of Thorns,” Robb replies charmingly, a disarming smile on his face. She sniffs.

“Already more intelligent than anybody else in the South.” She pats him on the cheek, and he blinks in slight surprise, but Olenna is already moving down the line. He turns, catching Jon’s eye who sends him a helpless look and a shrug. 

Robb turns his head and comes face to face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

“Your Grace,” She says softly, her voice musical. She curtseys prettily, and Robb holds onto her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles of her hand whilst staring her in her beautiful hazel eyes. 

“My lady,” Robb says, his voice smooth and low. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” 

She laughs, and Robb thinks her laugh is almost more lovely than her voice.

“The honor is mine, Your Grace,” She says in response, perfectly polished and Southern. Robb wonders if he can get her to break her pretty little composure.

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Riverrun,” Robb says instead, for lack of a better thing to say. He nearly kicks himself.

“I’m sure I will,” She says with a wry grin. “It is very beautiful.” 

“I’m sure nothing is more beautiful than Highgarden,” Robb answers truthfully, he’s heard many lovely things about her home. 

Her smile turns a touch more genuine as her eyes soften with fondness for a home that’s now very far away. 

“Highgarden is truly the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” She speaks softly, before her eyes sharpen once more and her smile once more turns falsely disarming. “I’m sure Winterfell can speak of a different kind of beauty, however.” 

She leans in closely, as though she’s telling him a secret. He leans down closer to her.

“I should very much love to see the snow, one day.” 

Robb grins. “Mayhaps you will.” 

Her smile turns shy now, and Robb watches her elegantly glide to meet Jon. 

After cursory introductions are over, Robb instructs a few servants to take the Tyrells and their lords to their chambers, as they had the luxury of a castle as of right now rather than merely tents in camps. 

Robb releases a slow breath as he watches their retreating backs, and it isn’t long until his mother and Jon surround him. 

Robb feels wary at watching the two of them together, seemingly in agreement about something. 

“You’re smitten,” Jon says, disbelieving. 

“No I’m not,” Robb denies, shaking his head. “I’m not.” 

“A betrothal with her could be very advantageous, Robb,” Catelyn says in response, a thoughtful look on her face. 

Oh, Robb. If you had to break your agreement with the Freys, why couldn’t it be with someone like Margaery Tyrell? 

Perhaps Greywind would have liked the smell of her. 

Robb feels his throat constrict for a moment. 

“I cannot afford to be smitten or to fall in love. I have a war to win.” Robb spoke gruffly. 

“And she and her family will be the key to that,” Catelyn counters. Jon stays silent, watching him with kind eyes. “There need not be love, Robb. That will come in time.” 

He felt his head beginning to spin. 

“Excuse me,” Robb muttered, brushing past her. “I need to go to the godswood.” 

Greywind, his ever faithful shadow, now nearing the size of a small pony, followed. He needed to clear his head. Upon reaching the godswood he sat in front of the heart tree on a particularly overgrown tree stump, Greywind sitting faithfully by his side as Robb buried his hand in his fur and rested his other hand upon the smooth bark of the tree. 

“What do I do now?” Robb whispered. “How do I avenge my father and bring my sister back home?” 

His answer was silence. Full silence save for the chill in the air and the rustling of the blood red leaves. 

“Your grace?” A voice sounded behind him, and he turned to be greeted with the sight of none other than Margaery Tyrell. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE 

Deep down

We’re lonely demons from hell

“NO,” Robb answered softly. “You’re not interrupting, my lady.” She steps forward, eyeing his direwolf with slight trepidation. 

“This is Greywind,” Robb says calmly. “My direwolf. He will not harm you,” he pauses for a moment. “As long as you’re not a Lannister.” 

She laughs slightly, feeling more emboldened as she steps forward, her hand out in front of her, allowing the wolf to smell her. Greywind licks her hand, to Robb’s utter surprise, and she laughs in delight, beginning to pet him. 

“Oh, you’re such a sweet boy, aren’t you?” She whispers, getting fearlessly closer to Greywind as though he’s a mere pup. “Oh yes, you are, darling Greywind.” She looks at Robb now, raising an eyebrow as she continues to cuddle up to the direwolf. “Surprised?” 

“I was not expecting that,” Robb huffed a laugh. “He’s only ever so kind to my siblings and me.” 

“Well, perhaps he’s a good judge of character and is fond of me,” She sniffed haughtily, but the grin gave her away. 

“Or perhaps you smell of flowers, and he’s fond of that instead,” Robb counters, and she smirks.

“You think I smell of flowers?” 

“Do you not?” Robb asks. “I imagine in Highgarden you are surrounded by flowers.” 

“Does that mean you smell of snow and pine, Your Grace?” Margaery quips. Robb laughs.

“Aye, and of wolf.” He smiles charmingly, and her smile softens into something kinder as she looks down at Greywind, who is now resting at both of their feet in contentment. 

He had never been nearly as fond of Talisa, nor Talisa of him. It had caused a wedge between him and his wolf, as he had taken to leaving Greywind behind when he would see the woman. He shook his head clear of thoughts and straightened his spine.

“Do you keep to the old gods, my lady?” He asked, gesturing to the godswood. “I didn’t think you’d be one to come here.” 

Margaery inhaled. “My family has always been very involved with the Faith,” She began, but looked to the heart tree. “But, we have a beautiful Heart Tree in our own godswood.” 

“A weirwood?” Robb asked, eyebrows raising. “So far South?” 

She nodded. “Three, in fact. Grown so close together they’ve melded to become one large Heart tree, with large roots and beautiful scarlet red leaves. I had always found solace in the godswood. Peace.” 

“As have I,” Robb inclined his head. “I was raised on both the Faith and the Old gods, due to my lady mother. But I am a man of the North, and the old gods are my gods.” 

“Are they kind?” She asks softly, her eyes upon the weeping face of the Heart Tree. 

“Would they be gods if they were?” Robb murmurs. “No, I would not say they are kind. But I would say they’re fair, and that is all we can truly ask gods to be, can we not?” 

She smiled a sad smile. “I suppose you’re correct, Your Grace.” 

“Robb,” He says simply. “Call me Robb, my lady.” 

She looks at him for a long moment, before nodding.

“Then I suppose you must call me Margaery, if I am to call you Robb.” 

“I should like that, Margaery.” Robb whispers to her. 

“You don’t care much for ceremony then, do you?” She asks him, the wind whipping strands of her behind her, causing her long and slender neck to be exposed, alongside her chest. 

Robb laughs shortly. “No, I suppose I do not. I did not ask to be King.” 

“And yet, you are one,” Margaery replies. “One must act like it.” 

“Kings who insist people call them by a title are kings who have no respect from their people.” Robb counters. 

Margaery smiles. “Perhaps. But Kings who insist upon such familiarity are oft forgotten to be kings, and are thought to be friends.” 

“Is that so bad?” Robb asks. “I want my bannermen to trust me because they simply do, not because I am King. I want them to respect me because they are my friends, not because I have a title.” 

“Your bannermen are the ones who gifted you with the title,” Margaery says softly, brows furrowed. “Surely that means they trust and respect you. You did not place a crown upon your brow, they did.” 

“Aye,” Robb nods. “Trust can be easily broken, not easily forged. If they thrust a crown upon my head, and I let the crown change me, then would I have truly deserved it?” 

She’s quiet for a long moment, a gleam in her eye that Robb cannot quite decipher, but he keeps her gaze with his own. Steady and honest, but guarded and cautious. The air between them seems to change. 

“I suppose not,” Margaery nods her head in acquiescence. “But one must be careful. Allies turn with the wind.” 

He remembers the Tyrells turning cloak after Renly’s death immediately to the Lannisters, and he remembers his brother, Theon, and Roose Bolton and Walder Frey. He feels a stone sink in his stomach and something hardens within him. 

“Aye, Margaery,” Robb mutters. “That they do.” 

They sat in a companionable silence for a long moment, then Robb decided to break it. 

“Thank you very much for keeping me company,” He began, getting up and Greywind followed suit. She stood as well. “But I have business I need to attend to.”

“Of course,” She said, a slight laugh in her voice. “A king’s work is never done.” 

“No,” Robb smiled dryly. “It is not.” 

Margaery opened her mouth to speak, but Robb, much to his dismay, dismissed her.

He could not afford the distraction, nor the liability of caring for a woman right now. He closed his heart, and shuttered his face into a polite mask of indifference. 

He bent down and kissed her hand, gently, tenderly. A moment he would allow himself in the light of the godswood, a stolen moment with a beautiful woman. 

“Thank you,” He said once more. 

“You’re welcome,” She breathed, mystified for a moment. But Robb had turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing in the godswood. 

Margaery paced in grandmother’s chambers after her interaction with Robb Stark in the garden. 

“I don’t understand, grandmother,” She huffed. “All was going well, he was speaking to me and the conversation wasn’t—wasn’t awful,” She stumbled. She did not want to let on how truly entranced he had made her in that godswood. 

She didn’t want to show how charmed she truly had been. 

“And then he—” 

“Ran away,” Olenna hummed, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m aware, Margaery.” 

“That’s never happened before,” She muttered. 

“Robb Stark is not some idiotic lord or knight, Margaery,” Olenna tutted. “He is far smarter than most give him credit for.” 

The younger woman huffed in annoyance. 

“But he surely is handsome,” Olenna said. “You could do worse than an intelligent, handsome, and by all accounts, uncommonly kind, King.” 

The rose of Highgarden snorted.

She certainly could do much, much worse than Robb Stark. Joffrey Lannister comes to mind.

“The entirety of the Starks are pretty,” Margaery groused. “Down to their half brother.” 

“Prince Jon is rather pretty, isn’t he?” Olenna huffed a dry laugh. 

“Stoic,” Margaery hummed, sitting down on the settee and crossing her arms unceremoniously. “It would be harder to get him to warm up to me than Robb.” 

“Oh, Robb now, is it?” Olenna smirked. “Perhaps you have him where you want him.” 

“No,” Margaery sighed. “I thought I did, but he closed off once more, and just left! Me!” She threw her hands up in disbelief. 

Olenna chortled. “You’re going to have to work for this one, my granddaughter.” 

And I want to, Margaery allowed herself to think. 

Her preconceptions aside. Robb Stark was easily the most handsome man she had seen. The crown glistening in his auburn hair, bright against the sun. His cheeks chiselled and his nose perfectly symmetrical, astoundingly. 

He was tall, far taller than her. Lithe and muscled underneath his armor and furs. His eyes as blue as an icey, crisp, sky. 

Hearing him speak, she had been utterly enthralled. He seemed so earnest and so kind. Margaery had never seen such kindness. Even within her, there was always an ulterior motive. To elevate herself in the eyes of the people. 

For once, she didn’t see the naivete and goodness in a person as something to exploit, and instead something she admired and wanted to protect. Because she knew Robb Stark was anything but naive, reading his ravens to her grandmother proved that. 

That he knew their world was filled with swords to the back and knives in the dark, and chose to be kind anyways. And, Greywind was utterly precious. 

