The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - III

ROBB HATED BEING LEFT BEHIND. His ancestral home had become a confinement. With Mother and Father and all but two of his siblings gone, the castle seemed colder than ever. He kept the fires burning, kept the people of Winterfell as happy as he could, and prayed every night that the Old Gods would bring his family back together. Before now, he had not been parted from any of them for long. Now he longed to see them again. Just one, he bargained with each supplication. Bring one of them back, at least. Bring them soon.

He thought he was getting quite good at the lordship side of affairs. With Maester Luwin at his side, he slowly learned how to handle taxes and land disputes — the boring duties his father had always reminded him of when he was a boy, too caught up in dreams of power and leadership.

So now he sat in his father's chair in the Great Hall, the Maester at his side and Grey Wind by his feet, staring down the Imp himself. Tyrion Lannister was an unpleasant man. They had barely spoken upon the occasion of his family's visit but had come across as little more than a rude, whoring drunk. The lord stood before him now in all his four feet of irritating glory. "I must say, I received a slightly warmer welcome on my last visit."

He nodded respectfully to the man in black stood beside Tyrion — a stony fellow by the name of Yoren. "Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome at Winterfell."

"Any man of the Night's Watch but not I, eh, boy?"

It took more than expected to curb his annoyance as he glared him down. "I'm not your boy, Lannister. I'm Lord of Winterfell while my father is away."

"Then you might learn a lord's courtesy."

The door at the back of the hall opened and Hodor, their simple stable boy who could utter nothing but his own name, lumbered in with Bran cradled in his arms. The boy had not — and would never — regain use of his legs. They hung limp, useless.

He noted with a twinge of hatred that the man could not even hide his surprise at the sight of the boy. "Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?"

"He has no memory of that day," Maester Luwin was quick to interject.

Tyrion spared him a wary look. "Curious."

Robb knew that if they dwelt on thoughts of his brother's injuries for much longer, he would lose his patience and, as a result, his temper. Nothing good could come of that. "Why are you here?"

"Would your charming companion be so kind as to kneel? My neck is beginning to hurt."

"Kneel, Hodor," the child instructed. He did so without hesitation.

"Do you like to ride, Bran?"

"Yes." He paused, his certainty failing him. "Well, I mean, I did like to."

Once again, the maester spoke up in a harsh, guarded tone. "The boy's lost the use of his legs."

Tyrion huffed, "What of it? With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride."

"I'm not a cripple."

With a gasp of false relief, he stared down at himself. "Then I'm not a dwarf. My father will rejoice to hear it!" A hand disappeared within the folds of his cloak. "I have a gift for you. Give that to your saddler. He'll provide the rest."

Robb was wary of Lannister gifts, considering the last one was a dagger meant for the same child. An appropriate warning came to mind but he held his tongue. Head over heart, he reminded himself. Head over heart.

Though he nearly forgot it at the arrogant look the lord sent him. "You must shape the horse to the rider. Start with a yearling and teach it to respond to the reins and to the boy's voice."