I woke in my chambers at Winterfell, the familiar weight of the furs pressing against me as I stirred. A few more weeks now since I'd set my plan in motion — the one meant to rid the North, and myself, of a future thorn and rot: Ramsay Snow. Staring up at the stone ceiling, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. Things were slowly, steadily aligning. Today might finally bring word of whether my gambit with a younger, less refined Ramsay had paid off. I slipped out of bed and pulled on my tunic and boots, the floor cool but not cold beneath my feet, warm water pipes running through most of the walls, and servants already stoking the hearths, their quiet work a low hum through the morning stillness.
The stone corridors sat silent, save for the odd servant making their rounds, as I made my way to the mess hall. The early hour kept most of Winterfell asleep still. When I reached the hall, it was nearly empty — just Father, Maester Luwin, Jory, and a lone household servant breaking their fast. I slid onto the bench beside Jory, nodding to him as I grabbed a hunk of crusty bread. Father sat across from me with his porridge.
I tore into the bread, chewing slowly, my thoughts drifting to Tom and Bennard. Two weeks back, I'd sent them off on what I'd called a camping trip — a chance to get used to riding and rough sleeping outside Winterfell's walls, good practice for when they'd join as my retinue on real travels through the North. That was the story, at least. Their true task was darker and more important for the North and myself: hunt down the young, still-forming psychopath that was Ramsay Snow before he could help his father put a knife in my back, and cause more trouble than the ironborn ever managed during their war.
I'd described Ramsay to them carefully — pale, watery eyes, dark hair, that twisted smirk he wore like a second face. Warned them he might not be alone, that he could have a few men with him, or even that wretched creature Reek trailing behind. Tom and Bennard were good, hard Northern men, sons of a family that had served House Stark for generations. I'd been pushing them harder than most in the yard, slipping them larger portions and a bit of extra attention for their trouble. Neither was squeamish about live steel or a bit of blood drawn in training, which was part of why I'd chosen them for this in the first place. It hadn't gone unnoticed among the household either — the other guards clearly knew I favored them, and they seemed content enough to stay in my good graces. Still, doubt gnawed at me. Had they found him? Finished it? Were two well-trained, fully grown men truly enough for the job?
Father's voice cut through the haze of my thoughts. "Your guards should be back soon, Robb. A training exercise, you said?"
I swallowed my bite and met his gaze, keeping my voice even. "Aye, Father. They've kept up with me well enough in sword work and endurance lately, so I thought a week or so out in the woods, riding our roads, would round them out — give them a bit of real experience I can draw on when I start riding out to see more of our own lands myself. They'll be back today or tomorrow, I'd wager."
Father and Luwin both gave approving looks at that, and Father let out a short grunt — the sound of approval I'd come to recognize — before returning to his porridge. I saw my chance to nudge things a little further. "Father, I've been thinking about our history lately, and a bit more on the Boltons besides. They've kept faith and caused no real trouble since the days of the Red Kings, but we don't truly know them. Maester Luwin was telling me about Roose's son, Domeric. He's fostering in the Vale, same as you did."
Father's brow lifted slightly, a silent prompt to go on. "And?"
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "I've been studying House Stark's older history with Luwin, and their old ways. The first Starks married into rival houses to bind them closer, didn't they? I was thinking — what if we invited Domeric here to finish his fostering instead? Another Northern lord under our roof, a sign of goodwill, someone to join the rest of the next generation here. You'd get to see what he's made of yourself. If he's half as honorable as the Vale made you, he might even make a fair match for Sansa someday."
Father's mouth rose into a rare half-smile, his spoon pausing midair. "A match for Sansa? No need to think that many years ahead, Robb."
I grinned back, shrugging one shoulder. "Just a thought. But if the Vale shaped him anything like it shaped you, he'd do well by her — and by the North besides, Father."
He let out a soft chuckle, warm in the cool hall. "Aye, there's honor in the Vale, I'll grant you that. I'll mull it over." He took another bite, then tilted his head. "And how's that Old Tongue coming? Luwin says you've taken to it."
"Slow going, but I'm getting there," I said, tearing off another piece of bread. "Bran keeps begging me to teach him, though he's more taken with the sound of it than the meaning. Mostly, it's just Luwin and me puzzling it out by candlelight. I want to know it well — could be one of the most useful things I ever learned, and it'll bring us closer to the mountain clans and our first men roots besides."
Father studied me for a long moment, as if trying to read something deeper in it. Then he nodded and went back to his meal. I didn't tell him the real reason behind it — I hardly wanted him thinking me mad for wanting to recruit giants and Thenns with it, the most advanced of the free folk clans north of the Wall, with laws and farms of their own.
I threw back the rest of my breakfast and pushed up from the bench, grabbing my cloak from the hook by the door. "Fancy a spar, Jory?" I asked, swinging the wool over my shoulders.
He smirked, brushing crumbs from his hands. "Aye, but don't expect this old man to go easy on you. Might do you well to show some pity on me instead."
We stepped out into the courtyard, the fresh crisp air, and crunching snow under our boots. The sparring yard wasn't far, just past the stables, and by the time we reached it, a few other guards were already gathered and training, breath fogging in the cold. I picked up a blunted practice sword, testing its weight, while Jory grabbed one of his own. We squared off in the center of the yard, packed snow slick underfoot.
