Sea Salt and Wolfs Fur

by rheanyraaa

Summary:

This is a alternative universe where Pyke wants independence and the north is independent and Pyke is at war with the iron throne and they want to become independent as the iron throne is weak and is ruled over by a council. (the throne is fragile) This story will take place like 20 years after the Five Kings war, and in that war Robb won and took Sansa back. More background info will be released.

Notes:

Here is the children list of the story, rn i’m focused on context and layering that out and filling out gaps before they appear.

Chapter 1: Stark’s Family Children

First Generation: 

Catelyn (née Tully) Stark • Eddard Stark 

|       Second Generation: 
V 

Robb Stark • Roslin (née Frey) Stark 

Sansa (née Stark) • Theon Greyjoy 

Arya  (née Stark) Waters • Gendry Waters 

Bran Stark 

Rickon Stark • Lady (no name currently) 

 

Third Generation: 

Robb Stark & Roslin Frey’s Children (Original OC’s) 

- Eddard “Ned” Stark (JR) • Lady (Name not Chosen yet) 

- Torrhen Stark • Lady (Name not chosen yet) 

- Emirei Stark 

- Maera Stark 

- Cregan Stark 

(rest are unmarried) 

___________________________________

Sansa Stark & Theon Greyjoy’s Children

- Serena Greyjoy • Lord (Name not chosen) 

- Maron • Lady (name not chosen) 

- Rodrik Greyjoy 

- Allara Greyjoy 

- Catelyn Greyjoy 

___________________________________

Arya Stark & Gendry Waters 

- Alaric Waters  

___________________________________

Rickon Stark & Lady Wife 

Two children, son and a daughter, names unknown for now. 

(no Bran as he has no children or future descendants)

Chapter 2: Context (1)

Summary:

This is some context on what’s happened, what’s been missed.

Notes:

hi loveysss
just doing some context on what’s been missed out so there’s no future questions if there’s anything confusing hopefully it’s sorted out here!
& some of it may not make sense but i’m moving, sequencing, changing scenarios and time parts so yeah.

What’s happened? 

Phase 1: Southern House Wars

1. Renly Baratheon dies (canon event, killed by sabotage from the Lannisters).
2. Stannis Baratheon dies during his campaign in the Riverlands.
3. Joffrey dies (assassination like canon)
• With Joffrey gone, Tommen is too young to hold power effectively.
• This weakens Lannister authority in King’s Landing.
4. Tywin Lannister dies in battle, infact he was lightly drugged before by Arya Stark disguised self before going into battle and being killed. 
• Without Tywin, Lannisters lose much of their political and military edge.

Overall the south is left weak, giving Robb the advantage. 

 

Phase 2: Robb and the North

1. Robb never executes Rickard Karstark.
• Karstark remains loyal.
• Karstark men help Robb in later battles against the weakened Lannisters.
2. Robb marries Roslin Frey to honor political alliances with the Freys.
• This is purely political, Robb is strategic but careful not to anger his allies. 
• As well as Talisa/Jeyne (think i will stick with T) and Robb part ways, as he instead decides that he values winning this war and securing that over her. Picking Loyalty over Honour. (rumours drifts she was pregnant but they are untrue.) 

Politics, politics and choosing duty over love. 

 

Phase 3: Theon’s Redemption

1. Theon stays loyal to Robb.
2. Robb sends Theon to rescue Sansa from King’s Landing. (Robb and his army march and have a war with the lannisters at this point and they send Theon to lead some spies to rescue Sansa (and eventually Arya to) 
• This gives Theon a heroic redemption arc.
• Sansa consents to marriage either as gratitude or political necessity because Theon saved her life. (Both)

Theon’s loyalty and heroism also prevent Bolton rise in the North, Stark control remains stable.

 

Phase 4: Walder Frey’s Treachery

1. Despite Robb honoring the Frey marriage pact, Walder Frey grows resentful.
• he plots to regain power or allies with Lannisters behind Robb’s back, and when Lannisters have a small upper hand, Walder traded gold to end the Starks “from the inside” (Judas moment lol) 
2. Walder murders Catelyn Stark.
• This is his final act of treachery, politically motivated revenge for perceived slights & or ambition.
• Robb is enraged, giving Arya justification to act.