Like an incredibly large puppy. 

After far too long lost in thought, Margaery responded to her grandmother. 

“I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy it.” 

The welcome feast for the Tyrells was in full swing, and Robb sat atop the high table with his family and the Tyrells, watching the Reach lords interact with the Northerners with amusement. 

The Riverlanders were running interference, and the Northerners were having a great time ribbing the uptight, southern nature of the Reach lords. 

“Lord Umber is having a great time,” Jon said into his cup, and Robb barked a laugh at the large man having a drinking competition with a small southern Lord. 

“Why do I have the oddest feeling that little man is going to beat him?” Robb huffs a laugh, and Garlan interjects with a grin.

“Because that little man is Randyll Tarly,” The Tyrell man says, huffing a laugh. “More Northern than any man in the South I’ve ever met.” 

“That’s Randyll Tarly?” Jon gaped, eyes wide. “I expected him to be…” Robb noticed Jon got an odd look on his face as he surveyed the elder man. 

“Taller,” Robb offered kindly. 

Garlan laughed, taking a deep gulp from his ale. 

“Don’t let him fool you, Your Graces. Balls of iron.” 

Robb snorted. 

“I don’t doubt it,” he said, taking a sip from his own cup. “And please, call me Robb.” 

“That wouldn’t be proper,” Garlan said simply. “You are a King.” 

Robb sighed. “You Southerners and your obsession with being proper,” he joked lightly. “I want us to be friends. You are fighting my war. It is only right.” 

Garlan smiled wryly. “I’m just glad the Tyrells are on the right side of history, for once.” 

Jon smirked. “It’s lovely over here.” 

Garlan laughed. “I feel it, although I have not yet participated in any battles.” 

“I should like to see you in action. Rumors of your prowess with a sword reached even the North,” Jon grinned.

“Mine?” Garlan snorted. “Not a day went by that I didn't hear tales of the two eldest Stark boys and their brilliance with their weapons.” 

“Perhaps we would put our skills to the test tomorrow in the training yard,” Robb hummed, taking a sip. “If I win, you call me Robb.” 

Garlan threw his head back in laughter, lifting his cup and hitting it against Jon and Robb’s. 

“I’ll have peace on those terms, Your Grace.” 

Jon snorted. “That, I’d love to see.” 

Robb elbowed his brother. 

“I should like to test my prowess against an actual Knight of summer. Jaime Lannister did not count.” 

Willas Tyrell then turned into the conversation.

“Yes, how did the capture of the Kingslayer transpire?” 

As Jon explained the happenings, Robb scanned the crowd. Women and men dancing, singing, laughing. He felt wistful for a moment, for his dreaded dance lessons in Winterfell with his mother. He hated it, then, but he would do anything to be amongst his bannermen, a simple Lord or soldier finding companionship with the unlikeliest of people. 

A slower tune begins to play, and Robb’s thoughts are interrupted.

“Would you care for a dance?” A melodic voice asked him softly, and Robb turned to face Margaery. 

He was a few cups into the night, and was not sure he would have the self control to resist her attempts at charming him. But, she smiled at him softly, a shy smile, and coupled with the Stark grey dress she was wearing, he could not say no. 

“I would love to,” Robb answered, standing and taking her arm as a gentleman should. He guided her to the dance floor, knowing the hundreds of eyes on him as he did so. 

They did a traditional summer dance, gliding around one another, but Robb was sure to leave an appropriate amount of space between them.

“Are you enjoying the feast?” he asked her politely, and nearly smiled as she smiled brightly. 

“It is wonderful,” She breathed. “The people, the food, the music. We don’t do this often, in Highgarden.” 

Robb raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?” 

“Our feasts are filled with much more…pomp,” She spoke carefully. “My father is very traditionally southern.” 

Robb nodded. “Our feasts are usually like this, if not more chaotic. The presence of the Reach lords temper them.” 

“They do not like us,” Margaery said bluntly, but Robb laughed.

“No, they’re merely getting to know you. Test your mettle.” Robb leaned in, his breath brushing her face as he smirked, watching her blush prettily at his proximity. “See if your summer knights can last in the winter.” 

Margaery, not one to be cowed, leaned forward, her nose nearly brushing his as they continued to dance. 

“Winter cannot be so bad,” She hummed, her voice lower than it was a few moments ago. “It seems to have its charms.” 

Robb’s smirk grew wider for a moment, before he steeled himself and pulled away. 

“I suppose I am starting to see the appeal of summer myself,” He hums. “But I shall always prefer the cold.” 

She opened her mouth to respond, but the song came to an end, as did the dance. Robb smirked, as he so enjoyed the game they were beginning to play with one another.

He bent down, brushing his lips teasingly against her knuckles once more, the smirk visible on his face as his eyes never left hers. 

“Thank you for the dance, my lady Margaery.” He was going to escort her back to the table, but was interrupted by a Reach Lord, already offering his hand to her to dance. He watched her go with a smirk, enjoying the slightly confounded look on her face. 

The next day, Robb invited Lady Olenna and Lord Willas to the solar at Riverrun, and he read ravens and letters whilst waiting for his guests. He thought it was perhaps some form of a power move, to make the King await for their entrance or arrival or some such. Robb, honestly, couldn't care less about these Southern games, yet he knew he must use them. 

The maester escorted them to the solar, and bowed to Robb before he closed the door. Robb stood from his chair with a small smile on his face. 

"Lady Olenna, Lord Willas," He inclined his head and gestured for them to sit. "I'm glad we are finally able to sit down and talk. You'll have to forgive me, as wartime leaves us all in a rather busy state." 

"Oh, I know what war does, Your Grace," Olenna said simply. Robb wanted this meeting to be entirely private, so he forgoes squires or cupbearers and instead offered to fill her glass with wine himself. He knew he was 'lowering' himself to do so, but he was a man raised by a strict mother first and foremost. Despite being a Lord and growing up with many privileges, he was taught to respect his guests.

Especially his elders. Olenna raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Robb raised the pitcher in offering to Willas, who declined with a shake of his head and a smile.

"Well then," Robb said simply, sitting back in his chair. "I first would like to offer you my thanks," He begins, and then, leaning forward and crossing his hands together, interlocking his fingers, he rests it on the old mahogany desk. "And also ask the question of, why choose me?" 

"I beg your pardon?" Willas asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"The Lannisters and Renly Baratheon, I'm sure, will and possibly already have offered you much more than I have. In fact, I offered nothing," Robb said simply. "So that begs the question, why declare for me?" 

"That is a rather bold assumption," Olenna said loftily. "The Lannisters have no love for us, and we hold no love for them." 

Robb snorted. "Lady Olenna, please do not do me the dishonor of insulting my intelligence," he chides softly. "We all know that there is no need for love when it comes to power. Not for you Southerners." 

"Perhaps they offered nothing that we wanted," Willas offered, and Robb shook his head with a grim smile.

"If we are to be allies, I expect full honesty, as I would not lie to you." His voice was smooth and cool. "When I sent those ravens, Lady Olenna, it was never in an attempt to win you to my side of the war."

Olenna raised an eyebrow. "If it was not, then I expect you sent every Ruling House the same warning?" 

"Of course not," Robb shrugged. "I knew who everyone would declare for. Except House Tyrell. Your House has always been a turning point in any war. Fielding the most men, having the most to trade." 

"And you claim you did not send your correspondence to me in an effort to sway House Tyrell to your cause?" Olenna snorted. "I believe we said to be honest with one another." 

"And I am," Robb admitted. "Candidly, I merely did not want you to declare for the Lannisters." 

"We still can," Willas interjected. "There is nothing, truly, holding this alliance together." 

"What is it you want?" Robb asked, eyebrows raised. 

"For now? Nothing." Olenna sipped her wine. 

"And later?" Robb inquired.

"That can be broached at another date," She smirked slyly, and Robb tried to hide his own answering sigh. 

"My Lady," He began gently. 

"You ask why we declared for you." She cuts him off smoothly, setting her goblet onto the desk. "The answer was simple. You sent a warning, allowed me to prepare my family for the inevitable war. You, in doing so, gained my respect. You wrote to me once more and said my next raven would be able to reach you at Riverrun, and it did. You captured the Kingslayer and thwarted Tywin Lannister in your first battle. That shows you not only have the skill, but you have the integrity to keep your promises." Robb was gobsmacked, not expecting such candidness from a woman of the South. The most Southron of the Southern Kingdoms, with all their politics and properness and customs that Robb abhorred.

"Close your mouth," She scolded softly. "It is unbecoming."

Robb cleared his throat.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said simply. "I just never imagined House Tyrell to care much for integrity," He said pointedly, and then almost winced. It wouldn't do well to insult what could be his most valuable allies, but calmed when she and Willas snorted.

"You thought right, in the past." Willas acknowledged. "Perhaps we decided we wanted to back the winning horse, for once."

"And you believe me to be the winning horse?" Robb mused. 

"I see no evidence to the contrary," Olenna said coolly. 

"And if you do?" Robb leaned forward. "Would you turn cloak? I have nothing to offer you. No Iron Throne, no Seven Kingdoms." Yet.

"We shall see what you have to offer us when the time comes," Olenna said cryptically, and Robb raised an eyebrow, but nodded. 

"And until that time comes?" 

"We will be allies, ones that have a mutual benefit and respect towards one another," Willas said diplomatically.

"Mutual benefit? You send me men, and I give you...what?" 

"Security," Olenna replied simply, and Robb, mystified still, merely nodded. 

"I do believe we have an accord," Robb spoke after a moment. 

"I believe we do." Olenna promised.

Robb was filled with apprehension. He knew what they would ask of him. 

Marry Margaery, for one. Not that he would protest.

Second, to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And, if Olenna believes she would be the one to manipulate him into that role, then so be it. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX 

Somewhere in the past

Something was between, you and I my dear

They had set off for the Westerlands not long after the welcome feast for the Tyrells. Robb had had an easy time of crushing the Lannisters on the battlefield in his past life, he remembered. With the extra ten thousand Tyrell swords, it was far easier in this one. 

He had even managed not to get injured in this battle like he had in the last one. Coupled with the Tyrells, he had found an excuse to refuse Theon when he had asked him if he could sail to his father to get the Ironborn on side. 

They had the Redwyne fleet until the Northern fleet would be complete, which he was written to by Wyman Manderly and assured that it would be finished within the next two moons. He had noticed Theon’s disheartened-ness, but could not find it in him to feel bad, as Theon had used the trust he had given him in the past to take his castle and kill his little brothers.

It was not a risk he would take in this life. But, as consolation, he told Theon he would sail with the Redwyne or Northern fleet once it was needed, which would be rather soon, as Karstark and Lady Mormont were taking Ashemark and the Crag, Robb and his contingent of the army would take Sarsfield, and they would reunite to siege Lannisport. Which would be dangerously close to Clegane Keep, drawing the Mountain into the West, like he had wanted to in his past life.

