Chapter Text
Blood and Winter
Chapter 4 - Letters Dispatched
The clash of wood on wood echoed across the yard.
Robb stepped into the strike, blade raised, the shock of impact running up his arm. Hallis met him evenly, turning his wrist to guide the blow aside, then answering with a quick downward cut. Robb caught it on the cross, boots grinding frost into the dirt. They pushed against each other, blades locked, shoulders trembling with the effort.
For a heartbeat, they were even.
Robb twisted his wrist and slid the edge down, breaking the bind. He stepped right and cut low toward Hallis's ribs. The older man turned with it, barely catching the blow. The movement opened a narrow gap between them, and Robb took it, stepping forward, pressing the attack, wooden sword hissing through the cold air.
Hallis parried, but slower now, his guard rising late. Robb drove him back, one, two, three quick strikes, changing angles, never the same twice. Their blades clattered, the sound sharp against the stone walls.
Then Hallis shifted his footing, grounding himself. He took the next hit on the flat of his sword and rolled it aside, letting Robb's strength carry him forward. The younger man stumbled half a step; Hallis seized the moment and countered with a short, snapping thrust to the chest. The point landed square, driving the air from Robb's lungs.
Robb staggered but stayed on his feet. He circled again, chest heaving, ribs aching. Hallis's expression was calm, almost approving.
"You're quicker," Hallis said between breaths. "Stronger too."
Robb didn't answer. He moved in again.
They met with a series of sharp, fast exchanges, tight cuts, parries, and reverses, the fight narrowing to the space between two men's arms. Robb managed to trap Hallis's sword between his and, for an instant, had the advantage. He leaned in, using his weight to force the older man's blade down. Hallis grunted, struggling against the pressure.
Robb stepped in close, trying to hook behind Hallis's guard, but the veteran twisted suddenly, turning his body sideways and driving his shoulder into Robb's chest. The blow knocked Robb off-balance. Before he could recover, Hallis's sword came up and touched lightly against his ribs.
"Dead," Hallis said, panting.
Robb froze, then stepped back, lowering his sword. The cold air burned in his lungs.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Their breath rose like mist, merging with the thin morning fog.
"You're improving," Hallis said at last. "You read the line well this time. You're holding longer."
Robb's jaw tightened. "But I still lost."
Hallis smiled faintly. "Only by a step. You're young yet. Every day you learn, every day you get closer. That's what matters."
Robb glanced down at the practice sword. The wood was scuffed, the edge rough where it had met Hallis's countless times. "Closer isn't enough," he said quietly. "It won't be when it matters."
Hallis studied him for a moment. "You're not wrong," he said. "But no man wins every fight in the yard. The point of training isn't victory. It's memory."
Robb looked up, meeting his eyes. "Memory?"
"So that when it counts, your body remembers what your mind doesn't have time to think."
Robb nodded, though his expression didn't ease. "Then we'll keep at it."
Hallis gave a single approving nod. "Tomorrow then."
Robb turned toward the keep. The morning was bright but cold, the air sharp enough to sting. His shoulder ached where Hallis's thrust had landed, but it was the kind of ache that lingered with purpose.
He glanced once more at the practice yard, at the wooden swords resting against the wall. Hallis was right, no man wins every fight. But some losses mattered more than others.
He gripped the hilt tighter. "Tomorrow," he said again, mostly to himself, and walked back toward the great hall, the sound of his boots fading into the wind.
The hall was nearly empty.
The long tables stood half-cleared, the scent of roast mutton and baked bread still heavy in the air. The fire burned low, throwing its light against the stone walls and the wolf banners above. Robb sat near the high table, a half-finished plate before him, a cup of watered wine cooling at his elbow.
He ate without much appetite. His body still ached from the morning's spar, a dull reminder of every strike he'd taken. His thoughts wandered south. The ravens had gone two days past, wings beating through the grey skies toward every holdfast in the North. Lords large and small, all summoned to Winterfell for the feast.
After that, there would be no turning back.
He'd told himself this would be the last time Winterfell felt like home before the war began. Once the banners gathered, the hall would fill with noise, with toasts and oaths and the thunder of boots on stone. For now, it was quiet, the calm before the call.
He looked at the long rows of benches, picturing them filled again. The Umbers shouting loud enough to shake the rafters, the Manderlys bringing their singers, the Karstarks stoic and sharp-eyed, the Boltons polite and watchful. Every lord in the North answering the same summons: defend their liege lord's honour, avenge Eddard Stark.
His fingers tapped the edge of the cup. He wondered how many of them would never see Winterfell again.
The fire popped, breaking the thought. He reached for a slice of bread, tore it absently, and found his mind drifting again, to the maps in his father's study, to the plan forming slowly in his head, to the road that waited beyond the Neck.
The door at the far end creaked open.
Theon strode in, dark hair tousled, grin already in place. He dropped himself onto the bench beside Robb without invitation, stretching out his legs and grabbing a piece of bread from the table.
"You'd think the kitchens would have found better mutton by now," he said around a mouthful. "Everything tastes like it's been dead a week."
Robb glanced at him, faintly smiling. "That's because it probably has."
Theon laughed, loud and careless. "True enough." He tore another bite from the bread and leaned back, balancing the chair on two legs. "Still, it's better than the company in the brothel these days."