 

Phase 5: Arya’s Revenge

1. Arya kills Walder Frey & all Frey men, excluding the ones that joined Robb’s armies as squires, but kills even her “fiancée” 
• Motivated by Catelyn’s murder and Walder’s obvious treachery.
• This satisfies narrative justice Walder dies for real villainous deeds. 

 

Phase 6: Northern Independence

1. With Lannisters weakened, Freys partially neutralized, and Karstarks loyal, Robb secures Northern independence. 
2. The North is united under Robb, with no Red Wedding betrayal.
3. Theon’s loyalty and heroism are rewarded by marriage to Sansa (if she agrees, which she does) 
4. Arya’s vengeance arc is complete, the Starks are mostly safe and in power.
5. Winterfell was never taken over, and remained strong. 

 

 

Chapter 3: What has been done

Summary:

This is an insight on Theons life, his life with Sansa currently alongside their beautifully grown up children.
As they also face cruelties from the Iron Throne.

The Iron Throne knew what Theon did. What the North did, and what Greyjoys had done in total. 

In the absence of a monarch, Westeros was ruled by a council of equals, each a minor vassal of the great southern houses, yet none beholden to them directly. From the Stormlands came a wiry lord of a lesser house, tasked with keeping the armies of his region disciplined and the smallfolk in line. Dorne sent a sharp-eyed representative from a minor branch of a once-great family, balancing diplomacy and security with quiet cunning. The seas were watched by a steward of a Velaryon vassal, managing ships and trade with meticulous care, while the ports and commerce of the Arbor were overseen by a Redwyne vassal skilled in supply and negotiation. A neutral maester ensured laws were enforced and the treasury kept balanced, while Varys, the master of whispers, quietly wove intelligence and mediation into every council session. Together, they ruled without a king, a mosaic of minor houses holding the realm together, their authority tenuous but functional, awaiting the day Daenerys Targaryen might step foot on Westeros or the North might test the council’s fragile cohesion.

So they gave him nothing, they taxed them him endlessly, much more than they taxed any other part, simply because he betrayed them. He betrayed them to help his brother gain independence, and in that fleeting moment, Theon wanted to feel it too. To be a king, to rule, and not only did Theon get taxed because he helped Robb and married Robb’s sister, but also because of the Greyjoy Rebellion, all money was looted, alongside the every piece of grain and wheat, not that any could flourish in this wet land. 

The treasury was almost empty, Theon had to work his people and trade them around Westeros in order to get them money, and he had to use his children like pawns, but they could not bring good matches due to the downfall of the Greyjoys. He married his first two, Serena and Maron, he married Serena off to a southern lord, he wasn’t from a strong noble family like Sansa wanted, but he was good enough and the family was rich enough to take care of her, Serena was a beautiful girl and was very well educated nonetheless of her poor land. Sansa made sure she had the best tutors, and the best manners. Serena had beautiful long ginger hair, that curled and waved down to her sides, it was thin but there was a lot of it. It was beautiful red colour, and she got the wavy parts from her father, she also got his figure. Her long red hair fell in waves down to her sides, a cascade she often kept half-braided to keep it from tangling, the rest flowing freely like fire against her dark clothing. Sometimes, when she moved quickly across the room or through the courtyard, the loose strands would flick across her shoulders, and she would pause to tuck them neatly behind her ears, a small, habitual gesture learned from Sansa. The girl had icy blue eyes, framed by delicate brows, held a careful attentiveness, she watched and listened before she spoke, weighing each word as if it might ripple across the hall like a tide. Even in play, there was a measured elegance in her posture, a subtle echo of the courtly bearing Sansa had once been taught. Her long red hair fell in waves down to her sides, a cascade she often kept half-braided to keep it from tangling, the rest flowing freely like fire against her dark clothing. Sometimes, when she moved quickly across the room or through the courtyard, the loose strands would flick across her shoulders, and she would pause to tuck them neatly behind her ears, a small, habitual gesture learned from Sansa. Either way, she looked very elegant for a Greyjoy, and she could thank Sansa for that. 

