Nerd In the North 4-7

The godswood was still, the cold settling deep as it sunk into Robb’s skin. And yet, he barely felt it at all. If anything, he had been feeling it less and less over the past weeks, the stress of war on all fronts keeping his mind far from the physical.

The young lordstood before the heart tree, staring up at its ancient face, red sap frozen in rivulets like half-shed tears. 

Grey Wind lay at his feet, his breath slow and even, his golden eyes fixed on something in the trees—something Robb couldn’t see. He reached down, fingers threading absently through the thick fur at the wolf’s scruff. The weight of him, the solid heat, was grounding. Steady. A presence that didn’t waver.

"What would you do, Father?" The words came quiet, barely more than a breath. Foolish. The weirwood wouldn’t answer. The gods, if they were even listening, had nothing to say.

His thoughts turned in slow, grinding circles. His father. King’s Landing. His sisters, trapped in the heart of the enemy. The North, already splintering under the weight of too many threats within it as it was.

A boy with too much power and too little fear, holding a castle that shouldn’t be his, standing at the center of a growing legend. A boy who had reshaped the Dreadfort into something new. A boy the people—Robb’s people—were beginning to follow.

Grey Wind lifted his head, ears twitching at some distant sound. Robb sighed. “Do you think I’m ready for this?”

The direwolf didn’t answer. Only gave a low, rumbling noise in his chest, gaze still fixed on the woods.

Robb exhaled slowly. “No,” he murmured. “Neither do I.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The Great Hall was loud, voices rolling off the high stone walls, the weight of them pressing down on him like iron. His lords stood around the long table, faces drawn tight with worry, hands gripping goblets or the hilts of their swords. There was little ceremony left in them—too much war, too little time.

Robb sat at the head of the table, straight-backed, his fingers curled over the carved arms of his chair. Grey Wind lay stretched beside him, ears flicking at every shift in the room. He was more comfort than any of them, but even the wolf couldn’t still the unease crawling beneath Robb’s skin.

“You know my mind,” the Greatjon rumbled, broad shoulders rolling as he leaned forward. “The lad’s trouble. A boy with a castle and a grudge. Give me fifty men, and I’ll drag him back to Winterfell myself—or what’s left of him.”

Robb caught the sharp edge to his tone, the old anger burning low in his chest. This had started with a village in Umber lands. A village that had gone to Veder instead of to its rightful lord. Now half a dozen more had followed, leaving their banners behind, swearing to something new.

“And while you march to the Brightfort,” Maester Luwin’s voice was calm, but edged, cutting through the heat like a knife, “who will hold the North? The Lannisters grow bolder by the day. We cannot afford to be divided.”

“Divided?” Karstark’s voice was colder than the wind outside. “The boy has already divided us. He took the Dreadfort. If we wait, he’ll have the whole of the east under his banner.”

A flicker of movement, Grey Wind’s ear twitching, the direwolf’s tail shifting. Robb felt the growl vibrate low through the floor, barely more than a breath of sound. His hand curled against the wood of the chair.

“Enough.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It carried just enough steel to silence the worst of them, to draw their eyes back to him. He wasn’t his father, but he didn’t need to be.

Silence settled, heavy and expectant.

“We cannot fight each other while my father and sisters sit in the hands of the Lannisters,” he said, his voice steady despite the knot tightening behind his ribs. “Nor can we ignore Veder. He’s young, but he’s powerful. And the Dreadfort follows him.” His gaze flicked over to Umber, then Karstark, watching the way their jaws set, the way their hands clenched even tighter with his next words. “Your people follow him.”

It wasn’t a question.

“They worship him,” Lord Karstark said at last, the words bitter, low. “The smallfolk say he’s not like us. Not like any of us.”

The meaning behind that hung in the air between them, unsaid but understood. Not like us.

Robb exhaled through his nose, the action slow. If they acted recklessly, they risked turning half the North against them.

And he couldn’t afford another enemy.

Not yet.

The Greatjon frowned, but for once, he held his tongue. Maester Luwin gave a small nod of approval, while Ser Rodrik Cassel leaned forward, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Then what do you mean to do, my lord?" Rodrik asked.

Robb hesitated. Grey Wind lay still at his feet, but his ears were pricked, his eyes tracking the room. Watching. The wolf had been still when Rodrik spoke, when Luwin spoke, but when Karstark had opened his mouth earlier, Grey Wind had growled, low and quiet. That should have told Robb everything, but knowing and deciding weren’t the same thing.

