The map spread out on my solar table had become crowded over the past few weeks, with small carved tokens marking every house that had sent word of its coming. Winterfell sat at the center of a scattered constellation stretching from the Stony Shore to the mountain passes, and from Last Hearth down to the Rills. I had taken to studying it most mornings before the day's business began. Not out of any pressing need, as Vayon's ledgers clearly showed me who had arrived and who had not, but because watching two years of quiet, patient work take shape in this way kept me grounded in the political stakes of our gathering. It made the army feel real to me and helped me envision the path I wanted to pursue moving forward.
I left it behind for the yard once the light was fully up. Grey Wind had grown faster than I expected; he was now nearly as tall as my midsection. This might be due to the extra meat and plenty of exercise I was giving him. He fell into step beside me the moment I cleared the solar door. When I arrived at the practice yard, I found Jory already at the edge, watching the morning's duels with the same attentive focus he always exhibited these days. He was trying to teach each man and push them to their limits before helping them discover new ones.
"Hornwood's man is better than he appears," Jory said without turning as I stood beside him. Below us, in the yard, a broad-shouldered young man in Hornwood colors circled warily around one of Galbart Glover's household guards. Both men were sizing each other up before the real confrontation began. "He's slow to commit, but he reads an opponent well. Watch his feet."
I watched as the Hornwood man feinted high, eliciting the exact response he wanted, and then swiftly knocked his Glover opponent to the ground with a clean sweep. The crowd erupted into ragged cheers.
"You've been paying closer attention to these matches than I have," I remarked.
"Someone has to, since you have been so busy you're not able to terrorize the yard as you normally would," Jory replied, a slight smirk on his face that took the sting out of his words. "There's a good mix of fighters down there today. You've got the Glover men, of course. A few of Cley Cerwyn's fighters are closer to home than most. Some Umber lads have been showing off their skills as well. The Manderlys sent a few of their polished men-at-arms, and I saw a Flint earlier who fought like a berserker; a completely different style, though his cunning was impressive."
"Have you seen any of Lady Dustin's men?" I asked, already suspecting the answer. I had been watching the arrivals closely, much like Jory, and I knew that Lady Dustin hadn't sent as many men as she could have due to her dislike of the Starks. Jory's expression tightened slightly at the mention of her, indicating his awareness of the tensions surrounding Lady Dustin.
Jory's mouth twisted slightly. "One group of five men-at-arms. From a house that could field 30 times that easily, if she cared to." He didn't need to say why. Barbrey Dustin's absence, or her household's near-total absence, said plainly enough what two years of careful courtesy hadn't managed to mend — old grief over her husband being lost, the blame had been laid at Father's feet for a war he had no choice but to fight, curdled into a coldness that no amount of safer and better roads or increased trade would thaw. I filed the thought away, as something that couldn't be solved today; I would have to keep an eye on her as I would Roose. Barrowton would need its own kind of patience, later, once I had the leisure to spend on it properly.
"Well," I said instead, watching Cley Cerwyn's men take the yard next, "a good mixture's more than I dared hope for, this early in the gathering. Give it another week, and I suspect closer to all the North will have found some excuse to come take part in these daily melees and see for themselves what all the fuss about our celebration and gathering the houses is truly about."
Further down the yard, I spotted Tom and Bennard training with a Tallhart man, while another one of my guardsmen joined in. They were exchanging blows with the steady calm of men familiar with each other's habits, making their sparring a genuine contest despite the familiarity. Near the armory, a pair of Lockes had drawn a small crowd of their own, wrestling instead of using weapons. This seemed to be as much a custom of the North and their house as swordplay was for others. The audience of Umber men offered good-natured heckling as well as genuine admiration.
"You mean to see if the rumors about the scar given to you from a chieftain on the other side of the wall or perhaps your bout with the Kingslayer's to a tie hold true," Jory remarked, "and whether your stature and presence as the ideal Northern heir, blessed by the old gods for your devotion to tradition and your mastery of the old tongue, along with your snow owl and your direwolf by your side, really stand up."
"That too," I admitted with a somewhat cocky, wolfish smirk, and we both laughed, comfortable in a way that stemmed from years of genuine care rather than mere duty.
It was midmorning when Luwin found us, a letter in hand, wearing that careful smile he had whenever he held something that he suspected would please me more than the usual business matters.
"From Bran," he said, handing it over. "Karhold's raven."
I opened it eagerly and discovered three pages filled with my brother's excited scrawl. He described the training yard in Karhold, a hawk that Harrion had allowed him to handle under close supervision, along with a promise of getting him one of his own. He also shared a mountain clansman's tale about wolves the size of horses that Bran believed his own summer would grow into. He wrote that he and a handful of the other boys his age in Karhold had spent the better part of a week hunting and riding together, having the time of their lives—save perhaps for the day the pups first arrived at Winterfell. I read the letter twice, warmth spreading through my chest each time. It was the familiar relief of knowing that he remained whole and growing, nowhere near being a cripple or a pawn in someone else's game. Whatever else this life might cost me, it would not cost me that.
