𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 || 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊

ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ-ɴɪɴᴇ

In the end, the boys Deor had gathered were more than Robb had hoped for, but fewer than he had feared, which he supposed was as good as he was going to get.

The youngest was only three and ten, named Haleth, son of Háma. His father, Robb learned, had died just yesterday in an ambush on the way here, so he was understandably distraught. The tip of his late father's sheathed sword trailed on the ground, clearly too big for him, nevermind too heavy.

"Lord Aragorn said it was a good sword," Haleth mumbled, valiantly biting back tears when Robb suggested he exchange it for a shorter one.

Robb nodded. "So it is. But it is also heavy, and very long. You know, I tried to wield my father's sword once—a greatsword, beautiful and sharper than anything I'd held in my hands before. But it was longer than I was tall, and I couldn't lift it for more than a few seconds. I almost took my own foot off when I dropped it."

The boys around him chuckled, and Robb grinned. "Aye, that's funny, I know."

He gave them a moment before sobering up. "Now imagine if that had happened in battle."

The room became quiet, a few of the lads biting their lips or wringing their hands. Haleth's gaze had dropped to the ground.

"I do not mean to belittle you. I do not think you are weak or unable to fight. I fought my first battle at a younger age than anyone should have to and I know how it feels to be treated that way. When I tell you your sword is too big I do not mean 'you are too scrawny,' I mean 'you will be able to fight better with a short sword'. When I tell you not to use your father's sword, I do not mean 'never use it,' I mean 'not just yet.' Alright?"

Haleth nodded, squaring his shoulders. "Alright."

Smiling, Robb squeezed his shoulder before clapping his hands. "Then let us see if we can find something for you all."

❄️

Robb did not train with the boys for very long—tiring them out now would have the opposite effect of what he desired—but by the end of it, he was both proud and deeply uncomfortable with the thought of sending them into battle.

Was this how his mother had felt the first time Robb had ridden off to war? If so, he owed her several apologies. These lads were scarcely younger than he had been then, and yet he thought of them as children.

He watched them head back inside, their faces illuminated by the warm light of torches, and wondered how many would make it through the night. At least they were no longer so tense, even though Robb suspected that would not last very long.

Sighing, he picked up his own training blade and slung the wooden shield over his shoulder. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to select a sword he would wield later, what with all the planning and digging and then sparring with the boys. Robb had no earthly idea where Airilírë was—most likely still in the middle of a field, where it wasn't doing much good for anyone—and he hoped Haldir would not ask.

Robb gave the training sword a few swings. The balance was good enough, he had noticed that right away. It sat comfortably in his hand, not too heavy, and although the lack of a crossguard took some getting used to, it was far from the worst blade he had ever handled. If he could find someone to sharpen it, the sword would certainly be good enough to wield it for a night.

And after that—well, Robb supposed that was a bridge he could cross when he came to it.

Decision made, he turned to go back inside. To find a sheath, to find something in the way of armour, to wait for the battle to start: he was sure there were many things that still needed doing. There had been several dozen arrows hidden away in a chest in the armoury, he remembered—perhaps he should unearth them lest they rotted away. Gods knew he had only found them accidentally, and he doubted anyone else knew they were there.