Robb I
The banners appeared first over the long hills, rippling against the grey sky.
He stood on the battlements of Winterfell, the cold wind tugging at his cloak as he watched the royal procession wind its way toward them.
Half the banners showed the crowned stag of House Baratheon, black on gold.
The other half bore the roaring lion of House Lannister, gold on crimson.
Together they created a strange, almost mocking harmony, as if the realm itself could not decide whether a stag or a lion truly sat the Iron Throne.
He felt a quiet unease settle in his chest.
He had done his all, the North had grown stronger, more self-reliant but the south was coming anyway and it is here now.
Below in the courtyard, the household had assembled in orderly fashion.
His father stood at the front, tall and solemn in his grey wool and fur while his mother was beside him.
Though he could see the faint tension in her shoulders.
But it was Arya who drew his gaze next, and with her came a familiar knot of worry in his chest.
It had not been long since she returned from Bear Island, yet the change in her was unmistakable. The wild, uncontrollable little sister who used to run through the halls with mud on her knees and leaves in her hair had not vanished entirely but she had transformed.
The time with Maege Mormont and her daughters had sharpened her, hardened her edges. She was no longer simply wild. She had become rebellious in a quieter, more deliberate way, the kind of rebellion that simmered beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Mother had given strict orders earlier that morning: the wolves were to remain in the godswood during the royal visit. No exceptions. The last thing they needed was direwolves frightening the southern guests or causing chaos in the courtyard.
Yet Arya had insisted, with that stubborn set to her jaw, that Nymeria stay with her.
"I have spent too long away from her," she had argued. "We need to catch up."
Robb couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips even now.
Arya had named her wolf Nymeria with deliberate mischief, a jab at Jon that stretched all the way to the ends of the North.
She knew exactly what she was doing, and Jon's long-suffering sighs every time the name was spoken only encouraged her more.
While Bran and Rickon were further down the line, both wide-eyed with excitement.
He descended the stairs to take his place at his father's right hand while Jon stood a respectful distance behind him.
The column grew louder as it approached.
Trumpets sounded. Hooves thundered. And then they were there.
The King rode at the head, it didn't take much to know it, if the crooked crown atop his head was not a giveaway, his belly straining against the black and gold doublet made it obvious.
He was a mountain of a man who had clearly once been a warrior but had long since surrendered to indulgence.
He was enormously fat, his beard was wild and streaked with grey, and his face was flushed red from drink or cold or both.
Yet when he laughed, which he did loudly as he caught sight of his father, the sound still carried the echo of the young rebel who had smashed the Targaryen dynasty.
He swung down from his warhorse with surprising grace for a man of his size.
"Ned!" Robert bellowed, voice booming across the courtyard like thunder. "You ugly northern bastard! Look at you, still dressed like a bloody gravedigger!"
Father's face broke into a rare, genuine smile. "And you've grown even fatter, Your Grace. The throne must be comfortable."
The two men met in the center of the yard and embraced fiercely, laughing like boys again.
For a moment, the years melted away. Robb watched them, feeling a strange pang in his chest.
This was the brotherhood his father spoke of so rarely, forged in youth, war and tempered by loss.
Behind the king, the rest of the royal party arrived.
Gleaming in a white Kingsguard armor.
He sat his horse with effortless grace, golden hair shining, a faint, almost mocking smile of the falling dews, playing on his lips.
He noticed how Sansa's eyes drifted toward the Kingslayer for a moment too long, appraising him with open curiosity and interest.
'Too bad you are not blonde enough, Sansa.' Robb thought to himself.
Following them came a rocking carriage.
The Queen emerged first, radiant and imperious in crimson and gold.
Her beauty was almost painful to look at golden hair, flawless skin, and eyes like emeralds.
She moved with the confidence of someone who knew the world bent to her will while eyes looked at the cobblestones of Winterfell with displeasure and disgust.
Behind her stepped Prince Joffrey, a pretty boy with golden curls and a petulant expression, already carrying himself like a pompous prick.
A young girl followed behind them sweet and delicate, and a little boy round-cheeked and shy.
A young man with blonde hair rode near them, likely one of the Lannister cousins flanked by a massive, scarred man whose face was half-burned.
He looked like something carved from nightmares.
The King greeted his mother next, pulling her into a great bear hug that lifted her briefly from the frozen ground.
She smiled graciously, though her eyes flicked once toward her husband.
Ned inclined his head to the Queen with careful politeness.
"Your Grace," he said, voice steady.
One by one, his father introduced his trueborn children.
The younger ones offered their courtesies with the stiff formality expected of highborn youths. Then he placed a hand on the shoulder of his eldest.
"Your Grace," Ned said, "may I present my son and heir, Robb Stark."
Robert's gaze settled on the tall, auburn-haired young man before him. A chuckle rumbled deep in the king's broad chest, growing into open laughter.
"The Young Wolf! Of course I've heard of you, boy. Tell me, have you killed any wildlings yet?"
Robb met the king's eyes without flinching. "A few,"
Robert threw back his head and laughed louder. "A few? I expected more than a few from the Young Wolf."
Robb's expression remained serious, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Hundred, Your Grace, a few hundred, if we count the poachers and bandits my men and I have felled along the Neck and beyond the Gift."
Robert's smirk widened with genuine pleasure. He clapped a heavy hand on Robb's shoulder, nearly rocking the younger man.
"Now that is how a young man should be!" he bellowed, turning pointedly toward his own son.
The king's words carried across the courtyard.
Robert leaned closer to Ned, though his voice was still loud enough for half the yard to hear.
"Doesn't know how to wield a sword, that one. Some son of mine he is."
A flash of raw anger crossed Cersei's face, first at her husband, then sharper still toward Robb himself.
Her green eyes burned, but she said nothing, lips pressed into a thin line.
Behind him, Jon shifted slightly.
"Robb," he whispered into his brother's ear, voice tight, "do you feel it?"
He shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"Not now, Jon," he whispered back. "I feel it too, but we shall talk later."
But once the last bows and curtsies had been made, Robert turned back to Father, his expression shifting into something more solemn.
"Come, Ned," he said, voice still carrying that old warmth but now tinged with quiet grief. "Take me down to the crypts. I want to pay my respects before I drown myself in your northern ale, she waits for me."
Cersei's face tightened immediately.
Her green eyes flicked toward Robert with clear irritation, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Yet she said nothing, maintaining the perfect poise expected of a queen.
Robert, however, paid her no mind. He was already turning toward the entrance to the crypts, waving Father along with him.
"Let's go Ned, the dead are calling, and I've kept them waiting long enough."
Father nodded without hesitation.
"As you wish, Your Grace." He fell into step beside the king, the two of them walking shoulder to shoulder as they had done so many times in their youth.
His Mother, ever the perfect hostess, stepped forward smoothly to cover the awkwardness.
"Your Grace," she said to Cersei, her voice calm and gracious, though Robb could hear the careful control beneath it, "allow me to show you and your children to your chambers. We have prepared them as best we could for the cold."
Cersei gave a tight, elegant nod, though her eyes still lingered on her husband's retreating back with clear annoyance.
But Robb's eyes never left Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer noticed.
Their gazes met across the courtyard, and something passed between them, a flicker of recognition. Jaime's smile sharpened, almost challenging.
Robb felt it in his bones: this man was like him. A vessel.
Power hummed beneath that golden surface, raw and unrefined, but present.
Jaime didn't seem to fully understand it yet.
That was good. It was safer that way.
Jon caught Robb's eye.
They shared a brief, silent look of understanding.
Robb and Jon slipped away to follow their father and the king into the crypts.