The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - I

AS SON OF the Warden of the North, Robb had been well-schooled in the way of Winter. It came slowly, so slowly that it was often missed until the last. Until it was too late. 'Winter is coming' — the words of the Stark family, which he knew well. His father uttered them more and more every day, under his breath when he thought none could hear. But Robb did. And he wondered.

He was the eldest of the Stark children, a strapping lad of sixteen with short curls the hue of conkers in the Summer. For Winterfell town and its surrounding estates, he was considered the pride and joy of the North.

He stood there now, in the courtyard of his castle home. His keen blue eyes followed the whistling of an arrow through the chill air. It landed in the ground, just short of the woven target. Bran, his younger brother of only ten years, lowered his bow and stamped, frustrated by another miss. They had been at it for an hour now. Arrows littered the mud before them. Ever a Stark, the boy refused to give up.

Robb had never been much for archery himself. He always preferred the dull weight of a sword, favouring strength over accuracy. This was yet further, undeniable proof that he was his father's son. The thought of getting to hold his legendary greatsword, Ice, once day secretly thrilled him. It was almost as tall as him and as wide as his wrist, forged of the strongest and most precious metal of all: Valyrian steel.

It was starting to grow cold — colder than he liked, even in a land where snow fell more often than not — and his feet were starting to ache from standing idle. Still, he did not say a word, arms folded across his leather tunic.

It was Jon who gently grasped the boy's shoulders and urged him on. The second eldest, he looked more Stark than any of the siblings, with brown hair and eyes like a stormy sky. He could not bear the name, though, and carried the Snow title like every other bastard of the North. "Go on, Father's watching." The two looked up to the beamed balcony, where their Lord father stood in his great fur cloak, beside his wife. She was a Tully by blood and the source of Robb and his other siblings' features. "And your mother."

The young boy sighed and nocked another arrow. This one missed, too. This time, the brothers failed to stifle their laughter. Even little Rickon, perched on a saddle astride the paddocks, burst into a fit of giggles.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" their father enquired. Though Robb noted the hint of a smile on his face. "Keep practising, Bran. Go on."

His apprehension clearly improved, though embarrassment still tinted the tips of his ears red, partially hidden by locks down to his chin. Jon leaned in once again to encourage him. "Don't think too much, Bran."

Watching every movement, Robb finally put aside his brotherly jests to instruct him, "Relax your bow arm."

He could hear the string pull taut, the friction of it against his leather archery glove, and the dull thunk of the target's piercing.

All turned their attention at once to the little girl hidden in the paddocks — Arya, the wildest of the children and often the victim of his mother's worst nagging. She lowered her bow and Bran cried out in indignation, lunging for her. With hearty laughter, Jon called after them, "Run, Bran!"

"Faster!" Robb cheered. But his amusement faded quickly.

His parents no longer watched. Their backs were turned, their attention on the grave words of the master-at-arms. Ser Rodrick Cassel's round face was reddened from haste, forming an even stronger contrast with the white sideburns he had grown out and knotted below his chin. It was often subject to the others' secret ridicule but Robb couldn't help his fondness towards the man who had trained him since boyhood. Whatever news he brought, it could not be good.