The letter reminded me of an earlier one from a few weeks back, in which Bran mentioned, almost as an aside, that Rickard Karstark had allowed a handful of other boys his age—mostly sons of lesser Karstark bannermen—to join him in training rather than letting him practice alone among older boys and grown men. I recalled feeling, when I first read that letter, a small, private gratitude toward Rickard Karstark that I had never quite found the right words to express. A boy needed companions his age nearly as much as he needed to leave the nest of Winterfell to see his own bit of adventure and growth. I was glad that Bran had both, in a house that could offer him something that Winterfell, for all its strength, could not quite match at that moment.
"He sounds well," Luwin observed, watching my face.
"He sounds happier in this letter than he has in the ones before it," I replied, folding the pages carefully to read again later, alone. "Thank you for bringing it to me so promptly."
"Of course." Luwin hesitated for a moment, the kind of hesitation that signaled a man deciding whether the morning's business could accommodate something weightier. "There's also the matter of the production tallies when you have a moment for them."
I nodded and said my godbyes to Jory before we walked together toward the armory rather than the solar, Grey Wind trailing easily at my heel the whole way.
"Since we began in earnest a little over a month ago, after the king's party had left," Luwin said, consulting a small ledger of his own, "Mikken and his apprentices, along with additional hands from Wintertown, have produced just under two hundred round shields—iron-rimmed and sound—and nearly eighty short axes as well, with iron bodies and steel edges forge-welded as you first suggested. While this amount may not satisfy a lord looking to equip an entire army on short notice, it's certainly a significant improvement over what Wintertown was producing before the king's visit gave us the reason and cover to expand our efforts."
"Better than nothing will have to suffice for now," I replied. I understood that in this world and this time, even a hundred well-trained and properly outfitted men were worth more than a thousand conscripted commoners. "We're not preparing for war today, Luwin. We're preparing for the appearance of a Stark becoming Hand of the King, along with a betrothal celebration featuring a melee and gathering of the lords. Our goal is to utilize whatever cover this appearance provides quietly."
He studied me for a long moment, the ledger still open in his hands, and something in his expression shifted. It was the careful, considering look of a man about to test whether a door he suspected was open truly was. "Robb," he said more quietly, "I think it's past time you told me plainly and fully the whole truth about these preparations we have been making for the North and what this is truly in service of. I've served this house long enough to understand the shape of things even when I'm not told outright. I'd rather counsel you and your father's plans, honestly, than watch you carry this weight alone because you feared I'd think less of you for shouldering it."
I let the silence linger for a moment, weighing it—not whether to trust him, which I had long since decided, but simply how much of the truth to share with him at once. "Father wrote to me nearly a month ago," I said, which was true enough in its essence, if not entirely in its exact wording; the letter had stated that he had arrived with Sansa at King's Landing safely. "The letter from Mother's sister about that had haunted him—the one accusing the Lannisters of Jon Arryn's death. One of the reasons he went to King's Landing to become Robert's Hand was to uncover the truth of it. He mentioned enough written in Old Tongue that something big and troubling was happening in the south, and he asked me to begin quietly preparing the North to call its banners, should matters in the South turn as poorly as he fears. He trusted me to find a way to do that without drawing attention we couldn't afford. This melee, along with the riders being sent asking lords to come celebrate the betrothal, and my father's appointment, is effectively calling the houses to Winterfell for a month-long feast, complete with daily melees, wrestling, and sparring exercises. That is layered with enough truth that even a clever man would need to dig to find the seam."
Luwin's eyebrows rose as realization dawned on his face, though it quickly eased into something else—a kind of settling, as though a weight he had been quietly carrying had finally found proper words to rest on. "You've grown a great deal and have helped your father grow the North just as you have grown yourself," he said slowly. "More than I think even your mother fully realizes, despite her pride in you. I won't pretend this doesn't surprise me. I knew you and your father had discussed the letter from Lysa in more depth, but these plans don't surprise me as much as what you've already done in bringing the remaining giants and the Old Tongue back into the lives of the Starks and Noble houses of the North. You've earned your father's trust, and mine as well, Robb; whatever burden I can help lift off your shoulders, I will."
"I'm glad to hear that," I said, meaning it more than I let on. "I'd rather have your counsel given plainly than withhold the other half of the reasoning going forward."
"Then you'll have it," he replied.
That same afternoon, we also brought Vayon and Jory into the fuller truth of the situation in the quiet of the steward's small office. They seemed to take it with less surprise than Luwin had, which I suspected indicated how closely they had been watching the household and its happenings. "I'd wondered," Vayon admitted once I laid the whole situation out for him, while Luwin nodded along in a way that eased any hesitation Vayon might have felt. "The extra grain stores alone should have told me sooner. You've been provisioning for many more mouths than the King's visit would need, no matter how generous the occasion. Looking back, it seemed reasonable when you brought it up during the preparations for the king's arrival with his party."
"I did have to be quite direct at times, but with enough cover and a bit of truth, there seemed no reason to look further," I replied. "You've done more for this house's readiness than you might realize over these past months."
"I'm glad to do it," he said, and that was the essence of it. We had six men under House Stark now: me, Jory, Luwin, and Vayon, along with Theon and Jon, who were quietly steering Winterfell's true preparations in Wintertown and Winterfell. Meanwhile, the rest of the household and gathering lords continued to believe exactly what was in front of them, not seeing the whole picture.