"I’ve already sent a raven to the Brightfort," he said at last. "Veder’s given his answer. He’s coming to Winterfell to speak for himself." He let the words settle before adding, "He’ll have the chance to declare his loyalty to Winterfell. If he refuses, we act. But not before."

The Greatjon slammed his fist down hard enough to rattle the table, his face red. "And give the boy a chance to strike at us with his devilry? I’ll not have it!"

"Too quick to swing a sword, are you, Lord Umber?" Robb shot back, the words leaving his mouth rougher than he meant them to. The Greatjon blinked, caught between anger and a strange, grudging amusement clear on his face.

Grey Wind growled again and Karstark tensed. Not much, but enough. His fingers twitched toward his belt, then curled into a fist. Robb caught the movement. 

So did Grey Wind.

"This council has ended for the day," Robb said, rising from his chair as he spoke, voice steady and firm. "I’ll weigh your counsel, but the choice is mine. If any of you doubt that, you’re free to ride south and find another master."

The bannermen exchanged looks, but none spoke against him. Robb turned and strode from the hall, Grey Wind padding at his side.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Robb walked without thinking, boots crunching over packed snow, Grey Wind’s presence a steady weight beside him, as he made his way outside.

"They think I’m a boy," he muttered, fingers raking through his hair as his breath curled in the cold. "Even the ones that side with me don’t respect me as they should. Not fully. Not as their Lord Stark."

Grey Wind didn’t answer, but Robb didn’t need him to. The wolf had seen it. The way Karstark had stiffened, nearly reaching for a blade, the way Umber had hesitated, the large lord himself moments from shouting him down. The North respected strength, and right now, too many of them thought he didn’t have a fraction of his father’s.

"You saw it too, didn’t you?" he asked, glancing down at the direwolf. "You also see things I don’t. Know things I don’t."

Grey Wind’s golden eyes gleamed in the dim light. Robb crouched, resting a hand against the wolf’s head.

"Father never was one to trust his instincts, no matter how much he wanted to" he continued on, quieter now. "Always said to be careful. But look where that got him." He hesitated, his voice nearly a whisper, angry at himself for even uttering those words against his Lord Father. "Maybe I need to trust mine. Or maybe…" 

The thought turned over in his mind, not settling, shifting between certainty and doubt as he stared at the sigil of his house. "Maybe all I need is to trust you."

Grey Wind said nothing, but Robb felt the weight of his gaze.

It wasn’t an answer. 

But it was definitely something.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Morning came quicker than he expected..

The Great Hall was colder than it had been the night before and even as he knew that much, he felt almost none of it as he stood there at the head of the table. His bannermen filed in, their expressions a mix of skepticism and curiosity. Grey Wind sat at his side, still as a shadow, the direwolf’s head held high.

"My lords," he began, voice carrying through the hall with power he barely felt. "The North is beset on all sides. The Lannisters hold my father and my sisters. And now Veder, the boy-sorcerer of the… Brightfort … gathers power in the East."

A murmur passed through the gathered lords, but Robb raised a hand, stilling it. "If we fight both at once, the North will be divided for a century. We will bleed ourselves dry, and the Lannisters will sweep through the ruins."

The Greatjon grunted, arms crossed. "So what do you mean to do, boy? Sit on your hands and let the bastard run wild while we wait for the lions to come for us?"

"No," Robb said, his voice firm. "We make him necessary. Like I said, I have already summoned him to Winterfell. He will answer for his actions. If he can be reasoned with, we bring him into the fold. And if he can’t—" Robb’s jaw tightened. "We end him."

Silence.

His lords exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke against him.

"The North cannot afford division," Robb continued. "We stand together, or we fall. Veder may be dangerous, but we are stronger united than we are splintered."

Grey Wind gave a low rumble, and Robb saw several lords shift in their seats, glancing at the direwolf warily.

The Greatjon exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. Maester Luwin nodded once. Ser Rodrik gave the faintest hint of a smile.

Later, Robb stood atop the walls of Winterfell, his breath misting in the air.

On the road below, the banners of the Brightfort came into view.

Grey Wind stood beside him, his fur ruffling in the wind.

Robb reached down, resting a hand on the wolf’s head.

"Let’s hope I made the right choice," he murmured.

Grey Wind’s ears twitched, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon.

"For all our sakes."