Karstark and Lady Mormont had left that morning, and Robb and his men would be leaving for Sarsfield in a few days, which was not far — perhaps a day or so journey — where they would attack in the night. With Stafford Lannister captured and his reinforcements crippled, Tywin only had the barebones of an army left to him. 

Edmure and Brynden were in charge of the Riverlands, fortifying the river road and wreaking havoc on Tywin Lannister until he and his decimated army made way to King’s Landing when Stannis eventually laid his siege after his murder of Renly. 

Robb had decided not to touch that with a ten-foot pole. He walked the grounds of his camp at Oxcross, surveying the injured and visiting with his soldiers in order to boost morale when he saw her.

Talisa. 

He felt his breath get caught as he watched her, her dress soaked in dirt and blood, sweat causing her hair to stick to her forehead. He felt an influx of emotions, chief among them regret coupled with longing.

He had loved her, that was true. 

But nothing was worth the price he paid for loving her. The loss of his family, his kingdom, his home, his bannermen. People who had lived and died for him, and he had chosen the love of a woman over the good of his people. 

He watched her for a long moment, wanting to go to her whilst also wanting to never see her again. But, he turned away and continued his walk amongst his bannermen. 

He was talking with Eddard and Torrhen Karstark — two lords and heirs amongst his honor guard — when he saw her. 

Margaery. 

Why she had chosen to come with them from camp to camp, Robb would never know. But he would not deny her. Lady Olenna had elected to stay in Riverrun with his mother, where Robb would be returning to after he took Casterly Rock and elected an interim steward until he could reach the main Lannisters in King’s Landing. He didn’t want to have to stay in that godsforsaken castle for longer than he needed to.

He watched Margaery interact with the injured soldiers with a smile on her face, watching as the soldier’s morale boosted at the sight of a beautiful woman bringing them pretty flowers with an even prettier smile. 

Eddard nudged him. 

“Having eyes for the Rose of Highgarden, Robb?” 

Torrhen snorted, and Robb rolled his eyes fondly. One thing he loved about Torrhen and Eddard, they stood on ceremony less than even he did. They had grown up together, distant cousins and kin, they were as close as distance allowed them to be.

Now that they had been in such close proximity to one another for many moons, fighting together and saving one another's lives, their bond had only deepened. 

Other than Jon, Eddard, Torrhen, and Dacey were the only ones to treat him as though he were just Robb before he was their King. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Edd.” Robb sniffed. 

“Do you see that, Torr?” Edd smirked, pointing at his face. “Our King is blushing.” 

“I am not!” Robb denied, and Torrhen began to cackle, throwing his head back in loud, booming laughter.

“Oh, I see it brother.” Torrhen smirked, throwing an arm around Robb’s shoulder. “The beautiful rose has our Robb turning into a blushing maiden.” 

“I will hang you,” Robb threatened bluntly, causing Edd and Torrhen to laugh harder.

“If it pleases you, Your Grace,” Edd declared pompously. 

“I will pair you up with Dacey for the next guard rotation,” Robb tried once more, causing Torrhen to straighten up.

“She’s scary,” He said simply at Edd’s incredulous look. 

“Dacey Mormont?” Edd huffed in disbelief, unbeknownst to him that Dacey was standing behind him. Robb and Torrhen tried to warn him from speaking further at the sight of her raised eyebrow, but he continued. “She’s as cuddly as a bear cub.” 

Robb nearly groaned.

“Oh I am, am I?” Dacey mused, twirling her mace in her hands. Edd’s face paled as he turned around. 

“Dacey!” He crooned jovially, underneath his visible nervousness. “We were just talking about you.” 

“So I gather,” She said dryly, an unimpressed look on her face. Robb cringed, and Torrhen snorted. “Perhaps, you should join me for a training round Karstark, and I’ll show you how cuddly I really am.” 

Edd smiles charmingly. 

“Only if you let me show you how cuddly I am afterwards.” 

Robb choked on air, Torrhen beginning to cough behind the pair as Dacey’s eyes turned teasing as she eyed the Karstark son. 

Robb turned, finding Margaery’s gaze on him, questioning and amused as she watched the group of friends. Robb grinned at the girl and shrugged, his smile widening at her answering smile. 

He turned around to see Dacey whispering something in Edd’s ear that caused him to turn bright red and begin to stutter. Dacey laughed, turning around and shouting behind her back. 

“I’ll see you tonight then, Karstark!” 

Torrhen gaped.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” 

Edd coughed, still bright red. 

“Oh, Torr, I believe Edd is the blushing maiden now,” Robb snorted. 

Torrhen laughed loudly, as little siblings always do at their elder siblings' expense. Robb grinned.

It was later in the night, in his tent with Jon that Robb mulled over the events of the past weeks. They had successfully hung Stark banners upon the Golden Tooth, and won the battle at Oxcross.

He was heading into unfamiliar territory now, unsure of how things would go from this point forward.  He would either win, or he would die and fail once more. 

“The rumors I’ve been hearing about us are rather funny,” Jon murmured, patting Ghost on the head as he spoke. Robb sighed.

“I’ve heard it all before.” 

“They’ve taken to calling you the Wolf King now, rather than the Young Wolf.” Jon smirked, and Robb  paused. 

The Young Wolf was a title as much as it was an insult. A reminder of his age, and foregoing his title as a King. 

Making it seem as though he were merely a boy meant to be feared. 

The Wolf King, a title as fearsome as any, acknowledging his position as a King and emphasizing it. What may not seem like a big difference in the timelines, was giving away exactly what the smallfolk thought of him.

“And what do they call you?” Robb asked, smirking at Jon’s grimace.

“The White Wolf.” Robb smiled, his hand going to absentmindedly pat Ghost softly, who leaned into his touch.

“Rather fitting,” He murmured softly, smiling as Ghost closed his eyes in contentment. But the direwolves' eyes shot open, sitting up and beginning to leave the tent, Greywind far more energetic in his leaving, bounding away and running, with Ghost then picking up his pace and following behind. 

“What—” Jon began, but was stopped.

They were interrupted by a cacophony sounding outside.

“It’s a wolf!” A voice shouted.

Robb and Jon shared a look, darting outside with Greywind and Ghost far ahead of them. 

Robb exhaled in shock. Three direwolves, the size of small horses. His brother’s, his own, and his little sister’s, were reuniting in the center of the camp. Every soldier was weary, eyeing the scene with trepidation. There were other wolves lingering, smaller. Not direwolves, but simply wolves. He assumed they were with Nymeria. 

“Nymeria,” Jon whispered.

Nymeria paused, her eyes finding Jon and Robb. 

If wolves could smile, Robb was certain Nymeria was grinning. 

“Nymeria!” Robb called, grinning as the three wolves bounded over to him and Jon, and laughed in happiness as the wolves collided with him, pushing him to the ground as Nymeria began to nudge him with her snout and lick his cheek. 

“Oh hello you beautiful girl,” Robb breathed, grinning as Jon crouched down and was met with the same treatment as he was. 

Robb wrapped his arms around her neck, smiling softly through the tears in his eyes. She wasn’t Arya, but she was a piece of her.

As long as Nymeria was with them, Robb had faith his littlest sister was okay. That she would find her way home, to him. 

“We missed you, Nym,” Jon whispered softly. She whined softly, and Robb pressed a kiss to her head. 

Greywind and Ghost stood close, watching the reunion with what Robb could only describe as fondness in their eyes. 

“What are you two waiting for?” Robb huffed, uncaring of their large audience. “Come here.” 

The two brother wolves took no more cajoling as they joined the pile. 

The lone wolf dies, Robb thought solemnly, thinking of Lady. But the pack survives. 

Somewhere in the Riverlands, a child known to travelers as Arry woke up with tears in her eyes. 

She had fallen asleep as a boy with no family, nowhere to go. She had woken up as Arya Stark of Winterfell, having seen her brothers for the first time in many moons. 

She vowed she would find them. She would. She had something she hadn’t had in a long time now, since they took her father’s head in King’s Landing.

She had hope. 

Margaery watched with wide eyes and a racing heart as Robb stood in front of his bannermen, his brother, three direwolves, and a pack of smaller wolves standing at his side. He gleamed in the sunlight, his lips were split in a wolfish grin as he relayed his battle plans to his bannermen in preparation for tomorrow. Robb Stark shone brighter to her, than the brightest star in the sky.

She exchanged a look with Garlan, who looked similarly mystified at the sight. He was magnificent, powerful, and clearly blessed by the gods he favored.

He stood like a Northern avenging angel, fighting for justice and love for his family, rather than a lust for power and a deluded sense of what he believed was owed to him. 

His ice blue eyes met hers in the distance, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. 

He cut an intimidatingly beautiful visage, and she could feel herself begin to have a sensation of falling. No, not just falling, but plummeting. As though she had been floating high in the sky, flying with large wings made of grandeur and wants and desires, only to have the wings taken with her as she begins to fall, her stomach rolling, her heart pounding. Margaery can see him, standing still and as unwavering as a rock, as though waiting to catch her.

She wonders if he will. 

Wolf King, indeed. 

She looked once more at Garlan, and then Loras, who was trying — and failing — to look less impressed than he was.

She turned her gaze to Willas, who watched him with calculating eyes that hid the true respect she knew her eldest brother had for the Stark King. It was at that moment that she had the oddest feeling. 

The feeling that she and her siblings would follow this man anywhere. It was a difficult thing to swallow. The Tyrells had always played their own games, always had their own wants and desires. She could never imagine her family being loyal, truly loyal, to anyone other than themselves. But now, she could not say the same. She felt a burning loyalty to this man, who stood as though he were a hero of some long-forgotten prophecy. The bronze and iron crown sparkling upon his head, his auburn hair looking kissed by fire underneath the sunlight. His eyes, northern, cold blue eyes, shining with unwavering confidence. His lips stretched into a smirk, furs and armor adorning his body, his Valyrian steel sword in his hand, and surrounded by wolves, by the animal his ancestors had favored, and the animals that clearly favored his family, for the last three thousand years. 

Robb and Jon, the night before the battle for Sarsfield was to begin, decided to take a visit to their favorite prisoner.

“Stark,” Jaime Lannister exclaimed, dirt covering his golden hair. His frame is now frailer, as it usually happens with war prisoners. The collar around his throat was glistening in the moonlight, and Robb felt a vindictive pleasure at the sight.

He wondered which hand Jaime had used when he pushed his little brother out of the window. 

“Lannister,” Robb smiled coldly. “Do you know where we are?” 

“Should I?” Jaime drawled.

“Oh, I think you should,” Jon hummed. “It is in your homeland, afterall.” 

Jaime paused. 

“Sarsfield,” Robb supplies, smiling serenely. “We will take this castle as well. Then we will make our way to Lannisport.” 

Jaime snorted. “Ambitious. Don’t let your arrogance get to your head, boy.” 

“Your father’s army is crippled, Lannister,” Jon shrugged. “One of the Baratheons will soon lay siege to King’s Landing, I’m sure.” Lannister began to struggle, and Robb laughed.