As for my Mother, I did deliberately keep the fuller truth from her, and I've contemplated this enough over the past weeks that it no longer weighs on my conscience as it did initially. She knew that Father was scrutinizing the Lannisters and understood her sister Lysa's accusation well enough since she was involved in delivering it. However, she is unaware of how far the preparations had progressed or how much of Winterfell's recent activities were driven by that quiet cause rather than by simple good governance.
Part of my decision to withhold this information was to spare her the burden of it—she already had so much to bear, with both Father and Sansa far to the south, and Bran away, not to mention a castle full of people and other households' fosterlings. She had taken to keeping Wynafryd Manderly as a companion now that Sansa was gone. But honestly, I also acted out of caution. Catelyn Stark loved fiercely and pursued that love with a directness that, in every version of this story I remembered, never served her interests as well as she believed it would. The fewer people who knew the entire scope of the situation, the lower the chances that it would slip out before I was ready for it to be revealed.
I did not think less of her for this; I simply trusted her less with a secret this significant than I trusted Luwin or Jory. I had come to terms with that calculation some time ago. With my thoughts racing, reflecting on everything that had been happening so quickly, I returned to the yard to focus on something else and watch some more bouts, hoping to keep my mind busy.
Domeric found me not long after, standing beside me with the easy familiarity of a man who no longer needed an invitation to seek a conversation. "That Flint's the one to watch," he said, nodding toward the low, patient mountain clansman who was still working his way through a bout near the armory's edge. "I've never known a man from the mountain folk to be that big before."
"The mountain clans usually have smaller men, but you shouldn't discount them. Just like the crannogmen, they have always been people not to underestimate." I glanced around and noticed a few Reed men, but I had yet to meet Lord Howland. I knew his health was not the best, yet I thought I would have seen him or his children by now.
"True enough," Domeric agreed. "I would much rather have the North's mountain clans than those from the Vale." I found myself glad for his honesty. It was not the first time I appreciated the warmth he offered; he seemed nothing like his father or Ramsay. Since his arrival, he had settled into Winterfell well, fitting in with Theon, Jon, and even gaining the friendship of Wynafryd and Dacey. He truly was a genuinely nice person, which is rare in this world. I was glad he was alive, and that his stepbrother Ramsay was not.
By the time I left to get something to eat in the main hall that afternoon, the gathering had become busier and bigger still — new banners since the morning and new faces among the crowd watching the day's duels wind down toward evening. I found Wynafryd and Dacey together with Arya, Mother, Myrcella and Tyrion, all engaged in easy, familiar conversation.
"There he is," Dacey said, grinning as I approached. "Robb Stark, finally gracing us with his presence. We were starting to think you'd forgotten us with all your work, buried in whatever business has been stealing you away these past few days."
"Never forgotten," I replied, "just occupied, dear Dacey. And isn't keeping tabs on my younger Arya enough for you? I know she can be a handful, but I hope she hasn't been too much trouble for you by now?"
"The little Wolf and her wolf are certainly enough of a handful, but it's nice to catch up with the brother she never stops talking about." She said this lightly while playfully messing with Arya's hair.
I turned to Wynafryd, giving her a nod and a smile, though I noticed her smile these days carried a little less ease than it once had — Sansa's absence was clearly weighing on her, as they had gotten along better than I had hoped. Looking down at Arya, I gave Nymeria a pat on the head as she asked me, "Is Jon going to be back today? I haven't seen him in nearly a week now."
I felt the familiar tug of needing to answer a true question with a careful half-truth, and I did it as easily as I had done most things these past two years. "Soon enough," I said. "He's off fetching a surprise for the melee when it properly starts. I won't say more than that because I don't want to spoil it, though I know for a fact you will find it surprising, Arya."
Dacey raised her brow as she listened to my conversation with Arya, and I could tell it was more than just her out of the group eavesdropping; they were all clearly interested. However, my attention went back to Arya as she let it go with the good grace of someone who'd learned over the years which of my evasions were worth pressing and which weren't. "Fine. Keep your secrets, Robb. I'll get them out of you eventually."
"I don't doubt it," I said, and I left them to their reunion with a kiss on Mother's forehead and a peck to Myrcella's hand. I left the group, feeling a warmth settle through me. The bonds I'd built with such careful calculation had long since become mine, treasured for their own sake nearly as much as for whatever use they'd prove when harder days arrived.
That night, I found myself at the edge of the godswood, as I often did these days when taking the direwolf pups out for some time together, while keeping them out of everyone else's way. Grey Wind was wrestling with Shaggydog over a scrap of leather they used as a chew toy, while Nymeria took it for herself during their scuffle. Lady curled close against my side, her warm flank resting against me as she watched her siblings play.
I lay back on the cold ground, watching them as I relaxed, thinking of my family, my growth, and the reasons in this life and world that would push me to do the best I could. I looked once more at my family's direwolves enjoying what felt like an ordinary evening, knowing full well that I would soon be unable to enjoy these moments for some time.