The ride to the Wall turned out to be far less of a grim slog through snow and mud than I'd expected. We dealt with little more than light winds as we pressed north. I took point, flanked by Jon and Theon, while Jory, Tom, Bennard, and the rest of our party formed a steady line behind us. The landscape stretched white in every direction, the road beneath us little more than a faint scar cutting through it, a steady weight settling into my gut as we rode. Father had seen our party off that morning, and with it he'd left his hope for me, for Jon, for Theon, and for every man riding with us — praising my dedication, calling out some of the guards by name, even bringing up my skill with sword, axe, and shield. He said he knew I'd keep a calm head, but he still asked every man riding with me to watch my back all the same. I smiled, thinking back on it. It was the most I'd ever heard Eddard Stark talk, in this life or my last.
As we rode on, I reached out to Hedwig, slipping into his mind with an ease that felt almost second nature by now. His wings beat rhythmically against the frigid air, keen eyes cutting through the snowfall. From above, the world spread out like an intricate map — twisting paths, frozen streams, the Wall glimmering like a beacon on the horizon: nothing out there but our own party today, just the raw beauty of the snowbound North. I guided him along our path a while longer, making sure we stayed true to course, then let him go, his warmth fading from my senses.
What a useful bond this was, I mused, a small smile creeping onto my lips. It never stopped feeling incredible, warging into Hedwig — a bird's-eye view to chart our course, the sheer feeling of flight itself. Small wonder the old tales both celebrated and feared wargs; this felt like cheating, in a world built the way this one was. Even in my old life, I'd known certain birds could be trained to scout troop movements, but actually seeing through a bird's eyes was another kind of advantage entirely. With Hedwig's view stretched out below me, it felt almost like a real-time strategy game, watching the little figures that were really my companions and me, navigating the vastness beneath. One of the more singular feelings I'd ever had, and it never failed to leave a smile on my face afterward.
Jon caught my grin, an eyebrow raised. "Hedwig?" he asked.
"Aye," I said. "One of the best feelings there is, Jon. You'll get to feel it yourself, soon enough."
Theon, hunched against the gusts, grumbled, "Bloody owl's smarter than I am right now. I wish I could fly above this mess." Then, half a question: "Could you train one for me? A bird like that would be priceless on a ship at sea."
"Maybe I could teach you to train your own," I said, throwing Jon a knowing look and a wink. I'd already been turning over the idea of teaching Theon to warg, wondering whether he had the gift in him at all — a Greyjoy who could warg into a shark, or a bird over open water, would be something else entirely. The advantage in naval combat alone would be staggering, to say nothing of the navigation. I might even get to live out a bit of a Pirates of the Caribbean fantasy, with Theon as my own sort of Davy Jones, if I could ever get him bonded to a kraken — more wishful thinking than plan, admittedly.
When we finally reached the Wall a few days later, it loomed ahead like an ancient titan, a sheer cliff of ice dwarfing everything beneath it. Castle Black sprawled at its base, a grim huddle of stone and timber. Looking east and west, I couldn't even make out the specks of Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower — the sheer scale of the thing was something else entirely up close. Benjen stood waiting at the gates, cloak dusted with snow, his smile weary but genuine.
"Robb, Jon," he greeted us, clasping my arm firmly. "You've made it."
"Indeed, we have. I couldn't wait. Once Father gave his blessing after the talks with Karstark and Umber, we left," I said. "Winter doesn't wait for anyone, not even me." I laughed, well aware of how much had been riding on this.
Inside, Benjen led us to the Lord Commander's chambers, where Jeor Mormont sat behind a scarred table, his imposing frame slouched but still commanding — a bear of a man in his own right. I glanced around, hoping to spot his raven.
"Stark," he grunted, studying me. "Your father's saddled you with a hell of a task."
"I can handle it," I said, straightening. As I did, the raven finally called out, "Task, task," flying down from the rafters to Jeor's arm. "The North needs this," I added, holding his gaze.
Mormont's eyes stayed steady as he nodded slowly. "The Watch isn't thrilled about it, I'll tell you that. Most think it's lunacy, letting wildlings and giants through, even one clan in particular. But the veterans, the older brothers, understand what's to be gained — fewer reasons to fight them, fewer brothers lost for it. Between the Half-Hand and your uncle, the rest fell in line behind you, and I'll keep the ones who think they know better in check, lad. The Starks have our respect, and always will. Pull this off, and it'll be good for both the North and the Wall."