“Oh, is that worry I see? For whom, I wonder?” 

“His sister?” Jon supplied. “Or his lover.” 

“No, Jon,” Robb sighed theatrically. “They’re one in the same, remember?” 

Robb watched as Jaime tensed, his eyes turning hateful. He smirked.

“Oh yes,” Jon clicked his tongue. “His children perhaps?” 

“I don’t know who would possibly worry for Joffrey,” Robb said in distaste. 

“A face only a mother could love,” Jon snorted. “Not a father.” 

“Is there a point to this?” Jaime drawled, trying to appear unbothered.

“Oh no,” Robb said simply. “I just wanted to let you know you are losing, miserably. In a few moons’ time, I will have Joffrey, Cersei, and Tywin’s head on a spike for you to see,” He hissed, allowing his hate to fill his gaze. 

Jaime snarled.

“Worry not,” Jon said soothingly. “Yours will join them soon enough.” 

“Four victories does not make you a conqueror,” Jaime snarled.

“It’s better than four defeats,” Robb echoed his words in a past life. “Come, brother. Let’s leave him to the wolves.” 

“Don’t kill him, Greywind.” Jon chided softly. 

Robb watched Jaime tense and his eyes widened at the sight of his wolf, walking menacingly towards him in the open cage.

He watched impassively for a moment, impressed when Jaime merely flinched and didn’t piss himself at the sight of Greywind’s intimidation. 

In twenty-four hours, Sarsfield would be his. 

Just a few days after, the siege of Lannisport would begin.

The Redwyne fleet was already in position, ready to begin its seaside blockade. 

His mother and Lady Olenna would be traveling from Riverrun to Lannisport once they received word from Robb that Lannisport had been taken, their path cleared by castles with direwolf flags hanging from their battlements. 

“Until tomorrow, Kingslayer,” Robb murmured, calling Greywind to him and leaving Jaime to languish in the dirt and mud in his cage. 

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

Let the lions learn to fear the wolves of the North. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN 

In case you don’t live forever, let me tell you now

I love you more than you’ll ever wrap your head around

SARSFIELD really wasn’t anything special in the grand scheme of things, Robb found. He expected the Westerlands to be gilded in gold, beautiful, instead he found it was just like everywhere else.

Oh, he raided their gold mines, of course. Took everything he could and planned to distribute them amongst himself and his bannermen, as was only fair. 

But as he waited in the night for the perfect time to attack, he reflected deeply upon his campaign this time around. He had been tearing through the Westerlands with fair ease, like a hot knife slashing through a slab of butter. He should perhaps be wary of how easy it had been, but he knew he had an unfair advantage Tywin Lannister did not.

He knew exactly what was going to happen, bad and good, and was able to play that in his favor. Until this moment. After tonight, he would be reaching territory unknown to him.

He would have been killed in four moons’ time at Edmure’s wedding. 

Robb waited and waited until the time of the hour of the wolf, and that’s when he struck. 

He and Jon fought side by side, surrounded by Greywind, Ghost, and now, Nymeria. 

They spooked horses and jumped on enemy soldiers, tearing their throats out with sharpened canines. Robb felt blood in his own mouth as he warged in and out of Greywind with ease throughout the battle, his sword bloodied and dripping in red.

He didn’t know how long the fight lasted, if it could even be considered a battle. Lord Eldrick Sarsfield surrendered with no pomp and ceremony. Robb watched a few hours later as dawn broke, showing the first bright rays of the rising sun shining amongst the swinging banners of the direwolf. 

He wondered if he was supposed to feel a sense of accomplishment, a sense of triumph. 

He felt neither. He merely felt resigned. 

He sat in front of a Tree in a cheap imitation of a Godswood at the small keep and simply pondered.

“You don’t look happy,” a musical voice reached his ears. He looked at Margaery Tyrell with an unreadable expression. “Despite your victory.” 

“Is it a victory?” Robb laughed dully. “It doesn’t feel like it.” 

“Why?” She asked, cocking her head to the side in an adorable display of confusion. 

“Is it a victory knowing the dead we now bury were not soldiers? But mere boys? Farmers. Smallfolk. They did not sign up for this war.” He muttered, staring at his hands as though they were covered in blood. He had washed them fairly recently, but he could still see dried blood underneath his nails.

“That’s not your fault,” Margaery admonished softly. “You did not put swords in untrained hands and make them fight a battle not theirs to fight.” 

“Aye, I did not,” Robb agreed. “I just killed them.” 

Margaery was quiet for a long moment. He looked at her as he watched the horizon, looking away from him to the far off cliffs. 

“You did what you had to do,” She said simply. 

“You don’t understand,” Robb huffed. “You need not ever see battle. See a boy younger than you fall with fear in their eyes until death snuffs out the light.” 

She crosses her arms, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You have the right of that, Your Grace,” She says coolly. “But what I do see are your bannermen, injured as they are, smiling and happy because they are loyal to you and think they have done a valiant job in aiding their king. I promise soldiers they will heal and be alright, that they will reunite with their families, only to find they’ve succumbed to their wounds the next day.” 

Robb turns to her now, watching her with wide eyes as her cheeks flush with anger and her breaths begin to be deeper as she continues her tirade.

“I sit in the camps, waiting for my brothers to come back, knowing one of them may become one of those very injured soldiers. Sometimes, waiting for them to come home is worse than being in battle. At least they can guard and protect each other. I can do nothing for them. No aid, not even knowing if they’re okay until hours and hours of waiting later.”

Robb finds he has nothing to say to her in response. Inappropriately, he thinks she looks beautiful with anger on her face. Something he is certain is genuine, and not one of her masks he needs to decipher. He believes he sees Margaery Tyrell, truly, for the first time since he had met her all those weeks ago.

And he thinks she’s lovely. 

He stares at her, her flushed cheeks and bright eyes and pursed lips. Her eyes hold a slight glare in them as she looks at him. And he is overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her.

He does not, though.

“You are brave,” He says simply. “To follow us into war, despite not being a fighter.” 

She snorts, crossing her arms defensively. 

“I certainly do not feel brave. I feel frightened all the time, and I can do nothing about it.” 

Robb laughs then, hit with a sense of nostalgia and sadness. 

“Do not laugh at me,” She hissed venomously, and Robb waves her away, with a bubble of laughter in his voice still.

“I am not laughing at you, my lady. Merely remembering.” 

“Remembering what?” She demands, and he raises an eyebrow.

“A bit belligerent today, aren’t we?” He asks teasingly, and she huffs, holding back a smile he can clearly see. 

“I am cross with you,” She says simply, and he smiles charmingly.

“What can I do to make you not cross with me anymore?” He questions glibly, and he smiles at her slight blush.

“Tell me why you laughed.” She said simply, looking at him with confused eyes.

“Because, you reminded me of myself,” he said simply. “I was young and I was speaking to my father, who likened being a Lord much like being a father. I didn’t understand,” he says wistfully. Remembering his naivete. “He said it’s much like having hundreds of children, and being terrified for them all the time.” 

Margaery simply watched, her face softening as he spoke. He felt his throat begin to close up, imagining his father’s fading face in his mind's eye. 

“I was confused, because my father was the bravest man I’d ever known. I couldn’t quite reconcile that with him being frightened all the time.” Robb murmured, a tad rueful. Margaery grasped his hand, and he paused for a moment, to look at her earnestly. Unguardedly. To allow himself to admire her for a moment. 

“‘How can a man be brave when he is afraid?’ I asked my father, and he answered. ‘That is the only time when a man can be brave.’” 

Margaery is quiet for a moment. 

“He sounded like a very wise man,” She whispered quietly. 

Robb smiled, a watery smile. “He was.” He nudges her playfully for a moment. “I think he would have liked you.”

She snorted. “I doubt that,” She murmured. “I am not as kind as I seem to be.” 

“Kindness,” Robb mused. “I think kindness isn’t the only thing that makes one a good person. In fact, I’d say terrible people are often capable of kindness.” 

She looked at him oddly. “Then what makes someone a good person, to you?” 

“Being genuine,” Robb answered immediately. Margaery shook her head with a smile.

“I am not genuine either,” She admits. “I do things simply for the reason that it may further my own wants. I am selfish, I am a walking facade.” 

Robb tilts her chin to make her eyes meet his, and she holds her breath. He smiles.

“I think now, at this moment, it is the first time I’ve seen the true Margaery Tyrell. Do you want to know what I see?” 

“What?” She breathes.

“Someone who loves her family, someone who feels empathy for people she does not know, someone who is quietly brave, who is quick to anger and quick to understand and listen. Someone who acknowledges her faults.” Robb says to her softly, quietly, honestly.

He never tears his eyes away from her hypnotic hazel. He continues to speak.

“Oftentimes, I find, truly good people never consider themselves good people.” He gently lets go of her chin, despite loving the feeling of her soft skin against his fingertips. “Selfish you may be, but aren’t we all?” 

“You aren’t,” She says back to him, and he laughs. A bitter, broken thing. He smiles at her, sadly, kindly.

“I am perhaps the most selfish of us all.” And it was for that reason that he could not be selfish here and now. He could not be selfish with her. Despite so desperately wanting to. He didn’t think he had ever wanted a woman this much, did not think he ever would want a woman as much as he wanted her, ever again. 

But, love is the death of duty. And he had a duty to many people, he had a duty to the gods. He could not be selfish with her. Could not risk her the way he had risked and lost Talisa. 

He didn’t think he could bear it if he lost her. 

“I don’t understand,” She huffs softly. “No, you are not.” 

“Only selfishness lay in the hearts of men, my rose,” He whispered to her, gently lifting his hand to her face and cradling her head. She leans into his touch, and closes her eyes. 

It would be easy. So easy to lean down and kiss her, make her his and marry her as soon as he could. It would be easy to love her. 

“Selfish or not, Robb Stark,” She whispered to him. “You are possibly one of the best men I know.”

Robb laughs. “You must not know many good men.” 

“Perhaps not,” She allows. “But I know many men. Truly selfish, bad men.” She looks up at him.

“I can say with certainty, you are not like them at all.” 

Robb inhales softly. 

“Thank you,” He says simply. “For allowing me to see you, Margaery Tyrell.” 

“I’m not sure if you seeing me is a good thing,” She murmurs, and he leans down, gently kissing her forehead and rubbing a calming circle into her cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

“I assure you, I quite like the real you better than whatever facade you show.” 

“You would be the first,” She smiles sadly. 

I dearly hope I am not the last. He wants to say. But, he is a selfish man. He selfishly hopes nobody sees her the way he does. Selfishly hopes he is the first and last to see the true Margaery. 

Selfishly hopes to be the first and last man she lets into her heart.

So, he says instead, “That’s a shame. You are rather lovely.” 

He lets her go, watching her shiver at the loss of his touch. He feels much the same.

He leaves soon after, for he knows if he stayed, he would not be able to hold his true selfish nature at bay any longer.

He knows if he stayed, he would say something stupid.

Like asking her to marry him. 