Serena’s Lord Husband, was from House Estermont, it was the best Theon could do and he also called the marriage a union between enemies, as the house was a vassal to the Baratheons, Theon was proud his daughter married happily, her husband was the lord of Greenstone, his name Aaron. His uncle was Alyn Estermont who died in the wildfire orchestrated by Cersei, and Alyn was the original heir, but after his death, only conceived Aaron became the heir to the House. He was a good man, tight lipped, but a good man to Serena, he valued her a lot, and I think they resonated with eachother, he didn’t have a lot of people in his council and not enough to say no. Lord Aaron was the image of a steady, dependable lord. Broad-shouldered and of medium height, his brown hair was always kept neatly, and his calm blue eyes spoke more of reason than fire. He was not one to seek the spotlight, preferring the steady work of governance, trade, and sea patrols. His demeanour was measured and polite, with a quiet authority that earned respect rather than fear, making him a reliable match for Serena, someone who could match her grace. 

The marriage was a good thing. They made sense, they were both young and had gone through a lot, even if Serena was more sheltered, it was only because Theon would not allow any less for his daughter, it was only until she was 12 did she realise the debts her father still needed to pay off but Theon did not want his daughter to fret for him, so he married her off when she was had long turned 19. 

Theons second child and first son Maron was more hasty, and resembled himself throughout. Maron was all brown hair and blue eyes. His brown hair was darker than his sister’s red, usually kept short or tousled in an untamed way, giving him a slightly wild, unpredictable look. A lock would often fall across his forehead, and he would brush it back with a quick flick, impatient for the day to move on to something more interesting and he was much more slimy, sly, opportunistic, and not always honest. He had a way of leaning close to speak, tilting his head, and giving a smile that was both charming and unsettling. He loved to test boundaries, whether by teasing his sister or trying to out manoeuvre adults in small games of strategy. Despite his mischief, there was a streak of charm and charisma that made it difficult to stay angry with him for long though careful observers noticed a calculating edge lurking beneath his grin.

Theon told him off about it all the time, but when it don’t work he realised he must make a strong match for his son, one that has a strong standing woman and where Serena moved with poise and patience, Maron’s movements were restless, cat-like, as if he never wanted to stay in one place long enough for someone to pin him down. 

And so after months and years of searching for a bride, and once Maron was 18 too, this time freshly 18, Robb married him with into House Ashford (rather the daughter from House Ashford married into the Greyjoys) she was a mature girl, and Sansa liked her very much. Even if the girl seemed quite strict on herself, Sansa believed that Lady Aera of Ashford would keep Maron on his toes. He won’t get bored of her, and she’d keep him in his place, she has beautiful blonde hair, and a round face, with a pout always on her lips, Lady Aera was striking in a lighter, livelier way. Her long, golden-blond hair shone like sunlight over her shoulders, framing a round, open face that gave her an approachable, almost mischievous appearance. She had a quick wit and a sharp mind, and even when she smiled warmly, there was a sparkle in her emerald-green eyes that suggested she could keep anyone on their toes. Sansa thought she was a cute girl, who looks friendly at first but is rather a fiery character, and Maron liked her so much that he bed the very night of their wedding day and she fell pregnant very fast, and they are currently expecting their first child. Theon is expecting his first grandchild.  

Theon has not hustled his other children on marriages yet. Serena is 19, Maron is still 18, and the other three, Rodrik and Allara and Catelyn were still young, Rodrik about 15, but not Theon or Sansa have been thinking of his marriage, they have much bigger things to think of. Allara is 13, and Catelyn is only 11. Still only young the two girls are, and so neither parents are worried about their future matches. They worry more for the future of the house. 

“Sansa, we must raise the taxes- perhaps ask Robb if we can loan money-?”  Theon started up, he was sitting in his solar while Sansa paced around. 

She halted in her place “No! ask my brother for money? we cannot do that! we wouldn’t even be able to pay it in our lifetime!” She spoke back angrily, foot tapping the floor, arms crossed. 

“Honestly, it’s the least your brother could do considering the heaps of money Winterfell have, and considering I helped him massively! he didn’t even pay me” 

“We are not taking the money! end off.” Sansa wants to hurl and throw a rock and her husband, but the only thing she can do is fall back down on her chair. 

“I’m sorry Sans, Il find a way I promise.. I just.. it’s overbearing.” He itched the back of his neck before clutching his forehead. 

