Nerd In the North: 3-23 (Patreon)

III-23: Robb Stark

The wind howled beyond the walls of Winterfell, a restless beast prowling the night. Inside his solar, Robb Stark paced, the rhythm of his boots striking the stone floor echoing softly in the chamber. The cold crept in through the thick walls, biting at his skin despite the fire roaring in the hearth. He barely noticed. His thoughts churned like the storm outside, relentless and unyielding.

Half a fortnight had passed since the raven first arrived bearing Roose Bolton’s words. Its message lingered in Robb’s mind, bitter and sharp as a blade. A boy wielding magic and slaughtering smallfolk. The claim sounded wild, the kind of tale southern bards wove for lords who believed them fools. But even as doubt gnawed at him, Robb couldn’t dismiss it outright. The Leech Lord has never been one for baseless fear.

Rumors of this so-called sorcerer had already reached Winterfell over the past moons—stories of a boy with strange strength, of fire and shadow, and a bear cub at his side. Some tales claimed he was a demon summoned from beyond the Wall; others said he was a savior, a wandering lord who healed the wounded and shielded the helpless.

Roose Bolton asking for assistance at all was odd enough.

For an uprising of smallfolk, even led by a supposed sorcerer, was even more confusing.

Robb had delayed, first sending his father a raven to request his guidance before even considering moving forward. A matter such as this, he would be foolish not to.

By this time, his father would have just received it. That would have calmed his nerves, knowing guidance would soon be on the way, if it had not been for the fact that a second raven came only two days after. Its words chilled him more than the first. Roose Bolton was dead. The Dreadfort had fallen. And not to an army, not to treachery from within. Gregory Veder, the letter read, ‘in charge’ of the… Brightfort.

He hadn’t called himself a lord, simply those odd words.

‘In charge.’ Robb shook his head. A boy with magic, a dragon, and a name I’ve only ever heard in songs.

“You’ll wear yourself thin, Robb,” Theon Greyjoy drawled, his voice breaking through Robb’s thoughts. He lounged by the hearth, one booted foot resting on the edge of a small table. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, infuriating as ever. “All this pacing… for what? Roose Bolton’s dead. Good riddance, I say. The man flayed people for sport. If anything, this boy did us all a favor.”

Robb stopped mid-step, his jaw tightening as he bit down his regrets at not simply charging forward at his vassal’s first request. “That’s enough, Theon. Bolton was still my bannerman, sworn to House Stark, and those are simply old tales of his long-dead kin. His death isn’t something I can ignore.”

“Sworn, was he?” Theon countered, tipping his cup of wine to his lips. “The same Roose Bolton who we’re now hearing let his bastard roam the North like a wolf in a sheepfold?”Robb tasted copper. He’d bitten down too hard again. He only noticed when the pain flared, sharp against his tongue. It didn’t matter. Not with Theon sitting there, smirking like this was some jest over dice instead of a dead bannerman.

"Come now, Robb. Let’s not pretend either of them were worth mourning."

Robb’s breath came in tight. Theon had always been this way—flippant, needling—but today it scraped against his skin worse than usual. He forced himself to hold still, jaw locked, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Then Ser Rodrik spoke, and the room stilled.

"That’s enough."

His voice cut through the space like steel sliding free of a sheath. No need to raise it. The weight of it did the work. Theon’s smirk twitched, a crack in the mask, but he recovered quick, shifting in his seat as if adjusting for comfort.

"Lord Bolton’s death is no simple matter," Rodrik went on, arms crossed over his broad chest. "His banners will demand justice, and Winterfell’s honor is at stake."

Theon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, amusement flashing like a whetted edge. "Justice, is it? Honor?" He exhaled a short, sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Honor doesn’t keep the wolves fed, Rodrik. You know that better than most."

A beat. Theon let the words settle, then shrugged, easy as ever. "If Robb moves quickly, he could turn this whole mess in his favor."

Something in Robb snapped.

"By seizing Bolton lands?" His voice came out harder than he meant, but he didn’t pull it back. He was too tired of this, of Theon’s constant jabs, his endless testing. "We don’t steal what isn’t ours. We don’t betray our bannermen, no matter their faults."

Theon met his gaze, unreadable for a moment. Then—too casual, too smooth—he lifted his cup, swirling the wine before taking a slow sip. "Sometimes a little betrayal is what it takes to win, my friend." His smirk was there, but his eyes had gone distant, unfocused. "You’re Lord Stark now. Act like it."

"I said, enough, Greyjoy." Rodrik’s voice carried a growl, the kind that made men hesitate before taking another step closer to the ledge. "Your words do nothing but sow discord, like your kin. Lord Stark will decide his course with wisdom, not recklessness."

Theon scoffed, but his shoulders had stiffened.

Robb forced himself to steady his breathing, to push aside the rising frustration before it clouded his judgment. He turned to Maester Luwin, who had been silent all this time. The old man stood near the window, hands folded before him, face unreadable.

Listening. Waiting.

That alone made Robb’s stomach twist. \

Luwin only waited like that when something weighed heavy.

"My lord," Luwin said at last, finally stepping forward. His boots made little sound against the stone. "There is wisdom in caution. The name ‘Veder’ is no mere invention, nor is it one to dismiss lightly."

