𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ʏᴜ́ǫᴜᴀɪɴ

The next day dawned bright and early for Robb, yet again without a nightmare and a wolf dream in its place.

He ate quickly, chasing away the lingering taste of blood, before he headed to the training grounds once more, wearing boiled leathers and with his blades at his hips. Robb ran a few laps—always better to warm up, after all—and by the time he was done, both Legolas and, to his surprise, Aragorn had arrived.

They stretched together, Legolas outdoing both Robb and Aragorn, of course; Robb should not have been as startled and amazed by this as he was.

"Showing off, Legolas?" Aragorn teased, grinning up at the Elf from where he was bent down in a deep lunge. "You know we cannot keep up with you."

Legolas rolled his eyes, then almost spitefully lifted his leg even higher. "Very funny, Estel."

Robb huffed a light laugh. "What's that mean?" he asked. "Estel? Is it another nickname?"

"It is what I was called until I was twenty," Aragorn replied, standing back up.

"The name means hope," Legolas added.

"Ah." Robb nodded, getting up as well.

It struck him like lightning not a second later.

"Oh. Oh. Hope, as in, 'bring Hope to the throne of—?' Wait a minute, does that mean you're—?"

Aragorn sighed. "It does."

"Seven Hells," Robb whispered to himself. "Fuck!"

He returned his gaze to Aragorn, who, with his shoulders ever so slightly more tense than usual, did not look all too happy about Robb's realization. Shaking his head in an effort to dispel his surprise, Robb chuckled. "Well, that's brilliant. I've been doing a splendid job with my task so far, then, haven't I—badmouthing the position?"

Luckily, that brought out a smile on Aragorn's face once more, if a weak one.

"If it helps, uh, I think my world was a lot worse than yours is. Politically speaking. I mean, with the one—well, two, I suppose—power-hungry lesser gods, your enemies are at the very least easily identifiable and everyone is doing their best to fight them. There are no intrigues to watch out for, really."

"That does not make it easy."

Robb shook his head. "No, of course not. But it does mean you can focus on leading your people and defeating Sauron. Besides, you won't be alone. You'll have friends and advisors who will do their best to support you. Including myself, if you'll have me."

Aragorn chuckled weakly. "Of course I'll have you, Robb." He sighed, looking off into the distance for a moment before refocusing on Robb. "I have led people before—my people, the Dúnedain. It is not my abilities I doubt. But Gondor has not had a king for centuries, and if Boromir is to be believed, they neither need nor want one. To call myself the king of a people who do not wish to be ruled by me would make me no better than Sauron himself."

"Eh." Robb tilted his hand side to side, lifted the corner of his mouth. "As long as you don't torture and kill people for fun, you should be fine."

Behind Aragorn, Legolas raised his eyebrows, his mouth pulled into a thoughtful, almost amused frown. Aragorn himself only huffed, smiling faintly, one hand at his hip.

"No, in all honesty, though," Robb continued, "I understand. I was the first King in the North in almost three hundred years, and I'd never been truly responsible for anyone or anything at that scale before—except if you count the few months where I acted as Warden of the North. You are far more qualified than I ever was, and the fact that you do not want to be king against your people's will speaks for you. You want what is best for them, aye?"

"I do."

Robb grasped Aragorn's shoulder. "Well, so does Boromir. Whether he wants you to be king or not, you know he will put Gondor's well-being before his conflict with you. If you don't trust him, trust his honour and his loyalty to Gondor."

Honour, at least, was worth something in Middle-Earth, and certainly more than in the South. Well, anywhere outside of Winterfell, really. The fact that Boromir regarded it just as highly as his father had stung at first, for it was one of the few character traits they shared and therefore one of the few things that still reminded Robb of his father when displayed by Boromir.

Aragorn's shoulders relaxed a bit under Robb's hand, which he covered with one of his own and squeezed.

"I can see why the Valar chose you for this particular task," he smiled. "You are very inspiring. Thank you."

"I try," Robb grinned back. All the times  I attempted to reassure Jon of his place in our family paid off, it appears.

"Alright, enough talking," Aragorn exclaimed, and his grip on Robb's hand tightened dangerously. "We came here to teach you how to fight."

Robb barely had the time to protest—he was trying to practice wielding two blades, not to learn how to wrestle—before he found himself on the ground again. Legolas' musical laughter drowned out the sound of Robb's groan.

"I take it all back. You're a horrible person."