“I know my love, perhaps Robb has betrayed us somehow. I know his distracted with his own life, but I also know he would help us if he knew.” She told him quietly.

Theon lifted his head back up. “I must take them 45%. Rather than 30%. Perhaps then I could pay off some of the loans? still it would take me another 10 years until everything is paid off. But the council running the Iron Throne steal too much from me.” He murmured, and sighed. 

“I know but we did betray them did we not.” 

“I’d rather they executed me, then deal with this rubbish.” He half chuckled.

”That isn’t funny! then I’d be dealing with it!”  She huffed, of course he’d only be thinking of himself, she wanted to throw a stick. 

“You are dealing with it love. It’s alright though, I don’t want you fretting more than I want. Poor Maron will be dealing with this.” 

“Even worse! my poor boy!” She shouted, threatening any Gods (old or new) to hurt her precious son. 

“Oh calm down love, nothing will happen, either way i’m not dying in 10 years, hopefully not atleast, but he will deal with the tax of the council and their 60% for the next 50 years.” He kissed her hand lovingly. 

“I wish that could change, Pyke is so empty next to Winterfell, it’s so different, and we lead difficult lives.” Sansa told Theon sadly, before a kiss from him fell on her lips, she held on tight to his collar and moved her hands around his head before he moved her onto his lap. 

Soon after they broke the kiss. “I’m sorry Sansa, you deserve better.” 

“I don’t wish for any life that isn’t the one I share with you.” She captured his face in her arms, even when he tried not to look into her eyes she made sure that he did. 

“I’m glad we face all difficulties in this life together, without you, I’d be married to Joffrey.” Theons arms curled around her tightly. “I’d never be the same, my brother could have been dead, and my mother too. Robb wouldn’t have been here if you didn’t save me, I thought the war would kill him, I was elated it did not, and I thank the new Gods for it everyday, perhaps the old Gods were the ones who cursed us.” She move her head onto his shoulder, the crook where his shoulder meets his head, right under his ear she nuzzled him. 

“Nonsense Sans, we aren’t cursed, just unfortunate in our situation, but fortunate to be together. I wouldn’t either want to face it with any less heart than the heart you have.” She blushed deeply at his words of love, something she always deeply admired about him, he knew his words and he knew her worth. 

“It’s been long since the war regardless, it’s been 20 long years..” 

“You look about 40.” Theon chuckled 

“I am not even 40 yet! i’m still 37! it’s you who is 42!” She gritted her teeth and gave him him a little glare, before his eyes softened at the sight of her, his Sansa, 37 now, he remembers wedding her at 18, he was about 21, Theon could still see her in his mind’s eye, standing at the altar, her hair like spun gold and her eyes bright with hesitant hope, she had looked like a white lily, fragile and pure, yet impossibly radiant.

Even now, at 37, Theon would always see her as she had been on that wedding day, like a white lily, fragile and radiant. Time had shaped her differently, her hair was streaked with faint silver at the temples, and the not very noticeable lines around her mouth spoke of laughter and sorrow alike. Her posture still held a quiet dignity, and her gaze retained that same sharp intelligence that had always made her more than just beautiful. Theon, now 42, carried the years differently. His hair had thinned, and the early streaks of gray were no longer hidden. Scars traced faint paths along his arms, reminders of battles fought and mistakes survived. Yet in her presence, he felt the boy who had once looked at her in awe, and the man who had risked everything to protect her, coexisting in the same chest.

Theon reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering for a moment on her cheek. “Know I’ll do everything for you,” he murmured, his voice steady but low, carrying the weight of every promise he’d ever meant and went through with. 

Sansa’s eyes met his, a quiet understanding passing between them. She nodded once, small and certain, before letting her head fall back onto his shoulder, as though all the weariness and the years could finally rest there.

Chapter 4: Winterfell’s Suprises

Summary:

This is Robb’s children, what they are like and how Robb is doing in comparison to his sister, whom he thinks is living just fine.