Robb frowned. The way he said it. Like a man pulling a blade an inch from its sheath but no further. "What do you mean, Maester?"

Luwin clasped his hands behind his back. His gaze didn’t waver, but Robb felt the weight behind it. "It is an old name, my lord. Very old. From a time before the Boltons knelt to House Stark. There are tales, scattered and faded with time, of a House Veder—lords of the White Knife, an era beyond the Manderlys, from the Age of Heroes, rulers of a castle long since fallen to ruin."

Theon, who had been quiet longer than Robb had ever seen, tilted his head. "Well, don’t keep us in suspense, old man," he said, though there was something off in his voice now. "If you’re going to tell a tale, best tell it now."

Luwin’s fingers brushed over the links of his chain. The sound—soft, metal on metal—felt too loud in the room.

"As I said," Luwin continued, voice calm, deliberate, each word placed like a stone on a board, "the Veders were kings once. Not in living memory, no, but long ago, when the North was a fractured land of war and blood. They ruled lands along the White Knife, where it bends southward. Their seat, White Castle, was said to be a place of peace and prosperity."

Theon scoffed, tipping his chair back onto two legs, hands folded behind his head like this was some fireside tale he could sit back and enjoy. “And now it's in ruins,” he said. “Spare us the tale, maester. The north has more old bones than men alive.”

Robb ignored him, jaw tight. Grey Wind would have bristled at that tone, ears back, hackles raised, a warning growl in his throat. 

Luwin, unshaken as ever, merely adjusted his sleeves. “Perhaps,” he said evenly. “but the Veders were not simply forgotten. Not truly. Their downfall was no simple story of decay. They were slaughtered, to the last man and woman, by the Red Kings—the Boltons of old. Their halls burned, their banners torn, their name reduced to whispers.”

Robb took a step forward, drawn to Luwin’s voice despite not truly wanting to know where this led. Something in his gut twisted. “Why?”

The pause was long enough to weigh something heavy in the air.

“Ambition,” Luwin said at last. “Or perhaps fear. The Boltons claimed the Veders had grown too powerful, too beloved. They salted the earth where White Castle once stood, a warning to any who might rise against them. Their tale became one of caution and another reason to fear the Boltons—a memory of the North’s darker days.”

Theon gave a low chuckle, the squid shaking his head with a smile. “Sounds like something Bolton would do, doesn’t it? Though his bastard seems to prefer flaying for sport.”

Robb's patience snapped. “Enough.” The word came out sharper than he meant, but gods, he was tired of having to be more mature than his friend four years his senior.

Theon raised his hands in mock surrender. “Only saying.”

Rodrik cut in, his voice a blade. “Lord Stark said to watch your tongue, Greyjoy.”

Theon muttered something under his breath, but he sat back down, adjusting his coat, playing at indifference.

Robb turned back to Luwin. “So this boy claims to be one of them? A Veder?”

Luwin clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes steady. “Perhaps,” he said. “or perhaps he is a clever charlatan, using a forgotten name to rally those discontent with their lot. The letter penned by Maester Tybald claimed no title, but the words of the smallfolk speak for him despite any claims he might make. Either way, his presence poses a threat—not just to the Bolton lands, but to Winterfell itself.”

Robb felt it then—that flicker of unease curling in his stomach, heavy as stone. Knowing Lord Bolton, Robb had good reason to doubt the man’s words regarding  “What do you mean?”

Luwin’s tone didn’t change, but something in it made the fire feel colder. “The smallfolk are already singing songs of this... ‘White Blade of the North.’ They speak of his justice, his power, his defiance of the boltons. Such tales spread quickly, my lord, and with them, a sense of hope—or rebellion.”

Rodrik stiffened, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “Rebellion?” The word landed hard, like a drawn bowstring creaking under tension.

“If this boy inspires loyalty among the smallfolk, and sympathy among discontented lords, Winterfell could face more than a single rogue,” Luwin said. “The North remembers, my lord, but not always what you would wish it to. The Veders were slaughtered in the dead of night by the Boltons, and the Starks of old accepted them under their banner immediately after. Their memory lingers as a symbol of lost honor. Should this boy embody those virtues, you risk appearing not as a protector of justice, but as the hand of tyranny.”

Theon’s smirk had slipped. In its place, something else. “And what about the dragon?” he asked, quieter now. “Magic, dragons... Gods, Robb, this isn’t something you can just ignore. Even the ironborn fear what they don’t understand.”

Robb’s jaw clenched. Theon was right, but he wasn’t about to say it.

Dragons. Magic. Gods, his head ached just thinking about it. He should be out hunting with Grey Wind, or training in the yard, not sitting here debating whether some half-forgotten bloodline had returned from the dead with fire at its heels.

He thought of Jon. His brother would have loved this. would have poured over old books, hungry for every scrap of history, would have seen something grand in it, some lost honor restored. In many ways, Jon always did favor the old songs, nearly as much as Sansa did, despite his claims.

But this wasn’t a song. This was his North. 

His responsibility.

His father should have written by now. If ravens flew faster, if King’s Landing weren’t so far, if he could just hear his father’s voice telling him what to do—

Robb turned to Luwin, forcing his voice steady. “I shall wait for word from my father to return first. Regardless, I intend to summon him to Winterfell once I have gathered the lords of the north here. We shall see what kind of man this... ‘White Blade’ truly is.”