Bringing the Dawn [IN EDITING]

***XVII.

Robb Stark

Winterfell, 301 AC

Not much had changed in Winterfell over the last few months. Yes, it was considerably quieter considering more than half the men had left to go south with his father and sisters. But apart from that, it felt the same. But to Robb there would always be a hole. Not only did he not have him or Sansa or Arya to keep him company, he now didn't have Jon either. He missed running rampart with him, sparring with him even if he very rarely won unless they were on horses, chasing after Bran, playing pranks on others. But there was no time for any of that, he was now the Lord of Winterfell. And a Lord does not concern himself with childhood ploys. Just thinking on everything that had changed within the year was insane.

From a castle filled with raucous laughter and boisterous children- now there was only one boisterous boy and one confined to a bed as he couldn't walk anymore whilst he was running the Keep and seventeen. It was a huge responsibility that fell onto Robb, but luckily he's always been someone who adapts quickly. Plus, his father had been allowing him to shadow him and held private lessons with him to prepare him for this. He didn't expect it to happen for many years, but alas, times were changing. Then there was the truth which shattered everything, shook it all into their heads the depths of betrayal his father would stoop to protect his family.

Not many people would see it as that though, and that disgusted him greatly. He remembered when his father had asked to speak to him a couple of hours after pulling Jon aside after their sparring bout that fateful day. He'd been laughing, joking with Theon, trying to one-up his brother, and then he was told. How he wasn't his brother but was his cousin, that he wasn't a bastard but legitimate, that he wasn't a Stark but a Targaryen. To say he had been shocked was putting it very lightly, he probably looked as though he'd been clubbed over the head with a mace. After he was told, he had simply gone to his room quietly and just stared at the walls for hours. Only seeming to snap out of it when he heard someone training in the yard below.

Yes, Jon had confined to him he was going to press on the claim at some point, but he wasn't going to for years. But even this didn't go to plan as that damned cutthroat set the library tower alight and he walked in with two eggs, only to come out hours later with two hatchlings clinging to his shoulders. Robb had seen plenty of drawings and paintings of dragons, it was the only thing Arya ever read about alongside war tomes. But seeing them in the flesh was something else. Knowing he was the second person to see such creatures since the reign of Aegon III after the dreaded dance between Aegon II and Rhaenyra. A lot of people consider this to be the time where Targaryen's started to be labelled mad.

Robb himself had believed this to be the case for a long time. It was only when he took one of the books Arya hid in her room which documented them all did he realise that those who did go mad was far and few between- and only two of them ascended to the throne. People do consider the two contenders after Viserys I died to be so- but thinking on it, it really wasn't. Brother against sister is something that should never occur, family always sticks together. The pack should stick together. Yet if people were actively working to keep them apart and let resentment brew instead of tackling them, it might not have happened. At least, not in the same way.

Robb ran his fingers through his hair as he worked through the bountiful amounts of paperwork there was on the desk. He always knew there would be a lot of it yet he still hated it. His hand was aching and the underside of his right hand was stained in blue-black ink. Sighing deeply, he placed the quill down and looked around the room. It was strange being in his father's solar in his seat. He'd been in here hundreds of times ever since he could walk pretty much, but it felt odd to him now. He stood up and took in what was in here. A bookcase on the wall filled with history on the North, the spines of said tomes dated what period they detailed. A tapestry on the wall that his father had stated his mother had done herself when he was a young boy that took two years to complete. Multiple instruments he had no idea what their purpose was. And a single painting of them all he'd had commissioned for Rickon's first name day. But it wasn't all of them, as it had been made abundantly clear Jon was not to be in it.