𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ-ᴇɪɢʜᴛ

If Robb had been slightly less exhausted, he would have very likely been annoyed at the treatment he received from his companions. He was ecstatic to be with them again, make no mistake, but he wished they were a bit less obvious in their concern.

Already an hour had passed—in which, to be fair, he had received a long-overdue bath as well as fresh clothes, had shaved and been subsequently introduced to the King of Rohan—but they would not stop giving him food. Fine, aye, he had been imprisoned for a week or so, in which he had drunk very little and eaten even less. But that had been then. As things stood, Robb had eaten more than his fill back in Isengard's storehouse, and managed just fine since then with his satchel full of stolen provisions.

Of course, when he had told Boromir all this, the only thing Robb had got in return for his troubles had been a poorly hidden look of anguish and yet another roll of bread. Knowing when a battle was lost, Robb had just sighed, thanked the man and, as soon as he was out of sight, handed the bread off to the next child he had run into. Unfortunately, Aragorn had lain in wait just around the corner, passing Robb an apple as he steered him towards the main hall.

Now, Robb sat in a chair—not as the only one, but all the other chairs had been given to the most ancient advisors, which, ouch—absently chewing on his apple as the king's most trusted confidantes counselled him on the best course of action. He barely suppressed a wince when one of them suggested letting their cavalry meet the Uruk-Hai in the valley to reduce their numbers.

'Whose numbers, ours?' he thought. Gods, this hurt.

Setting his apple core down with a huff, Robb finally stood up. "May I make a few suggestions, your Grace?"

King Théoden looked up at him with tired eyes and merely waved at him to go ahead.

Robb gave a sharp nod, pointing at the map. "As you all well know, this castle is expertly fortified, even without much in the way of garrisons. But there is one glaring weakness, and Saruman plans to use it."

He tapped the middle of the Deeping Wall, looking first at Théoden, then Aragorn, Boromir, and everyone else. Out of all of them, only Glorfindel seemed unsurprised, and Robb sighed.

"Gods," he murmured near silently, then cleared his throat and continued. "Very well. Saruman will use this culvert to blow a hole in the Deeping Wall, which is why we have to prevent anything and anyone from reaching it."

"How?" asked the man to Théoden's right—Galing? Ganing? He genuinely could not remember.

Robb frowned. "Spikes? Perhaps a wall of mud to reinforce them? There are several possibilities, each with their own merits and—"

"No," the man interrupted, "how would Saruman destroy the wall?"

Taking a deep breath, Robb pointedly did not clench his teeth. "If I knew the exact concoction he was going to use, I would have certainly told you already. Unfortunately, I do not, as I cannot yet presume to read his mind. Nor am I a maester—researcher? Scholar?—and thus, alas, I am unable to say."

"Robb."

His eyes flickered to meet Aragorn's across the table. The man shook his head. "No such concoction has been used before. Not to my knowledge, and certainly not here."

His shoulders slumping, Robb took a breath. "Truly? My apologies. I assumed, if not in warfare, they existed at the very least for mining purposes. Where I come from—"

"Surely I am not the only one who remembers Mithrandir's fireworks?"

Glorfindel's question made every head in the room turn to him. Evidently unbothered by the attention, he raised an eyebrow. "You know—big, loud, colourful? Extremely alarming if one is unprepared to see a Balrog made out of sparks suddenly appear in the sky?"