The raven that he had received from his bannermen at home told him the grim news he had been waiting for for many days now.

Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King, and had set his sights on the North. Of course, his borders stayed true and his newly finished fleet had been patrolling the Northern waters, so the Ironborn had to retreat. For now. 

He felt the stress pile onto his shoulders, making him want to cower and stay in bed for days. But he could not, and he would not. He had to have faith that the manpower he left behind was enough. 

Had to have faith that so long as Theon was within his eyesight, Winterfell would not be taken, and his brothers would be safe. 

Robb wasn’t expecting anyone to enter his tent that night, and was surprised at who it was. Normally, it would’ve been Jon. He found it odd to see Garlan Tyrell, standing in front of him looking oddly uncomfortable and out of place, a feeling Robb was sure was entirely foreign to the knight before him. 

“Garlan?” Robb asked, putting down his papers. “What can I do for you?” 

“How do you do it?” Garlan asked, huffing. Robb felt thrown, and completely confused.

“Do what?” 

“I see the burden you bear,” Garlan admitted. “Sometimes, I think the weight of it will crush you. But you have not even bent. I don’t think I would be strong enough to do what you’re doing.” 

Robb furrowed his brows. 

“Where is this coming from?” Robb asked softly. “Is there something amiss?” 

“You like my sister,” Garlan stated bluntly. Robb’s eyes widened. “Sometimes, I think you may even love her. Yet, you do nothing. Why?” 

Robb is on precarious ground now with this conversation. 

“I do not believe that is any of your business.” Robb says coolly, and Garlan shakes his head.

“If you marry her, she becomes your Queen and the Reach becomes another Kingdom for you to rule. Yet you do not take that opportunity. I want to know why.” 

“Do you think I want to be here?” Robb asks incredulously. “That I want to be King and shoulder the burden you yourself can see upon me?” 

“Does everyone not want to be King?” Garlan counters. “To rule and to be powerful?” 

“Not I,” Robb sighs. “I never wanted it. I want it less still. But it was a burden given to me and it will be mine to shoulder alone. I will not paint a target on your sister's back for my enemies to see.” 

Garlan is quiet for a long moment.

“Aye, there will be enemy eyes on her. Yes, they will attempt to target her in an effort to thwart or hurt you.” Garlan agrees. “But she should make that decision for herself. She must decide if she wants to shoulder your burden with you and make it lighter. You should not have to decide for her.”

“Of course she would make that decision,” Robb hissed. “Do you think I do not know that she aspires to be Queen? How do I know if her decision to bind herself to me for the rest of her life is not entirely contingent upon the title that I will give her?” Garlan opens his mouth to speak, but Robb shakes his head.

“You are her brother. You are here speaking to me because you are her brother. I am denying her and whatever feelings I may have for her because I cannot risk it. I want to protect her.” 

“And that is why I know we made the right decision when choosing to follow you,” Garlan whispers. “That you would prioritize her safety before the securing of another kingdom and the lessening of the burden of a crown on your head is why I know she will not only be content with you, but she will be happy.” 

“Why have you come here, Garlan?” Robb sighs. “To speak only of your sister?” 

“No,” Garlan smiles ruefully. “I came here in light of today, because I thought you might need a friend.”

Robb, for a moment, is dumbstruck. He did not anticipate Garlan Tyrell of all people to come to his tent in the night for the sole reason of thinking Robb needed a friend by him. 

He felt warm, for a moment. Garlan reminded him what all this was for, in the grand scheme of things. Reminded him why coming back and living this hell over again was worth it. Reminds him there is still good in the South, despite Robb seeing only the terrible and the knives of friends and foe alike in the dark. 

So, Robb smiled. 

“I would like that,” He said simply, and gestured for Garlan to sit down in front of him. They talked well into the night, with Robb reminiscing about life in Winterfell with his family and friends, of the wolfswood and the day they found their direwolves. 

Garlan, in turn, spoke of Highgarden, of knights and tourneys, of days running around the polished gardens of their castle. Robb found he quite liked Garlan the Gallant, much to his surprise. 

Margaery wandered the war camp, afloat after her conversation with Robb and the news they had received of the Ironborn reavers attempting to assault the North. She hadn’t seen much of Theon Greyjoy after finding the news, only seeing his skin turn pale and his eyes widened, as he dispersed from the war council as quickly as he could once dismissed.

She sighed, meandering, watching the soldiers begin to form friendships as she spied two Reachmen playing a gambling game with a group of Northerners, with Riverlander men jeering and laughing, deep into their cups. 

She was interrupted from her thoughts at the sight of a white direwolf, Prince Jon’s. She stopped, holding her breath slightly as the weirwood colored wolf stared at her with scarlet eyes, assessing her. She held its gaze, inching closer when the wolf began to pad towards her with its giant paws. 

The wolves had exponentially grown since she had seen them the first time, looking to be the size of a horse with no sign of stopping their growth. They were beautiful, she thought absently as she approached the wolf with a slow caution, so as not to startle it.

Once they reached one another, she waited, holding her palm out for the direwolf to come to her when he wanted to. He gently pressed his snout against her hand, and licked her. She giggled.

“Oh, you’re a darling aren’t you?” She cooed softly. “Just like your brother.” 

She smiled as he nudged at her hand with his nose, and she stuck her other hand in her skirt pockets. She had taken to carrying bread rolls with her, in case she encountered Greywind once more, so she could give him a treat. 

She used to do that often in Highgarden, carrying apples and sugar cubes to sneak to the horses in their stables. She spoiled them rotten, and they loved her for it, even if their riders chided her softly. 

She gave him the bread roll and smiled as he licked her hand once more before opening his large mouth and gently taking the bread roll from her palm, swallowing it in one bite. Her grin widened at his gentleness. 

“You’re a very sweet boy,” She whispered, petting him, feeling his soft fur run through her fingers. 

“My lady,” A voice sounded from ahead, and she startled, looking up only to be met with Prince Jon. She guiltily shared a look with the direwolf. “I apologize, did Ghost scare you?” 

She laughed, shaking her head. “Of course not, My Prince,” She said sweetly, scratching Ghost softly behind his giant ears. “He’s such a darling.” 

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen him react in such a way with a stranger.” 

Margaery smiled. “His Grace said the same thing when I became acquainted with Greywind. Such darlings, both of them.” 

Jon smiled, and Margaery could not help but notice it was genuine. 

“Be lucky it was Ghost you ran into and not Nymeria,” Jon grinned. “She’s the most wild of them all,” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” She smiled. “She’s your sister’s wolf, correct? Princess Arya?” 

Jon cringed. “Never let her hear you call her that,” He huffed a laugh. “She hated Lady Arya enough.” 

Margaery grinned, tapping the side of her nose softly, as though they shared a secret.

“I will remember that once I meet her.” 

“Once?” Jon echoed, eyebrows raised. “You think you will?” 

“I think if Arya is as brilliant as her brothers — which I’m sure she is — she will find her way back to you in no time.” She said, finding the words she spoke were utterly truthful and not an attempt at charming the man in front of her.

She found she had no reason to want to charm Jon Stark, despite the fact that she was slowly beginning to fall for his brother.

Jon stared at her hardly for a moment, and Margaery began to worry that she overstepped, until he spoke.

“That means a lot, my lady,” Jon said softly, puffing out a breath. She watched the air curl in front of his mouth, a reminder of the cold. She shivered.

“Are you cold?” Prince Jon asked, dark eyebrows furrowed in concern. Ever the gallant Northman, he began to take his fur cloak off, despite her protests.

“I couldn’t—” She began, but he waved her off with a small smile.

“I am from the North, my lady,” He said simply. “This is a warm summer’s day to me.” 

She laughed. “I do not know if I will ever get accustomed to the cold.” 

Jon looked at her for a moment, before a teasing smile edged his lips.

“I’m afraid you must, if you want to marry my brother.” 

“I—I was never—” She blushed, stuttering in a way she never had since she was a girl. “I do not know what you mean.” 

Jon laughed as they began to walk together, Ghost accompanying them like a silent guardian against the night.

“I was merely jesting, my lady.” Jon smiled. “But, there is always a kernel of truth in every joke, I am told.”

“You’re told?” She smoothly changes the topic. “Do you not often joke?” 

“No,” Jon said, his face smooth and solemn. “I am every bit the brooding Northerner.” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’ll be sure to look for you in darkened corners then,” She smiled. “If I want to do some brooding myself.” 

“Brooding?” Jon smirked. “Or swooning over my brother?” 

She gasped, a laugh escaping her. She hadn’t felt so light in a long time, she discovered. Since she was old enough to want to be queen. She nudged him with her shoulder. 

“That is enough out of you, My Prince,” She huffed, and he laughed. 

He laughed differently than Robb, who was either quiet, deprecating chuckles, or a full belly, head thrown back in joy, booming laughter. Jon’s laugh was subtler, a quiet show of mirth. It wasn’t loud, nor was it quiet. It was simply soft, but present in his eyes, and the way it quieted into a small smile. 

He laughed in a way she imagined the late Lord Stark did. 

“Apologies, my lady,” He said simply. “But, as brother to the King, I reserve the right to tease you both in any way I please.” 

“Your brother and I are merely friends,” She tries to sound honest, but she knew her lie fell flat. She did not think Robb could ever be a mere friend to her. He had seen him interact with his friend, Dacey Mormont. 

She could never be a second Dacey. She didn’t want to be. 

“I think we both know that isn’t true,” Jon said, tapping his nose much the way she did minutes before. 

Margaery was quiet. “Be that as it may,” She whispered. “I am unsure if your brother will ever decide to cross that line with me. So, for appearances sake, we are good friends.” 

“Robb,” Jon murmured, a sad sigh escaping his lips. “Has experienced much. More so than you can imagine. More than even I can imagine.” he said sadly, his eyes downcast. “It will take some time for him to realize.”

“Realize what?” Margaery asked softly, and nearly gasped when Jon’s eyes met hers in the dark. They were so intense, a shade of grey so deep it looked nearly purple in the night. 

“That he deserves to be happy,” Jon said simply. Margaery could not say anything, despite the questions burning on her tongue and running through her mind. 

They paused in their walk, and Jon nodded.

“I believe this is your tent, My lady?” He asked softly. She nodded, moving to take off his cloak and hand it to him.

“Keep it,” He said simply. “I have plenty of others.”

“I couldn’t possibly—” She began to hand it back to him, but he pushed her hand back to her, cloak still draped across her arm. 

“Keep it,” He repeated, more firmly. Then, an impish smile appeared on his face. “Mayhaps it will make my brother jealous enough to—how did you say it? Cross the line?” 

She laughed brightly. 

“Thank you, Prince Jon.” She said warmly.

“Call me Jon,” was his reply.

“Call me Margaery,” She countered, and he grinned.

“Goodnight, Margaery,” he nodded his head politely at her, and she smiled at his retreating back.

“Goodnight, Jon.” She said to his back, knowing he heard her. As she entered her warm tent and draped the beautiful fur coat across her bed, she smiled. 

