The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - VI

THE TALKS PROCEEDED. Robb no longer stumbled over his words nor waited for obvious approval before changing the subject. These men wanted a fight. Though he would surely try his best to avoid it, he now knew that they would back him. Either they supported him or broke their oaths. They were to side with him or die. Luckily, many seemed eager with the first option.

He left the Great Hall giddy, barely able to walk in a straight line. Their voices still rang in his ears. So, too, did the sound of Greatjon Umber's screams. His focus shifted to the direwolf padding along beside him. Grey Wind was now up to knee-height and still had bloodstains around his mouth. Robb could not remember if he had given the command or if his wolf had done it of his own will, wishing to protect him. He didn't want to imagine how the evening would have gone without him.

The corridors were empty in the family quarters. Only three of the rooms were occupied now. He had long since gotten used to the change in volume. Without Arya's antics, Sansa's complaining and Jon's joking, Winterfell was an entirely different place. He longed to be in his mother's embrace again, to hear his father's reassurance that he had done the right thing at every turn. Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

Slowly opening the door to Bran's room, he peered inside. The boy was fast asleep. He took a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed. Only the light of a few candles illuminated his brother's face. He was peaceful, his frown gone, his eyes closed to the world. The fall had killed something in him — in all of them. Bran rarely smiled, rarely laughed. He had taken the news of his paralysis with a brave heart but it was still too much for one so young to bear. No more would he run the halls, chasing his siblings, nor climb to his heart's content. He was a bird grounded. Robb only hoped he would find other wings to carry him.

If he could sit there and watch his brother sleep all through the night, he would. There wasn't time.

He rested a hand on Bran's shoulder and the boy woke with a start, staring blearily around. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Shh, it's all right."

Struggling to sit up, Bran looked to his cloak, scabbard and boots, all readied. "Where are you going?"

He hated the panic he heard in that question but replied as softly as he could, "South. For Father."

"But it's the middle of the night."

"The Lannisters have spies everywhere. I don't want them to know we're coming."

Bran paused to scrutinise him again. He couldn't imagine how he must have looked, exhausted and half-drunk, fuelled purely by his own determination. "They have more men than we do," his brother reminded him.

"Aye, they do."

He pushed himself up. "Can't I come with you? I can ride now. You've seen me riding. And I won't get in the way, I—"

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," he said, recalling their mother's words to him only two months prior. "Until I return, that will be you." He could see Bran's fear. He remembered it well, from his own reaction when he had heard the same. It couldn't matter, though. It couldn't set him back. Steeling himself, Robb sternly warned him, "You are not to leave the castle walls while we are gone. Do you understand?" Bran nodded. "Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after your little brother."

"I will."

"I'll send letters whenever I can, but if you don't hear from me, don't be scared." With that, he rose and briefly rested a hand on Bran's shoulder. He resolved himself not to hug him as usual. That was a child's form of reassurance, and he was a child no more. "Until I return."

The door closed behind him. He took a deep breath and then moved on to Rickon's room.

It was already open a crack. Cursing under his breath, he entered. Sure enough, the bed was empty. The child had a tendency to wander wherever he liked, with little regard for time or those responsible for him. They used to joke that he was a wild one, like those who lived beyond the Wall.