The North had flourished under King Robb Stark’s rule, though it was a land that never truly softened. From the Wall to the White Knife, his bannermen held fast, the keeps rebuilt after war, the harvests steady under fair laws and firm justice. The dire-wolf banner flew from Winterfell’s battlements, proud and untorn, and Robb wore his crown lightly, though his shoulders carried the weight of every name sworn to him. The council of the North met in the Great Hall each fortnight, and even now, as the sun slipped low across the snow-dusted courtyard, Robb sat by the long table with parchment spread before him, trade tariffs with White Harbour, letters from Deepwood Motte, a request for lumber from the Umbers.

At his side stood Emirei, his eldest daughter, watching with the same quiet focus that had once belonged to her mother, Roslin. Her light brown hair caught the firelight as she leaned close, and when she turned to him, Robb saw those familiar hazel eyes that seemed to hold a hint of laughter even when she tried to look serious. Tiny freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks they were faint and soft and dear to him beyond reason.

He remembered the days when she had been small enough to fall asleep in his lap during council meetings, her head tucked beneath his chin, a drooling, snuffling bundle wrapped in fur. She used to cling to his hand as if she’d never let go, now, at 16, she still took his hand when they walked, though it wasn’t as small or soft as it used to be. That thought made him smile, a smile she caught at once.

“What are you thinking, Father?” Emirei asked, tilting her head.

“That you’ve grown faster than I had any right to expect,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow. “And that I miss when you used to fit under my arm like a pup.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “I still fit, just taller now.”

“Aye,” Robb chuckled, “and louder. Just then, her brothers entered Eddard, tall and broad-shouldered at 22, followed by Torrhen, only a 2 years younger and grinning already.

Robb leaned back in his chair. “Your mother keeps asking when we will have grandchildren,” he said, with a grin that made both young men exchange glances. “Eddard, any news?”

Eddard coughed. “None yet, Father. We’re… planning to start trying soon.”

Robb blinked. “Planning? Gods, boy, I had you in the middle of a war. There’s never a quiet time, if you wait for it, you’ll be grey and tired before your first’s born.”

Torrhen laughed. “I’ve told him the same, but I’m no better. I thought I’d wait too, things are busy enough.”

Robb just stared at them, incredulous. “Busy? You’re Starks! When are we not busy?”

Before either could reply, Emirei piped up brightly, “Don’t worry, Father, when I marry I’ll have children straight away. You won’t have to wait long.”

The Great Hall fell silent. Robb turned his head slowly, his face perfectly blank. “You will not,” he said, deadpan. “You’ll wait two years after marriage before I permit it.”

Emirei’s face fell, her mouth parting in shock. “Two years?” Her brothers burst out laughing, Torrhen nearly doubled over, and even solemn Eddard cracked a wide grin

Robb only folded his arms and gave a small, smug nod. “Aye. Two years. Long enough for me to get used to the idea that my little girl’s not little anymore.”

Emirei scowled, cheeks flushing, though there was laughter in her eyes. “You’re unserious for a king.”

Robb grinned. “King’s prerogative.”

Roslin swept into the hall just as the laughter reached its height, skirts brushing across the stone floor. She took one look at the grinning boys, the flushed face of her eldest daughter, and the smug expression on her husband’s face and sighed, that long-suffering sigh Robb knew too well.

“Robb Stark,” she said, brandishing a handkerchief as though it were a weapon, and gave him a quick, harmless swat on the shoulder. “Will you stop tormenting them?”

Robb laughed. “Torment? I was only having a father’s talk.”

“You were badgering them,” Roslin said, folding her arms.

“You nag me for grandchildren and then scold me when I ask about them,” he countered, grinning.

She rolled her eyes, and the children all laughed, even Emirei, who ducked behind her mother with mock drama. “See, Mother? I told you you’re my favourite.”

Robb’s smile faltered into mock outrage. “Favourite? When you were little, you wouldn’t sleep unless I carried you myself! Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

Emirei only giggled harder from her hiding place, and her brothers howled with laughter. The family noise filled the hall like sunlight through the high windows.

Then Maera, shyer than the rest and with a greater interest in books and studies then her own siblings, entered quietly with a timid tug at her mother’s sleeve. “Father, may I ask could we get new books from the south? There’s a novel everyone speaks of, they say it’s beautiful, full of songs and letters.”

Robb’s expression softened at once. “You’ll have it, little wolf. I’ll see to it myself.”