Those Starks are something. She mused. Something indeed. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT

Blood runs thicker than water, but both feel the same when your eyes are closed

I am the river’s daughter, and you’ll be her son when we’re both reposed

SANSA Stark was debating on throwing herself from the ramparts of the Red Keep and being done with it. She held out hope, a dark, curdled thing in the center of her chest that her brothers would come to her rescue, but every day they headed further West her hopes dwindled. 

She knew Robb could not drop everything and go to King’s Landing, it was tactically a grave error. She knew he could not trade for her, the Northern Lords would riot at the release of Jaime Lannister.

She did not blame Robb, his hands were tied politically as they were on the battlefield. But it did not stop her from crying into her pillow, the doll her father had gifted her — the doll she foolishly tossed aside and chided him for — clutched in her grasp in a white knuckled grip. 

She was forced to sing songs. Songs against her family, to spit the word traitor in regards to her brothers and father and sound like she meant it. To the seven hells with them, she thought vindictively. 

To the seven hells with them all. 

At night, she dreamt. She dreamt she was a bird, flying high above King’s Landing. Sometimes, she dreamt she was a wolf. But that couldn’t be possible, her Lady was killed far before they reached King’s Landing.

What she should have considered an omen for what happens to wolves when they come South, instead she blamed Arya for. And a wolf she was. Perhaps not an obvious one, in the way her sister and brothers were. She was a wolf dressed in a dove’s clothing, and she would pretend to be a dove with all her might.

It was her only armor against the lions that she was surrounded by. She followed Joffrey up the castle, all the way to the battlements. She could see what seemed to be the entirety of the Blackwater from here, and she did not care. 

What would have been so beautiful to her moons ago was something that filled her stomach with dread. His pathetic excuse for Kingsguard’s followed them. Trant and the Hound. 

She trusted the Hound, despite herself. Trant, she knew, enjoyed the company of little girls that were scared of him. Enjoyed scaring and hurting them, she’d heard the kitchen maids speaking of it.

One good thing about being a traitor’s daughter is that she was invisible.

Invisible, until Joffrey wanted her to be seen. She had only dully registered the hit of a gauntleted hand against her cheek.

“Look at it,” he demanded, his voice high-pitched still and cracking. She opened her eyes, the blood dribbling from her lip. 

Her father’s head, on a spike, baking in the sun. She felt something dark and twisted rise within her chest. 

“And after I kill your traitor brother, I’ll bring you his head next.” He sneered at her, and the ugly thing in her chest roared, clawed its way out of her skin.

“Or maybe he’ll bring me yours.” She said coolly, turning her Tully ice colored eyes on him. Watched with pleasure as his face fell and he took a step back. Craven. She thought of pushing him, for a moment. 

Just one shove. It wouldn’t even matter if she fell alongside him. So long as he was dead. 

“Are you threatening me?” Joffrey sneered, and Sansa stared at him, uncaring of the Hound’s hand on her shoulder, attempting to pull her away. “You dare threaten your King?” 

I know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. She wanted to shout, to scream it at him. 

She said nothing, merely looked down in an attempt at meekness. She would bide her time. She would bide her time and then she would leave. She would kill him, then run to her brother in the cover of darkness. 

“Do you feel it, Your Grace?” She asked him softly, knowing she had thrown him off when his wormy lips pursed and his face screwed in confusion.

“Feel what?” He sneered.

“The chill in the air,” She said, somewhat dreamily, before her voice turned cool and she turned her gaze to meet him unflinchingly. “Winter is coming.” 

“Take her away!” Joffrey shouted at the Hound, who began to pull her from the battlements. Once they were out of the King’s earshot, he turned to her.

“You’re a brave one, little bird.” 

She stared forward, her spine straight and her head high. She let the blood drip from her mouth freely.

“I am no bird,” She said to him softly, feeling the oddly familiar metal taste of blood in her mouth.

“Aye?” The Hound asked gruffly, turning his unscarred side towards her. “What are you, then?” 

“A wolf.” She said simply. “I am a wolf.” 

I await you, brother. 

I’ll wait as long as you need me to, Robb, Jon. I know you’re coming. 

Jon stared incredulously at the messenger that was sent in an effort to treat with them. Robb’s response not far off from what Jon himself was itching to say. 

“—I will litter the south with Lannister dead,” Robb snarled at the boy, who gulped and looked around nervously. 

“But, King Joffrey is a Baratheon, Your Grace,” The young boy said, clueless as a babe freshly out of the womb. Jon felt a little sorry for him.

“Oh, is he?” Robb mocked. Jon felt his lips tug up in a smirk. “Tell Tywin Lannister his terms have been heard, and denied. Tell him my counter offer is a complete surrender, the return of my sisters,” — Because they could not let them know they were aware Arya was no longer in King’s Landing — “And the offering of Joffrey and Cersei’s heads on a platter. Provide me with this, and I will return his son to him.” 

Terms that Tywin Lannister would never agree to, but made so one could say Robb did attempt diplomacy. Jon knew Robb yearned to have Sansa back with them, as did he. 

But to exchange Jaime Lannister, the biggest threat to them in terms of skill with a sword, in exchange for a young girl of four and ten would have his lords up in arms, nevermind the fact that it was their little sister. 

Nevermind the fact that they fought this war to get her back. Jon wondered if that would forever be the Stark curse.

To lose a sister to the South, to fight a war to get her back and—he shook his head.

He could not think that way. Sansa would return. She was strong. If anyone would be able to survive the viper’s nest of King’s Landing, it would be Sansa. 

Hold fast, Sansa, Jon thought desperately, as though his thoughts would reach her. We will come. 

The boy bowed and left, after more than a few wary glances at the Northmen. Anyone who knew Robb — and most in the room knew their King quite well — could see how it hurt him to deny the trade. Their sister for Jaime. But it could not be done. 

Jon knew going into this they would have to bring Sansa back to them by force, not diplomacy.

“You did the right thing, Your Grace,” Lord Bolton attempted to soothe, his whispery, bone chilling voice echoing in the quiet tent. “It would have been an unfair trade.” 

Robb shot him a disgusted look, and opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to it. Not by Jon — whose glare was cold enough to freeze every occupant in the room — surprisingly. 

It was Margaery. 

“I should beseech you to hold your tongue, Lord Bolton,” Margaery said coolly. “His Grace had just denied freedom for his sister because he knew what must be done. You need not tell him such a sacrifice was worth nothing. You need not imply his sister’s life is worth less than the Kingslayer’s.” 

She stepped forward, and Jon marvelled at the fire in her eyes as she glared at the leech Lord who looked at her as though he had only just noticed her in the room. 

“She is your Princess, need I remind you?” She finished coolly. 

Bolton opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by an unsubtle shifting of Garlan Tyrell, who glared down at the leech Lord as though he was flaying Bolton alive with his eyes. Jon couldn’t stop his grin, but he schooled his features.

“Leave us,” Jon barked out, watching the Lords clear out with deep glares of mistrust aimed at Bolton. 

Garlan and Margaery made to follow, but Robb stopped them.

“You can stay,” Robb said tiredly. Jon watched him smile softly, fondly, at Margaery. “Thank you—who’s cloak is that?” He asked, sitting up, eyes narrowed.

Margaery and Jon exchanged a sly look, Jon smirking. 

“It was a gift,” She said graciously, smiling kindly. 

“It’s a man’s cloak,” Robb said dumbly. “Did a man give you that?” 

“It was rather chilly last night,” Margaery demurred, and Jon had to admire how good she was. “I was bid to keep it. And I would be remiss to not keep such a beautiful and warm garment.”

“Right,” Robb echoed, clearly vexed. Garlan snorted, hiding it expertly as a cough. 

“Are you alright, Robb?” Jon asked softly. 

Robb sighed. “No,” he snorted sullenly. “I just denied freedom for our sister, the gods only know what she has to endure in that fucking cesspool they call a city.” 

“She is strong,” Jon said softly. 

“It matters not how resilient Sansa is,” Robb retorted. “You and I both would sooner set the Westerlands ablaze and run to her if we could. Say fuck them all and leave.” 

“What if,” Margaery whispered. “We go get her?” 

“What?” Robb asked dumbly, Jon staring at her in confusion. Garlan’s eyes lit up. 

“Oh, sister,” He grinned. “You’re devious.” 

“I’m afraid I do not follow,” Jon spoke. “You?” 

“We can say the Tyrells turned cloak,” Margaery murmured. “Go to King’s Landing under the guise of being allies to the Lannisters, and take her away in the cover of the night.” 

“No,” It was Jon who denied it. “It’s too dangerous. Cersei will have your heads on spikes should she get even a whiff of treachery.” 

“Grandmother’s spies have been saying she grows more and more paranoid as the days go by,” Garlan muttered. “It would be a risk.”

“A risk we can take!” Margaery argued. “If they no longer have Princess Sansa, they have no leverage over you.” 

“They would not harm Sansa—” Jon coughed, interruptingly. “Permanently cause harm to Sansa so long as I have the power to kill Jaime,” Robb sighed. “I like it not, but we have to wait. Wait until we have Lannisport in the least. Preferably, the Rock.” 

Margaery sighed. 

“It’s not fair,” Margaery whispered. “I can only imagine what the poor girl is going through.” 

“Sansa may have been the most Southern of us, but she is a wolf, through and through.” Robb said, smiling sadly. 

Jon snorted. “That one time she bit Arya hard enough to draw blood in their terrible fight because Arya had put sheep shit under her mattress comes to mind.” 

Robb snorted. Margaery and Garlan exchanged amused looks. 

“Mother till this day doesn’t know about it. Arya said she got the bite feeding the hounds.” 

“Sansa pretends it never happened,” Jon said to the Tyrell siblings. “She said herself ,"A lady never bites, Jon.’” 

Robb opens his mouth to speak when a messenger comes into the tent and whispers some words to Robb and hands him a missive.

Robb’s eyebrows furrow and he unrolls the letter, sighing and pinching the bridge of his brow as his eyes travel across the page in a hurried manner. 

“What is it?” 

Robb looks solemnly to Margaery and Garlan. 

“I am sorry,” he offers sincerely. “I know he was a close friend of your brother, Loras’.” 

Margaery grips the arm rest of her chair tightly and Garlan’s face tightens. 

“What happened?” Garlan asked quietly.

“It appears, Renly Baratheon was assassinated. Through…dubious means,” Robb cringes, handing the letter to Garlan. “The missive was sent by a Stormlander by the name of Brienne of Tarth, stating Stannis sent an assassin in the night.” 

“Kinslayer,” Jon hissed, eyes narrowed.

Robb nodded his head. Then turned his sad eyes to Garlan and Margaery, who looked saddened. Her eyes were rimmed with tears.

Renly must have been a friend of theirs, given how…close he was with Loras. 

“We should—we should go tell Loras and Willas,” Margaery stuttered. “If you’ll excuse us,” She whispered, whirling around and leaving the tent. Garlan sighed, shaking his head sadly, nodding at them and following his sister.