Robb raised an eyebrow. "You're complaining about that again?"
"Of course I am. Since Ros went south, the place hasn't been the same. The others, Seven help me, they either talk too much or not enough." He shook his head, feigning dismay. "A man needs conversation, Robb. It's good for morale."
Robb snorted, almost choking on his wine. "Morale, is it?"
Theon grinned, pleased to have drawn the laugh. "Aye. You'll see when we're on campaign. A happy man fights better than a hungry one."
"I'll remember that," Robb said, smiling despite himself.
For a moment, the hall seemed warmer. The sound of Theon's laughter filled the quiet, echoing against the walls that had felt so heavy moments before. It reminded Robb of easier days, the two of them sparring with sticks in the yard, stealing pastries from the kitchen, hearing their fathers' voices from the battlements.
Theon took another bite and spoke with his mouth half full. "When's this feast of yours? Week after tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Robb said. "Three days from now is when the first lords should begin arriving."
Theon nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "It'll be a sight. All those old men gathered under one roof again. Like a pack of wolves sniffing at each other."
"More like testing their teeth," Robb said quietly.
Theon laughed again, softer this time. "Aye. That too."
They fell silent for a while. The only sounds were the fire's low crackle and the distant wind through the windows. Theon leaned back, content, eyes half-closed. Robb watched the flames flicker across the banners. The white and grey cloth swayed faintly in the draft, the direwolf seeming to move with the firelight.
Three days, he thought.Three days before the North gathered.
He felt it pressing closer, the weight of command, of expectation. Once the feast began, there would be no more planning in quiet halls or idle talk at the table. He would have to lead. Speak. Decide.
Theon broke the silence. "You're brooding again."
"I'm thinking."
"That's what I said."
Robb smiled faintly. "You should try it sometime."
"Why would I? You do enough for both of us."
Robb shook his head, but the smile stayed. He took another sip of wine, letting it wash down the taste of bread gone dry.
Theon leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You'll do fine, you know. They'll follow you. They have to. You're Ned Stark's son."
Robb looked into the cup, at the pale reflection of firelight dancing across the surface. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Theon's grin faltered for a heartbeat, then returned, gentler this time. "You'll make him proud."
Robb didn't answer. He only nodded once, setting the cup aside. The warmth of the fire touched his face, but it didn't reach his chest.
Outside the wind rose, whistling faintly through the cracks in the great doors. Somewhere in the distance, a direwolf howled, a sound long and low, carrying across the winter air.
Theon lifted his head at the sound, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Ghosts of the godswood, eh?"
"Maybe," Robb said. He thought of the weirwood's white face, of the visions he'd seen there. The silence of the gods that had not felt like silence at all.
Theon stretched and stood, tossing the last of the bread onto the plate. "I'll see you at the feast then, Lord Stark."
Robb's lips twitched. "You'll see me before then, Greyjoy. Dawn's spar tomorrow."
"Seven save me from Northern mornings," Theon muttered, and strode off toward the door.
When it closed behind him, the hall grew quiet again.
Robb sat for a moment longer, staring at the empty seat beside him. The fire crackled softly, casting the light higher up the walls. The banners shifted again in the faint wind, the wolves' shadows rippling across the stone.
He looked at them for a long time. In three days, they would ride south. In three days, Winterfell would cease to be still.
He reached for his cup again, lifted it halfway, then set it down untouched.
The fire snapped, and the sound echoed through the empty hall like a promise.
The hallways of Winterfell were quiet at dusk. The day's light had thinned to gold and ash, spilling through the narrow arrow-slits. Torches burned low along the walls, their smoke curling against the ceiling. Maester Luwin moved at an even pace, a small bundle of parchments under one arm, his mind already on the rookery above. The birds would be restless by now, wings shifting, claws scraping wood.
He turned a corner and nearly stopped. Robb was coming the other way, boots striking softly on the stone, Grey Wind pacing at his side. The direwolf's head brushed the boy's hand as they walked, his fur silver-grey in the torchlight.
"My lord," Luwin said, bowing his head. "I was just on my way to the rookery. Is everything okay?"
"That's good," Robb replied, reaching into the leather folder under his arm. He drew out a single sealed parchment and held it toward him. "You'll be sending three more letters tonight. One to Lord Manderly, one to Lord Reed, and one to Lord Flint of Flint's Finger. The details are written here. See that they go with the next birds."
Luwin took the parchment carefully, weighing it in his hand. The wax was fresh, the seal pressed deep with the direwolf's head. He looked up at the young lord's face and saw no trace of doubt there.
"Is everything well, Robb?" He asked quietly.
Robb's expression softened just enough to show that he'd heard the concern. "Everything's fine, Luwin," he said. "If this works, everything will be better than fine."
The maester hesitated, his thumb brushing the seal. "And if it doesn't?"
Robb's smile was faint, almost tired. "Then I'll find another way."
There was nothing boastful in his tone, no pride, only calm certainty. He inclined his head in thanks. "You'll see they're sent?"
"Of course, my lord."
"Good." Robb turned away. Grey Wind followed close behind, claws clicking against the stone. The torchlight threw their shadows long down the corridor, one man and one beast moving in quiet synchrony until the passage bent and they were gone.
Luwin stood for a moment longer, the sealed letter heavy in his hand. Then he exhaled through his nose and resumed walking.