Her brothers exchanged looks. Torrhen smirked. “Our sister spends too much time with her nose in books.”

“She doesn’t bother with conversational things, can barely hold one, the poor thing,” Eddard muttered, earning another round of laughter.

Maera’s eyes dropped to the floor, her fingers fidgeting at the hem of her sleeve. The gap between her and her older brothers often left her on the edge of their jokes, she wasn’t close in age with them at all and it was quite obvious, though the boys were massively protective of her. 

“Enough,” Robb said, voice firm but not harsh. “You’ll not mock your sister for her learning. The North has mouths enough, but we could use more minds like hers.”

Maera couldn’t hide the tiny smirk that crept over her face as he reached out and ruffled her hair. “Go on now, all of you,” he said. “Let your mother have a moment’s peace.”

With laughter, the children drifted out.  Eddard and Torrhen still teasing each other, Emirei whispering to Maera, who clutched her father’s promise like a treasure.

When the doors closed, the hall fell quiet again. Roslin turned to Robb, shaking her head, though her smile lingered. He drew her closer, and she tilted her face up; he bent down, meeting her kiss, soft, familiar, and unhurried. She still had to rise on her toes to reach him, and he still held her as though the years hadn’t passed.

“Are you well?” he asked when they parted, brushing his thumb against her cheek.

She hesitated, then said softly, “I saw the maester today. He hasn’t yet found the herbs for my prescription. He says he’ll ride south himself if the traders haven’t any.” She was never able to handle to cold northern weather due to her immunity, and Robb knew this for a long time, and especially after giving birth Roslin found herself weaker, so she ended up taking medication, herbal remedies to build her immunity up, and the maester helped her, but these coming days she found they had run out of their supply and that the maester needed to go and buy some with the traders. 

Robb’s brows knit, concern flickering behind his calm. “He’ll have whatever he needs,” he said quietly. “I’ll see to it.”

”I know you will, my old young wolf.” she giggled, making him smile faintly. 

They stood together by the fading firelight, and for a long moment, neither feeling the need to speak, their eyes doing it for them and at forty, Roslin had aged with a quiet grace that still caught Robb unawares, her hair fell in pale chestnut waves touched with only the faintest silver, her eyes as soft and steady as the day he married her. Robb, now forty-two, bore more of the years streaks of grey through his brown hair, the lines around his mouth deeper, the scars from war still faintly visible. Yet when she leaned into him, his arm went easily around her shoulders, and he felt as he always had, that no crown, no hall, and no victory ever mattered more than this.

Robb and Roslin shared five children together, Ned was birthed during the war, but Roslin stayed with their son and Robb throughout it all, staying usually by main camps, even though Robb wanted her to ride back to Winterfell. She refused, half because she loved him, and half because she hadn’t trusted him, and was worried he’d find Talisa again and bring her back as his mistress. She knew Robb found it hard getting rid of her, Talisa was his escape during the war and Roslin was his reminder of it, it was something that rested in her for a very long time. She forgave him for it, when him and Roslin met the day before their wedding she had learned from her mother in law that Robb had left Talisa and told her to leave, Talisa refused to countlessly leading to Catelyn getting involved but that was because Robb wasn’t explaining properly and Talisa didn’t know what to do with no Robb. He did bring her food and shared his tent with her and now he was removing her from him and she was essentially homeless, but she left after Catelyn told the woman harsh words and how she’d ruin Roslin’s life and marriage if she stayed and Catelyn threatened the girl all the same, and the girl stopped contacting him. She’d lurk on the camp every now and then, talking about that even if her and Robb are no longer romantically intertwined she still must heal the people. And so Robb let her stay much to his mothers disregard and embarrassment of the whole situation, so Roslin had met Talisa several times, she was a bright girl, but she smiled brighter when Robb was near her, and Roslin hated it. Robb knew Roslin hated it, and he didn’t want to upset is young bride. Roslin was 18 when Robb married her, still mentally a child, while Robb was 20, and Talisa was 21. But on their bedding night Robb made sure Roslin fell pregnant and Roslin found it the perfect little revenge. 