"Thank you, Lord Commander," I said, feeling the weight of it settle on me. "I won't fail you, my father, the North, or the Old Gods."
He waved the sentiment off. "See that you don't."
At first light the next day, we passed through the Wall's tunnel. The ice pressed close, its chill trying to seep into my bones, while walking through what amounted to an open icebox. Beyond the tunnel, the Haunted Forest loomed, gnarled trees clawing at the sky as we made our way toward the meeting place. When we reached the heart tree clearing, its white bark stark against the snow, red leaves dripping like blood, I nearly missed the Thenns and giants waiting there, their shapes shadowed in the dawn light, and the giants, from a distance, looking like trees.
Styr, Magnar of the Thenns, stepped forward, bald head gleaming, bronze armor etched with harsh lines. Beside him stood a towering giant, Magmar, his craggy face weathered, eyes deep with memory.
I dismounted, boots sinking into the snow, and walked to Tom's horse to take the Stark banner from it. I carried it forward as I approached, the Old Tongue rough on my tongue still.
"I am Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North," I announced, the words sharp and guttural. "I offer you Stark land south of the Wall, and peace under my house's banner. Swear to my father and to House Stark, and I will grant you my protection. I will give you my loyalty and my sword. My victories will be your victories, and your sorrows will become my own. I come to you because your clan has proven its strength, its knowledge, and its will to endure even beyond the Wall. You carry the favor of the Old Gods, too, with giants at your side. I want that for my house, and for all the North — to rekindle the old bond between Starks and giants, and gain a powerful, resourceful ally in you, the Thenns. This I swear before the Old Gods. May they strike me down if I lie." I thrust the Stark banner high in the air, then drove it down into the snow beside me.
Magmar shifted at those words, his massive form easing forward a step, voice a low rumble. "Good words, little brave wolf. We… hoped Stark remembered. Though maybe Stark forgot the giants, forgot the Builder's tale. Glad you want to be strong with us again. The Old Gods… are with you. I feel it — the stone underground, the growth. You bring and have brought change in more ways than one."
I nodded, meeting his gaze. I didn't know exactly what he meant by that, but I took it to mean he was ready to come south with me. I hadn't expected the giants to be the easier group to convince, but it seemed their long lives made for longer memories too, and that only helped my case. "Aye, Magmar. We shall stand as one — giants and Starks, again," I said, once more in the Old Tongue, with a small nod, noting how the Thenns reacted to how quickly the giants had accepted my offer to bend to the Starks and go back with me.
Styr's eyes narrowed. "Oaths need proof, not just pretty words. Fight me, Stark. Now. Strength for proof, as a true First Man would."
I'd known it would come to this, so my answer came quickly. "Agreed," I said, hand already on my axe. "Right here, before the heart tree so that the Old Gods may watch, and they need not wait for it as I took the first step."
The duel began soon after, snow crunching underfoot as Styr readied himself. His axe was a brutal curve of steel with a bronze handle — I couldn't help wondering where he'd found it, since steel of any real quality was still rare south of the Wall. The Thenns and giants formed one side of the ring, my three dozen men and some Night's Watch brothers the other, their breath clouding the air, the giants looming like furred statues at its edge. I will win, I repeated to myself, slowing my breathing as I drew my own castle-steel axe, its weight a steady, familiar anchor, pulse thrumming with the fight ahead.
He charged first, axe swinging in a wide arc, the force shuddering through my own as I parried. Snow sprayed around us, steel ringing sharp. He fought like a bull, all power and fury, strikes hammering at my guard, each one testing whether my arms would tire before he did. I danced back, breath fogging, waiting for an opening that didn't come. Styr was no mere brute for all his size — he fought with a discipline I hadn't expected, reading my footing as closely as I read his, and for the first several exchanges neither of us gave the other anything to work with.