“Fukc,” Jon muttered. “We can’t ally with Stannis now,” he said to his brother. “I will not fight alongside a kinslayer.” 

Robb smiled grimly. “We were never going to ally with Stannis.” 

“Then,” Jon whispered. “Who’s going to take the Iron Throne?” 

Robb gives him a long, deprecating, significant look. Jon collapses into a chair. He feels the breath leave his lungs as he gives a pitying look to his brother.

“Fuck,” He breathes.

Robb nods. “Fuck.” They stayed in silence for a long moment before Robb broke it. 

“Truthfully,” Robb begins, and Jon turns his head to his brother, a question in his eyes. “Whose cloak is it?” 

Jon groans. 

“Robb—” 

“I know, I know,” Robb sulks softly. “Can you blame me for trying to find a modicum of levity?” 

Jon snorts. “Levity?” He crosses his arms and leans back against the back of the chair. “This is going to eat at you, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Robb groans, throwing his head back in annoyance. “I don’t know why!” 

“I do,” Jon snorts dryly, rolling his eyes at his brothers’ inquiring gaze. “You like her, you fool.” 

“I cannot afford to—”

“Are you so focused on surviving that you will not allow yourself to live?” Jon cuts him off gently. He sighs. “Renly is dead. Some of our friends are dead. People are being cut down every day. Our father is—” Jon inhales sharply. “Father’s gone. We are what remains. What do you think he would want for you?” 

Robb says nothing, merely lets loose a wavering breath. For a long moment, the brothers sit in silence until Jon begins to get up, deciding to leave Robb to his thoughts.

“Jon,” Robb’s voice stalls him at the front of the tent, the wind causing it to flap in the air behind him. Jon turns.

“Robb?” 

“You—you don’t know what it’s like,” Robb begins haltingly, as though he’s trying to find the right words to convey his emotions. Jon merely waits patiently. “To live and die and live again. To know the people who walk among me betrayed me, and I can do nothing about it, because they have done nothing,” Robb looks up from his desk and Jon nearly gasps at the look in his eyes, so soft and so heartbrokenly overwhelmed.

“To know how a story ends and try to rewrite it, but some things you cannot change,” Robb inhaled shakily. “That I could give a different end to Torrhen, Daryn, and Edd is something I am grateful for. But I could not save father, nor can I save Sansa. I cannot look into the face of Roose Bolton knowing in another life he plunged a knife into my heart. 

I sometimes can’t look at you without thinking about how you left for the Wall, and I never saw you again.” Jon feels a pang of guilt in his heart, though he had not done that in this life.

Perhaps that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? 

“I cannot bear to look at Theon, who stares at me with sadness as each day goes past and I treat him as though he is merely another Lord in my command. I can’t look at him knowing he had betrayed our family and killed—killed Bran and Rickon,” Robb laughs, a heartbroken, guttural thing that can hardly be called such.

Jon still waits, still listens to his brother’s ragged breaths and watches as unspilled tears gather in his eyes.

“Why did it have to be me?” Robb says, speaking more to himself than to Jon. “I should have stayed dead.” 

“No,” Jon hisses. “Never say that.” 

“It’s true!” Robb protests. “You all would be better off—”

“Better off?” Jon snarls? “With Bran and Rickon dead as well? With the North lost? Sansa captive or killed after you died? Me, alone, rotting at the wall knowing I could’ve done something to save you, but didn’t?” He steps forward in two long strides. 

“In what world would that be a better place?” he whispers, taking a knee in front of Robb who stared at him with unbearably open eyes. As earnest as Jon remembered, but hadn’t seen in quite some time.

“I know this is a burden I don’t understand,” Jon whispers. “But gods as my witness, I am the only one who knows. It is not a burden you have to shoulder alone.” 

“It is my burden—”

“It is ours.” Jon hisses. “The gods may have brought you back, but they also sent me to you. So you would not have to bear the world alone. I am here, Robb,” Jon’s voice is bordering on pleading. 

“Perhaps I wasn’t in your past, and you can hate me for that, and I would never take that from you. But—but, gods, Robb, I am here, now. Do not push me away.” Now he really is pleading, with his brother, his King, the man he would die for and the man he would live for in equal measure.

Robb stares at him for a long moment before he leaves his chair and kneels before him, eye level now with Jon.

“What are you—”

He’s cut off by Robb’s heavy embrace, holding onto him, clawing into his boiled leathers as though if he lets go, Jon will disappear. Jon closes his eyes and holds his brother just as fiercely, and for the first time in a long time, Jon realizes.

In the past, the final words Robb would have ever said to him, and he to Robb. What seems like so long ago to Jon, even longer still to Robb.

Next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.

It was always my color.

Farewell, Snow.

And you, Stark. 

Jon lets a tear fall from his eyes, and he does Robb the service of pretending like he doesn’t realize his brother’s shoulders are shaking, and pretends he can’t feel the tears beginning to dampen his clothes. 

“I’m here,” He whispers instead. “I’m with you.” 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE

I dug my heels into the gravel

As evidence for you to unravel

YOHN Royce was genuinely standing on his last legs. He was close to saying damn it all and taking the men he alone could field and marching to the Westerlands. His father was killed in the cacophony of King’s Landing that had also ripped away Ned Stark from this world, and he felt the need for revenge boiling his blood like the sweltering heat on a summer's day. 

He knew the struggle of being a House in the South that worshipped the old gods, and felt a kinship with the Starks, not only for their shared gods, but for the loss of a father that had been taken by golden hands and gilded words. 

“But my Lady,” He tried to voice once more, struggling to hold back the way his voice wavered in his fury. “Your nephew and sister require assistance in this war — the Lannisters will not stay defeated for long.” 

Lysa Arryn sat at the falcon throne, with her nine-year-old son suckling at her teat. She stared at him, the glimmer of insanity in her eyes no longer hidden. Her face was gaunt and her skin pallid as she stared at him. 

“This is not our war, Lord Royce.” She denied primly. “I will not have the Knights of the Vale fighting in the fields over mere frivolity.” 

“Frivolity?” He echoed, his tone ice cold. The other Lords and Ladies around him shifted, beginning to murmur. Ned Stark was a long-time friend of the Vale, and the Royces were not the only ones who had long memories. Lady Waynwood was not able to stop her glare at Lysa, nor was Lord Corbray. “My Lady, your own goodbrother was murdered by the Lannisters. My father—” 

“It was a regrettable thing,” She said with faux sympathy, fussing with her son. “But it is not our fight. I denied my sister already thrice.” 

“Remind me again of your house words, my lady?” He asked her coolly. 

“High as Honour, my lord.” She rebutted. 

“No,” He denied, shaking his head and clenching his shaking hands. “The words of the house you were born into. Remind me of them.” 

“Family, duty, honour.” She replied coolly. “I do not like the implication you are making.” Lysa's eyes turned from having a touch of insanity in them to a cool, hateful glare, directed full force at his person. But Yohn Royce was a man of the First Men surrounded by Andals. He was a worshipper of the trees and the wind and the water in a field of men who prayed to the pomp of the Seven. He would not be cowed, not by her. 

“There is no implication, my lady,” He spat, his disrespect palpable. “Merely fact. Your brother and sister remain embroiled in a war. Your Uncle Brynden fights alongside them, and yet you deny them aid. Would you like to know the house words of my own noble house?” 

“You need not remind me, Lord Royce,” She said through clenched teeth. “Your disrespect will be forgiven only once, as I know you are grieving the loss of your father. But do not take advantage of the kindness I am allowing you.”

“Kindness?” He echoed dully. “What kindness do you offer me? The denial of helping your kin, our long-time friends? The denial of allowing me to avenge my father? My house words are We remember, my lady. The North are not the only ones with long memories.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are making a threat,” Lysa said coolly. 

“Not a threat, my lady.” Yohn said coolly. “You have naught to fear from me. You may refuse to call your banners in aid for your family, but I will call my own.” He turned to the Lords and Ladies watching him in the hall. “And I urge you all to do the same, if you have a conscience.” 

“You will do no such thing,” Lysa snapped. “As your Lady, I forbid it.” 

“You are not my Lady,” Yohn snapped. “Your son is my Lord.” 

“And I am his regent,” She snapped with flared nostrils. “You will do as I command you.” 

“Or what?” He snapped at her. “With the men I and the rest of the Lords and Ladies of the Vale provide you? I will be taking my men and leaving for Gulltown, and you will not stop me.” 

“Guards!” She called out, her voice bordering on hysterical. “Seize him.” 

He watched blankly as the Knights — those he knew and fought alongside — stared at one another with reluctance. “Guards!” She shouted once more.

“You all know I’m right,” He shouted into the quiet hall, over her shrieking. “You know if it were us, Ned Stark would not have hesitated in coming to our aid. That his sons would have done the same as him. And where are we, when they need us? When they need allies? Up perched in our tower?” He turned, gesturing to the large hall they found themselves in. 

“We are the Knights of the Vale! We hold more honour in our pinkies than the Lannisters do in all of the Westerlands. We are meant to uphold what is right! Who will stand with me?” 

He watched Harrold Hardyng step forward, and he and Lysa both knew who had won. 

And it wasn’t her. 

Sansa kneeled at the Iron Throne, the breeze against her back from her ripped dress causing her pain as the lashes slashed her back. 

Joffrey sat upon his throne, yelling at her that her brother had officially laid siege to Lannisport. She wanted to cry, to scream, and to shout GOOD! That she hopes Robb will arrive soon and kill him. That she hopes she herself would be granted the honour of passing the sentence and swinging the sword herself against his fleshy pampered little neck. 

But she bit her lip and only a grunt escaped her as Trant’s belt came down against her back once more. The lords and ladies and courtiers did nothing except watch, but she was used to that by now. The cowardliness that littered King’s Landing like a disease. 

But she could not. She had a mission to complete in the cover of the night. So she would wait. She would wait until nightfall and she would sneak away, despite her unbearable pain. The belt was painful, but not strong enough to break skin and leave visible scars. They were very careful of that. But she had taken so many hits that she could now feel a warm dribble of wetness go down her spine. 

Tyrion Lannister, once again, was the one that stopped her torture. Escorted her to her chambers and called for the Maester to see her. But, in the cover of the night, she had torn her covers from her legs and put a black cloak over her body, shielding her from sight. 

She knew the guards switched shifts now, she had five minutes to leave and another hour to come back before the next guards arrived at her hall. But she could do it. They never let her have regular guards, worried she would sway them to her traitorous side and make them have sympathy for her. Her guards were switched every hour, instead of the usual rotation. This would work in her favor, tonight. 

She slipped to the ravenry, a letter in her grasp, addressed to her brother. 

She prayed to the old gods it would find him. She needed to warn him. 

She attached the letter to the raven and watched it fly away until it was long gone, knowing it could no longer be shot down nor intercepted. She held her breath for a long moment, closing her eyes and clenching her shaking fists as she turned and left, attempting to make her way back to her rooms.