She knew how jealous Talisa was, she’d never gotten pregnant despite sleeping with Robb, and now Roslin was holding a bit of Robb in her, her little Eddard. Talisa was still there when Eddard was born, and a few months into his existence. She’d ask to hold him and Robb felt bad and allowed her, to Roslin it looking like the pair was playing “parents” to her son, and when Roslin found out Talisa held Eddard she made sure that her boy was washed clean, and to Robb that seemed a little harsh, but since then Talisa left, not long after the fiasco, Catelyn and Robb kicked her out the camp, Catelyn doing majority of the harsh words and Robb timidly telling his ex lover that she represents his past miss deeds and how he feels regret being with her, something the girl felt quite angry at, he felt ashamed but alas at least she was gone. Robb never heard from her again and he tells Roslin when she brings it up that he never wants to hear from her again, that she’s the past and Roslin is his present and future.  

When Eddard was 15 Roslin told him the story, she thought it was funny, even if it wasn’t, and Eddard was furious to find out his fathers ex lover held him when he was a baby, and he got in an argument with his father over it, Robb excusing his actions and telling him it was “15 years ago” but Robb and Roslin did have another deeper talk in private about the whole situation and they fully properly resolved it at that moment. 

Ned at 20 then married his wife, Lady wife from House Cerwyn. Her name was Lady Rheona Cerwyn, one of the daughters of Lord Cerwyn, and Robb thought this would be a perfect match considering how the Cerwyn’s were always very loyal to Robb and the Starks, he’d made sure that when the North was independent that they got vast and fertile land for them.

Rheona Cerwyn carried the kind of beauty the North respected, unadorned, enduring, and quietly striking. Her skin was pale, kissed faintly pink by the cold, the sort that freckled easily in summer sunlight. Her hair fell in long, soft waves of ash-brown, the shade of bark dusted with frost, often braided or pinned back with simple bone clasps rather than gold. When the light hit it, it caught glints of copper, a warmth that hinted at the gentleness in her. Her eyes were a deep, clear grey-green, like lichen on wet stone and always seeming to notice more than she let on. Her expression was often thoughtful, her smiles rare but worth waiting for the kind that softened her whole face when they appeared. Rheona wasn’t tall, but carried herself with an ease that made her seem composed even among the proudest ladies of the North. She had the slim, enduring strength of someone raised to endure long winters graceful hands used to quills and wool both, posture straight without stiffness. Her voice was low and even, a touch warm at the edges, the kind that could soothe tempers in a hall full of loud men. Those who met her said she looked like she had been carved from Winterfell stone and warmed by its hearth fire. 

Eddard Stark was, by all accounts, his father’s mirror. There was no mistaking whose son he was, he had Robb Stark’s height, his straight build, the proud set of his shoulders, and that same steady calm that seemed to fill a room even when he spoke softly. In the right light, he could have been Robb in his youth, the resemblance was so strong that the old retainers of Winterfell sometimes paused mid-sentence when they looked at him, startled by the memory. His eyes were the same clear, bold blue his father had inherited from Lady Catelyn,  bright as summer sky over the Godswood pool, and it was there, more than anywhere, that the Tully blood showed strongest. From his grandmother’s line came the fine bones of his face, the clarity of his gaze, and that quiet intelligence that never needed to raise its voice. Yet there was something softer in him, a gentleness that came not from the wolf or the fish, but from the Frey side, though he shared none of their pettiness or pride. From his mother, Roslin, he had inherited the curve of his mouth, a subtle fullness to his lips that gave him a thoughtful, almost kind expression even when he was stern. His hair was deep brown with chestnut undertones, not quite as dark as his Stark kin but still Northern enough to mark him as one of Winterfell’s own. He bore himself with quiet grace, his manner courteous but firm, and his smile, when it came, was rare, warm, and fleeting. Those who knew his father said that Robb had been the storm. Eddard was the calm that followed it. 

Eddard and his wife got on the second they met, sharing and talking about northern customs, they first had met when he was 14 and she was 13, and they became good friends, with Eddard always teasing the poor shy girl, but she was always ready to defend him when they were playing with the other northern lords children. Robb and Roslin knew she’d be the perfect match the second the girl was born, just looking at her beauty was enough for Robb to think about the match. Once Eddard was 20 he was betrothed to her and they married later in the year, Robb found it was the most romantic ceremony of the year, and the wedding was much larger then Robb’s and Roslin’s and they made sure that Eddard and Rheona’s wedding food was the best they could get. The entire Stark line was invited including all of Robb’s siblings and they all attended the first Stark marriage of the new generation. 