He pressed the attack harder, driving me back a full three steps with a flurry of blows, each one jarring up through my forearms and into my shoulders. I caught one particularly heavy swing high on my axe's haft, the impact numbing my fingers for half a heartbeat. The true feeling of his intent to kill me hit different than anything I'd felt in any spar so far in this life, and I lingered on that realization a second too long — long enough that his return strike, a short, vicious hook aimed at my ribs, nearly slipped through before I caught myself and reacted. I twisted aside just enough to spare my side, but not enough to spare everything. The flat of his axe head caught me high on the cheekbone, more graze than an actual blow, yet it opened my skin clean, and I felt the sting of it first, then the true pain — a bright, cold line of it, followed almost at once by the warmth of blood beginning to run down my face.
A gasp went up from somewhere in the crowd. I didn't have the luxury of hearing it clearly. I plowed forward instead, using the same motion that had nearly cost me to close the distance rather than retreat from it, driving my shoulder into Styr's chest and shoving him back a step. Blood was sheeting down the side of my face now, warm against the cold, dripping off my jaw in fat, dark drops that spattered black in the snow. I could taste copper at the corner of my mouth. My vision blurred faintly on that side, blood threatening to creep into my eye, and I blinked hard against it, refusing to wipe it away, refusing to give Styr the satisfaction of watching me tend to it mid-fight, refusing to give up now when I was so close.
"First blood, Stark," Styr called, breathing hard, though something in his voice had shifted — it had less mockery in it now than there had been at the start of this. "You still stand."
"Aye, and in a few moments I shall be the only one," I said with a bit of heat, meaning it more than my words could convey. My whole face throbbed in time with my pulse, but the pain sharpened me rather than dulling me — some old instinct from another life, from training and from war, reminding me that even a wounded man could and should still fight. He hadn't beaten me yet.
We came together again, harder this time, both of us past the feeling-out stage and into something rawer. Styr swung low, aiming for my knee; I leaped back and countered with a downward cut, but he barely turned aside. Snow churned beneath our boots, mixing pink where my blood had fallen. I could feel my own strength holding — but Styr fought like a man who intended to make me earn every inch of this, and he very nearly did. Twice more his axe found me, glancing blows against my forearm and my shoulder that would ache for days, and once my own blade opened a shallow line across his ribs that had him hissing and spitting through his teeth.
Finally, he overreached, axe biting a fraction too deep into the packed snow as he wrenched it free of a missed strike. I took the opening, lunging, my axe flashing toward his side. He twisted with a growl, avoiding the worst of it, but I pressed on, driving him back step by step, using his tiring state to push my advantage, letting the ferocity building in my own chest show through at last to match his.
The end came swiftly after that. My latest strike threw him off balance with my burst of speed, his footing faltering; he lurched forward with a curse in the Old Tongue. I seized this moment, driving my knee into his stomach, twisting my torso hard, channeling the momentum up through my legs and into my elbows as I slammed them down against his head, forcing him to his hands and knees as he dropped his axe. As he tried to shake off the dizziness, I drew my arms back and swung my axe in a fierce, triumphant arc. Blood was still running freely down my cheek and jaw, dripping from my chin as I brought my axe down. "Yield to me — Now," I bellowed in the Old Tongue, my voice raw, my face a mask of red in the pale morning light. His eyes went wide, bracing for the blow. At the last instant, I halted it, the edge grazing the side of his throat, a thin line of blood now staining the steel there, a few drops of his joining the drops of mine already darkening the snow between us. Chest heaving, blood still dripping steadily off my jaw, I growled, "Yield, I said, gaze locked on his cold, pale eyes.
He glared back, anger plain on his face, and for a moment looked ready to lunge again — then dropped his axe into the snow instead. "You win, Stark," he said, resigned, his eyes flicking to the blood still sheeting down my face as though only now truly seeing it.
The crowd roared, even the wildlings among them, cheers mixed with grudging respect. My own men — Theon, Jon, Tom, Bennard — were shouting my name over and over, "ROBB STARK, ROBB STARK," and glancing back, I caught Jory's eyes wide, torn between astonished pride and open concern at the state of my face. Styr rose, brushing snow and dirt from his armor. "You've got a warrior's talent, and a true First Man's heart, Stark," he said, drawing a hand across the cut on his own throat, smearing the blood over his heart before gripping my forearm with it. "You bleed like a man, and you fought like one too, past the point most would have shown craven. I will swear by the Old Gods — with blood, both yours and mine."