Jory moved first, lunging in with a swift strike. I parried, the wooden blades clacking loudly, and stepped aside, swinging back at him. He blocked it, grinning as he circled me. "Faster every day," he said, teasing.
"And you're slower," I shot back, ducking under his next swing. I darted forward, tapping his ribs with the flat of my blade before he could recover. He laughed, shaking his head, and came at me harder. Our swords met in a flurry of thrust, parry, block, riposte, until I caught his arm with a quick twist and sent him sprawling into the snow.
Before I could catch my breath and offer him a hand, Hammond stepped up, his broad frame looming as he hefted a practice sword. "May I have a turn, my lord?" he rumbled, already giving a few practice swings, waiting for an answer. I spun left, planting my feet to meet him before calling out, "Yes, you can try," as our blades crashed together with a force that jarred my whole arm. He was strong, built like an ox, but I was quicker — and, for reasons I didn't think too hard about these days, just as strong. I feinted left, struck right, caught his wrist, and forced his sword down. He pressed harder, trying to muscle through, but I sidestepped, hooked his leg with mine, and sent him crashing down in the very same spot Jory had landed.
"Yield," Hammond wheezed, raising a hand as he lay there catching his breath.
I offered Jory a hand up, pulling him to his feet. "Good bout," I said, clapping his shoulder.
"Too good, probably," he said, wincing, brushing snow from his cloak. "I'll be sore tomorrow, that's certain. Old gods, you're talented, Lord Robb."
Hammond lumbered upright too, grinning despite the fall. "You've got a devil's speed, Robb. Keep that up, and no one in this yard will stand a chance."
I laughed, shaking the ache from my arms. After a few rounds on the pull-up bars I'd rigged near the yard — something to keep both myself and the men sharp — I headed for the kitchens. The cook handed me a fresh, still-warm loaf with some meat already tucked inside, and when I asked for some kitchen mice or salted meat to be placed in a bag or cloth for me, he fetched me a small bundle wrapped in cloth. I tucked it under my arm and made for the godswood.
The path twisted through the trees, skeletal branches clawing at the grey sky. Snow dusted the ground, muffling my steps, the air sharp with pine and wet earth. By the time I reached the heart of the wood, my breath had steadied, the quiet settling around me like a second cloak. The weirwood stood pale and stark, red leaves trembling faintly, and on a low branch beside it sat the snow owl — feathers white as the drifts around us, yellow eyes bright and unblinking.
I'd been coming here for a few days now, working to bond with the creature — scraps of dried meat, dead mice from the kitchens, and mostly just patience, hours spent sitting still beneath its perch until it grew used to me. I could feel it working, slow as the dance was. Today, as usual, I took out a bit of salted meat and tossed it into the air. The owl launched off its branch, wings cutting silently through the cold, and snatched the meat mid-flight before landing a few feet off, talons sinking into the snowy branch as it cocked its head at me.
I settled cross-legged beneath the weirwood, bark rough against my back, and closed my eyes, reaching out with my mind the way I had before — like a hand searching a dark room for a switch I couldn't quite find. The wind whispered through the leaves, a crow called somewhere distant, and I pushed harder. Then came a faint tingling, something I'd never felt in any meditation from my old life — a thread brushing against my thoughts. I held onto it, coaxed it stronger, until it tightened into something almost solid, and then a burst of color, a split-second glimpse of myself from above, and it was gone. My eyes snapped open as the owl let out a sharp hoot, wings flaring as it rose and landed on my shoulder, talons pricking faintly through my cloak.
I grinned, slow and real. The bond wasn't full skinchanging, not yet — but it was there, a quiet hum tying the two of us together, one more skill worth the training. I tore off another piece of salted meat and held it up; the owl nipped it from my fingers, beak brushing my skin.
Snow crunched behind me, and I turned to find Jon stepping through the trees, his dark cloak dusted white. He stopped a few paces off, eyeing the owl with a faint smirk. "Spent the last week trying to win that owl over. It finally paid off, has it?"
I grinned but didn't answer, letting the silence speak for itself. The owl shifted on my shoulder, its weight an odd comfort.
Jon came closer, boots sinking in the snow. "Thought you'd want to know — your guards are back. Saw them riding up from Winter Town just now. Looked pleased with themselves, laughing even. The training trip must've gone well."
My chest loosened, relief washing through me. If Tom and Bennard were in that kind of spirits, it hadn't just been a successful trip — it had been a victory—Ramsay Snow, gone. Cut out like a rot before it could fester. I kept my face calm, nodding as I stood, the owl shifting to keep its perch. "Good to hear. I'll head down and meet them."
Jon fell into step beside me as we left the godswood, the owl riding my shoulder like a small sentinel. We walked in easy silence, the trees thinning around us. My plans were working — Ramsay was dead, the Boltons none the wiser, with a chance of Domeric Bolton fostering here as well, and now this bond with the owl humming quietly under my skin. The future I'd once watched unfold on a screen, read across pages, wouldn't hold its shape forever, not with every change I made rippling outward in ways I couldn't fully predict. But if I changed nothing, it would all end the same way regardless, and I'd rather spend what I knew while it still meant something, and do what I could to steer the fallout as it came. Between the owl on my shoulder, a new skill under my belt, and one more thorn pulled out cleanly, I let myself feel good about the day. Things were going well. I couldn't afford to grow complacent about it. I needed to keep making smart, meaningful changes.