“Well well,” She saw Cersei, smiling at her. She felt her blood run cold. “What do we have here?” 

“My Queen,” She whispered, surprised she kept her voice from wavering. “I was merely getting some fresh air.” 

“So late in the night?” Cersei drawled. Sansa saw Lancel Lannister shift next to the queen. “At the ravenry?” 

“The birds calm me, Your Grace,” She said softly. “If you will excuse me.”

“Not so fast, little dove.” Cersei whispered. “You will tell me who you sent a raven to.” 

“I—I didn’t send any raven,” Sansa mutters. “I have no friends outside of King’s Landing.” 

Cersei smiled gently, laying a hand on Sansa’s cheek and her smile widened when Sansa flinched. 

“I thought we were friends, Sansa,” Cersei sighed. “I do not know why you are lying to me.”

“My Queen,” Sansa urged once more, desperately. “I swear to you on the Faith of the Seven that I did not send anyone anything.” 

Cersei clicked her tongue, her smile fading and turning into a harsh, ugly, snarl. 

“I don’t believe you.” She said coolly. She turned to Lancel. “Take her to her chambers.” 

Sansa felt dread and fear pool in her stomach, but it didn’t matter. She sent her letter. Sent her warning.

It would find her brother soon, she knew it would. She steeled herself, straightening her spine as far as her pain could allow. 

She would rather die than break here. 

Sieges, Robb had decided, were incredibly boring. A lot of it was merely waiting, cutting supply lines, possible small skirmishes here and there, but those were far and few between. Lannisport was holding still. But he knew it would not hold for long. 

He had decided to hold back on using the siege weapons until he was sure Lannisport was on the brink of collapse, which it hopefully would be soon. He didn’t want to stay camped outside the holdfast for weeks and weeks on end, but he would if he must. The seaside blockade has stopped all new shipments from King’s Landing or otherwise, intercepting the ships and not allowing anything to pass. 

Damon Lannister would only hold out for so long, and according to Olenna’s own little birds, he wasn’t necessarily loyal to Tywin out of love. If it would favor him to surrender Lannisport, he would. 

But, Robb was grateful for the — for lack of a better word — leisure time. It allowed his own men to rest and recover from their wounds or from the fatigue that came from marching for days and days on end, only to be greeted with a skirmish or battle at the end of it. He knew he certainly was, despite — thankfully — having no wounds he would need to recover from. 

He was luckier in this life, he supposed. Or perhaps smarter. Knowing the entire years’ worth of events coming up had certainly given him an advantage. He sat underneath the shade of a tree, near his camp but on the outskirts. He needed some time to himself in nature, and not be confined to his tent. It was beginning to drive him crazy, being in one space for so long. 

He finished reading a letter from Bran and Maester Luwin, telling him all was well and the North was holding fast against the repeated assaults from the Ironborn. Robb just didn’t understand why Balon Greyjoy would prefer to pillage the North, when the Westerlands and all their gold were ripe for the taking. 

He thought it would have been Theon’s idea, but Theon was here and decidedly not in contact with his father — Robb had made sure of that — but it seems it was not. 

Robb rolled the leather and placed it in his pocket, as he had forgone his armor today. He sighed, leaning his head against the hard bark of the tree, ignoring the crown digging into his skull.

“What do I do now?” He asked aloud, unsure if his gods could hear him so far South. “What do you want me to do?” 

“You brood a lot, you know?” A deep, older voice said dryly. Robb lifted his head and was met with Torrhen Stark. He sighed. 

“There are things worth brooding about,” Robb answered in that same, dry, unimpressed voice. “Your instructions were rather vague.” 

“You focus too much on this silly war with the Lannisters,” Torrhen said, crinkling his nose in distaste. “When you should turn your gaze North.” 

“How far can my gaze stretch?” Robb snapped. “If I don’t win the war here, there will be nobody to focus their eyes North. The Watch will stand alone, and they will fail.”

“Which is why you must delegate.” Torrhen sighed, shaking his head. “A King is powerful, but not invincible. You need advisors.” 

“And what am I supposed to say to these advisors, Torrhen?” Robb pinched the bridge of his nose, standing up. “Everything you believe about the world is false? I came back from the dead and the old Stark Kings and the old gods are telling me that the dead are marching? The Others are real? I’d get called the next Mad King.” 

Torrhen snorted. “You really only need one person on your side,” He mused simply. 

“Who?” 

“The Targaryen girl,” He said simply. “She has dragons.” 

“Daenerys Targaryen?” Robb said, his tone skeptical. “There’s a reason she’s in Essos. Her family—” 

“Yes yes,” Torrhen waved away. “But the promise of Targaryen dragons and the fulfillment of the Pact are the only reasons I bent the knee. It is time for her to fulfill the debts of her ancestors.” 

“The what?” Robb echoed dumbly. “The Pact?” 

“The Pact of Ice and Fire, Robb,” Torrhen began, eyes widening. “You mean you do not know?” 

“No!” Robb sighed, shaking his head. “Information was lost to the Targaryens and the other houses after the Dance of Dragons wiped out nearly the entire family and their dragons. I doubt even Daenerys Targaryen would know what you refer to, and she would not be inclined to help us anyways. My family was the reason hers fell out of power.” 

Torrhen sighed, shaking his head. “You will need her dragons if you want to win.”

“She will demand the Iron Throne in return,” Robb shook his head. “Unless what you want is a Targaryen restoration?” 

Torrhen snorted. “The Old gods had long decided the Dragons lost their right to rule when the Dance occurred. It is why you were their chosen champion, and not your brother.” 

Robb stilled, feeling his heart begin to beat nearly out of his chest. “What do you mean, Torrhen?” He asked coolly. “Surely you don’t refer to—”

“Jon,” Torrhen cut in, raising an eyebrow. “You do not know? Does he know?” 

“Know what?” Robb snapped. “I tire of your words that raise more questions than they answer.” 

“Jon Stark is a Stark, but not one borne of your father,” Torrhen cut in seriously. “He is the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen. In another life, he would have been the one to take the Iron Throne. But the gods have long since decided that House Targaryen shall have no more claim to Westeros. Daenerys Stormborn may try, but she will find that there will always be circumstances stopping her from ever sitting on the Throne. That honor is reserved for you, now. And you alone.” 

But Robb had stopped listening, he felt as though his head were under water. Jon was a Targaryen. Father had never told him of his mother because his mother was not some odd tavern wench — or even Ashara Dayne, as was Robb’s personal theory — but it was Aunt Lyanna. 

He has to tell Jon. 

“Is there anyone else alive who knows?” Robb asked, his throat dry. “Anyone else who knows of Jon’s parentage?” 

Torrhen inclined his head. 

“Howland Reed.” 

But before Robb could open his mouth to say something, his name was called and when he turned back to Torrhen, the old king was gone.

Robb tried to calm his racing heart as he sees a messenger running for him, but he feels his head spin and his stance begins to sway. 

“My King?” Olyvar Frey asked, eyes wide. “Are you alright?” 

“Quite,” Robb said gruffly, using one hand to hold the tree and steady himself. “What is it, Olyvar?” 

“A raven, Your Grace,” Olyvar said softly. “From your sister.”

Robb’s heart seems to stop for a second time in five minutes, and he feels like he wants to throw up. His siblings are going to cause him heart issues, but he cannot stop the excitement he feels in his veins, bubbling.

“She must have managed to send a raven a few days ago,” Robb murmured, taking the letter reverently. He would wait to open it when he was with Jon. “Thank you, Olyvar.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Olyvar bowed. Robb turned away from him and began walking back to the camp. He needed to look for Jon. 

He and Jon stood in his tent, apprehensively staring at the letter. 

“What if it’s like her other letter?” Jon murmured. “That Cersei made her send.” 

“Then, I’ll make sure it hurts when I kill Cersei.” Robb muttered. “But I have a feeling it isn’t, Jon. I can’t explain it—”

“She’s our sister,” Jon interrupted, and Robb felt a pang of guilt in his heart. “I know how attuned you are to her.” As I am to Arya, went unsaid among the brothers.

“Jon,” Robb began reluctantly. “Before we open the letter, there’s something I have to tell you.” Robb felt his mouth go dry when his brother turned his grey eyes to him. Their father’s eyes. Because Ned Stark was their father.

Jon was raised by him, Jon was loved by him. Jon loved him in turn. Robb felt a swell of possessiveness well up within him. The Targaryens could not lay claim to his brother, because Jon would always be his brother.

“What is it, Robb?” Jon asked, his brows furrowed. “You look pale. Are you alright, brother?” 

“I’m fine,” Robb whispered. He cleared his throat and clasped Jon on the shoulder, looking his brother in the eyes. “This does not make you any less Stark, or any less of my brother, do you understand?” 

“Robb,” Jon began warily. “You’re scaring me. What is it?” 

“I was visited by Torrhen today,” Robb began softly. “And we have to go to Howland Reed to confirm this story. But, gods, Jon,” Robb shook his head. “He told me who your mother was.” 

Jon stilled. 

“Why would Torrhen concern himself with my mother?” Jon asked softly. 

Robb inhaled, shaking his head. “Because, brother, your mother is…” he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jon. Your mother is Aunt Lyanna.” He forced himself to spit out, watching Jon’s expression carefully, and his heart clenched when he saw the violent flinch spread across his brother’s face before he smoothed it over.

Jon stilled. 

“No,” He shook his head. “No, father would have said something—” 

“Not if he thought Robert Baratheon would kill you for it, Jon,” Robb said sadly. “You were fathers. Father raised you.” 

“But he is not my father, is he, Robb?” Jon snapped harshly, and Robb flinched. “Rhaegar is.” 

“He is no more your father than he is mine,” Robb hisses. “Father raised you. He loved you like a son and you loved him like a father. It should be no more than that.” 

“But I am a Targaryen,” Jon whispered, shaking his head.

“You are a Stark,” Robb insists. “You have our name and you have our blood. I would die before I let the Targaryens claim you as theirs.” 

Jon’s eyes filled with tears, he clenched his jaw and he shook his head.

“But,” he whispered heartbrokenly. “I’m not your brother anymore.” And wasn’t that the most heartbreaking lie Robb had ever heard.

Robb felt his own heart crack and ache in his chest spread. He shook his head in denial, clasping the back of Jon’s neck and pressing their foreheads together.

“You are always my brother. Our siblings are always your siblings, Jon. Don’t let this change that.” 

Jon inhaled shakily. Robb felt him nod against his own head. 

“I know this is difficult to digest and you likely need some time to yourself—” Robb began softly, but Jon shook his head, clenching his jaw.

“That can wait until after we read our sister's letter.” Robb felt his heart soar at the lack of hesitation in Jon’s voice when calling Sansa their sister, and he knew that it may take time, but everything with Jon will be alright. 

“Okay,” Robb agreed softly, grabbing the letter and opening it. 

Robb, Jon. 

The Golden Company sails now for the Lions. Be careful. 

I await you, always. 

Your faithful sister,
Sansa.