I gripped his arm back, my face still stinging fiercely, blood cooling tacky against my jaw. "Then let's finish it," I said, my voice steadier than I felt, and lifted my own arm alongside his as the crowd roared once more.
It wasn't until a bit later, once Jon and Jory had fussed over the cut long enough to satisfy themselves it wouldn't need more than a clean bandage and time, that I caught my reflection in a still patch of half-frozen water and took a proper look at it — a clean cut, the swelling already rising along my cheekbone. This would be a clean scar, one that would stay with me the rest of my life. I found, turning my face this way and that in the dim reflection, that I didn't mind it nearly as much as I might have expected. A lord who'd never bled for anything was easy enough to dismiss. A lord who wore a scar from besting a Thenn Magnar in single combat, before the eyes of giants, his men, and the Night's Watch, was another thing entirely — and if it happened to sit well on me besides, I decided I could live with that too.
Magmar lumbered forward next, a smile cracking across his face — one that struck me, absurdly, as almost cartoonish on a giant. "Strong, this wolf is," he said. "A gift for this renewed oath, to you, a Stark, is needed from us. Name this gift; you will care for it, but we giants will help provide for it, for some time yet." He stepped aside, and I saw what he meant, which left me nearly breathless — for all my planning, all my foreknowledge, I'd never once thought of this.
Before me stood a young mammoth, trunk curling, eyes bright as it took me in, its height nearly reaching my own. I stretched a little of myself toward it, feeling it react as I tried to form the bond. It looked into my eyes once more, then let out a trumpeting call, a sound that struck something oddly familiar in me, one I recognized from the visions that came with warging, though I'd never expected to hear it like this — as if telling me it was strong and brave. As the bond settled into place, a name surfaced in me that nearly made me laugh at the absurdity of it. Manny, I thought, pushing the name through the bond, picturing a stubborn, loyal character from an old childhood film who'd also lived in a world of ice.
I kept my hands steady despite the ache in my arms as I patted Manny's head. "Thank you, Magmar. This gift is truly wonderful."
That night, we made camp with the Thenns at the meeting place, meaning to head back to the Wall the following day after a night of celebration. Fires blazed, songs in the Old Tongue filling the air. Jon and Theon told me how incredible the fight had looked, straight out of one of Old Nan's tales, how dramatic my speech must have sounded, given how the wildlings had reacted. Theon kept glancing at the cut on my cheek like he expected it to reopen if he stared at it hard enough. Even Jon, usually the steadier of the two of us, admitted his stomach had dropped the moment Styr's axe first caught me with a spray of blood — and I could tell, even through their happiness for me, that some part of it had rattled them. Jory pulled me aside for a moment, his thumb hovering near the stitched cut on my cheek as if to reassure himself it was already closing clean, to say I'd grown well past anything he'd expected of me, that my father would have been proud to see me fight for the Starks' honor and the North's future. Those words meant more to me than I let show, before I thanked him.
Afterward, I felt a true calm — happy to have won, but weighed down all the same, whether from the fight itself or the adrenaline finally leaving me after my first real battle in this world. Even with the celebration still going, I found I wanted to be alone, and slipped away to the heart tree looming nearby, its red leaves whispering in the wind, letting my thoughts spill loose.
This was more than a plan coming together. I'd changed the North's path, pulled the Thenns south of the Wall, and saved the giants from fading into myth. Another victory stacked atop the rest, one more foundation for the war still coming when the other kings rose. I couldn't help the excitement in me. They had no idea what was coming. In the show, Robb had surprised them all; I meant to do more than that. By the Old Gods, once Manny was grown enough to ride, thundering into battle or riding ahead of my army on mammoth-back, a green boy from the North avenging his father — I smirked, picturing Tywin's face, wondering if I might finally find out whether the man really did shit gold. I was glad to have pulled this off, I thought, as the wind whistled through the branches overhead. For a moment, I swore I caught the glint of golden eyes watching from behind the tree. Still, the image dissolved before I could be sure of it, and I made my way back to camp to finish the celebration with the others, for today, I had truly changed the future of all of Westeros.