Nerd In The North 4-4 (Patreon)

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than it should have, though the fires in the hearth burned high and hot. The warmth did little to touch Robb, not with the weight in his chest, not with the letter clutched in his hand.

The direwolf of House Stark had been replaced with crimson wax, the lion of House Lannister pressing its mark into the broken seal. He had known the moment Maester Luwin handed it to him, before even reading a single word, that nothing good could come of it.

Sansa’s handwriting was as neat as ever, her careful, flowing script still bearing the precision drilled into her since childhood. But Robb could see the strain in the strokes, the hesitation pressed into the parchment. She had been made to write this.

To my dearest brother,

It grieves me to bring you troubling news, but I know you would hear it from no lips dearer than mine. The King, our noble protector, remains unable to wake. It was a tragic hunting accident, and the realm is mourning his eventual passing. Joffrey, rightful heir to the throne, now rules with the grace and wisdom of our beloved Queen Mother.

Robb’s fingers curled tight around the parchment, crushing part of the delicate script beneath his palm.

Our honored father, the former Hand, has been accused of terrible treason, though I cannot bring myself to believe it. I know in my heart he is innocent, but there are whispers of a plot against our good and just King. They say he conspired with the traitorous Lord Stannis, seeking to usurp the throne. The court is in turmoil, and I fear greatly for him. The Queen assures me that all will be well, that Father must answer for these accusations before the King’s justice, but she has been most gracious in allowing me to write to you.

Robb’s jaw clenched. Every word dripped with flowery softness, but Queen Cersei’s hand was in it. He could hear her in the way the sentences curled around the truth, the way Sansa’s careful phrasing concealed more than it revealed.

"Gracious," Robb muttered to himself, his voice low with anger as he kept his fingers from utterly ripping the parchment apart in his rage.

Instead, he forced himself to keep reading.

I am safe, dear brother, and I am well cared for. I miss you, I miss home, but I must remain where I am needed. Please, do not worry for me. I am under the Queen’s protection, and all will be well soon. I know you will do what is best for our family, as Father would wish. I place my trust in you, as I always have.

Robb’s hands shook. As I always have.

He could hear the plea beneath the words. The desperate, careful warning beneath all the courtly politeness."My Lord Stark..."

Maester Luwin’s voice was gentle, but the weight of the moment made it feel distant. Robb tore his eyes from the letter, looking up to meet the maester’s gaze.

"There is more."

Of course there was.

Luwin gestured toward the table, where another parchment lay waiting. The black wax bore the golden horse of House Dustin.

The words had already been read aloud, but Robb had barely processed them, too fixated on Sansa’s careful warnings. Now, they sank in.

Lady Barbrey Dustin. The Ryswells. Their banners were marching on the Brightfort.

They had declared Greg Veder a usurper, a sorcerer, a foreign abomination who had no place ruling the lands of the North.

And they had done so without consulting him.

Robb exhaled sharply, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his temple.

"She did not ask my permission."

"No, my lord," the aging Maester confirmed with his own words. "She did not."

Anger curled hot in Robb’s chest.

He was no child. No longer was he simply his father’s son either.No, Robb Stark was Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North in Eddard Stark’s absence. And yet Lady Dustin had acted as though his opinion didn’t matter. As though she could make war in the North without her liege lord’s consent.

"She means to press the attack before winter comes in full," Theon Greyjoy said, arms crossed as he leaned against the hearth. "Smart, if she doesn’t want to be trapped in the snow. For a woman, at least."

"Smart would have been consulting her liege lord before taking a good portion of the North’s swords into battle," Robb snapped.

Theon smirked, tilting his head. "You could always send word. Call them back."

Robb’s fingers tightened around the letter.

"And do what? Defend this Greg Veder?" His voice came out harsher than he intended. "You heard what has been said about him, what he did to the Dreadfort."

Theon’s smirk faded slightly. "Aye, I heard," he said. "But I also heard what the smallfolk say about him. That he’s their hero, that he’s done what no man before him could. That he killed Roose Bolton and broke the line of the Red Kings."

Robb’s jaw tensed. He had heard those whispers too. He would have to have been struck deaf not to have heard the songs either.

"He might be a monster," the Greyjoy continued, his tone hard to read but the slight smirk still clear as day. "Or he might be a hero. Depends on who you ask. But he’s certainly loved more than at least one of your high lords."

"It doesn’t matter," Robb said, standing abruptly.

The room fell silent at both his words and sudden action. "What matters is that my father is in chains, and half my bannermen east of the Weeping Water are marching to war against a man they know nothing about."

The young Warden turned to Luwin. "Send word to the Brightort and summon this Lord Veder. Send one as well to Lady Dustin. Tell her I expect her to cease her foolish actions if she wishes to keep her seat and her head. If she believes herself fit to rule the North in my stead, she can explain herself to me."

Luwin hesitated. "And if she refuses?"

Robb didn’t answer immediately.

He should be marching south. He should be gathering his banners, riding for King’s Landing, tearing down the walls of the Red Keep until his father stood free and back in the North like he should have been.

But instead, he was here.

Tied to Winterfell. Tied to a war he hadn’t started.

His father had prepared him for this. Eddard Stark had told him time and time again that ruling meant making choices, the hardest ones that would weigh on his shoulders no matter what action he took. That the worst part of power wasn’t making decisions, but knowing that no choice was ever truly right.

"Then I will have to make my own choice," he said quietly.

He turned back to the window, looking out over Winterfell’s snow-covered courtyard.

The wind howled through the trees beyond the walls.

"The North has decided to act," he murmured, his breath curling against the cold stone.

His fingers curled tighter against the window ledge.

"Now, so will I."