Now with Torrhen’s marriage that was more a fret, Torrhen was very Stark yes, but he still had that hint of Frey in him, the calculative Frey, sure he shared a lot of his mothers warmth but he still had that paranoia of being overthrown and the Frey thirst and ambition. Torrhen’s presence was a river current, smooth on the surface but full of movement beneath. He was clever, decisive, and more ambitious than a second son of the North ought to be, though he carried that hunger with grace. It would scare Roslin though, she knew what happened to her House, it was dead and gone, her sisters and a few brothers lived but Arya had killed them when Catelyn was killed. She didn’t want her son to loose his way, it scared Robb too, he was a soft young boy but when he grew older he wanted more, and Robb told him off for it many times, Robb and Torrhen’s relationship was slightly more stiff, to the point that Roslin told Robb that she would never speak to him again if he didn’t fix his relationship, so he did. Robb became better to Torrhen when he was 10, and started to be more in the child’s life, and the relationship started to bloom. 

Torrhen Stark in-fact the image of his mother’s bloodline, though no one could ever mistake him for anything but Robb Stark’s son. Where his elder brother Eddard bore the quiet steadiness of the North, Torrhen carried a glint of the Freys’ restless fire. He had lighter brown hair than his brother, almost chestnut in some lights, touched with the same faint copper that marked the Freys of the Crossing. His hair was always neatly kept, and his clothes just a little more refined, as if he knew how to be seen. His eyes were also blue like his father’s, bright and clear. His face held the strong Stark jaw and nose, but his features were finer, more sharply cut, handsome in a way. Still, when he stood beside his father, there was no denying his blood. The wolf was there, beneath, in the way his voice could harden without warning, in the stubborn tilt of his chin, in the loyalty that burned quiet. He was his mother’s son in wit and will, but Robb Stark’s in heart, and sometimes, that mix made him the most dangerous of all his siblings.

The last of the servants having cleared the tables and extinguished the torches along the walls. Robb Stark leaned against one of the high benches, brushing crumbs from the edge, while Roslin gave him a gentle smile, her hands folded in front of her.

“Do you keep in touch with your siblings?” she asked softly, settling beside him.

Robb straightened, letting out a quiet sigh. “Sansa and Theon? I haven’t seen them since their wedding with Maron… five, six months ago, I think.” His tone was wistful. “Arya is always traveling. I haven’t heard from her in two months. I usually try to keep up with her, but… in my old age,” he said with a small, rueful smile, “I can’t manage it as well as I used to.”

“And Jon?” Roslin prompted.

“He’s at the Wall. We keep steady contact. Bran… it’s the same as with Arya. I know he enjoys being alone, but I hope someday to bring him back down to Winterfell, where he belongs. Still,” Robb’s voice softened, “I’ll understand if Bran wants otherwise.”

“And Rickon?”

Robb’s lips curved faintly. “Rickon’s oldest, Wylis… he’s turning ten soon.”

“Oh,” Roslin said, startled. “I didn’t realize. He’s older than Cregan?”

Robb nodded. “By three months. Makes them practically the same age.”

Roslin laughed softly, shaking her head. “Time passes so quickly.”

Robb’s eyes softened as he glanced around the hall. “Too quickly,” he admitted. “You know,” he began slowly, “I’ve been thinking… about Jon.”

Roslin turned toward him, curious. “Jon? Your brother?”

“Yes,” Robb said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ve been considering… legitimizing him. Giving him a proper place in the North. Recognition. He’s been at the Wall for years, but he’s still family. And he deserves that a standing that can’t be questioned.”

Roslin’s eyes widened. “Legitimized? Robb… I… I didn’t expect that. I don’t even know Jon. He hasn’t been part of our children’s lives. This… this is a big change.”

Robb met her gaze steadily. “I know it is. The Wall keeps him distant. I didn’t want to force him into Winterfell or into the children’s lives before he was ready. But he’s carried enough, Roslin. He’s always been my brother, and he deserves to be recognised,  formally, by the North, by everyone. If he chooses it, he should stand beside us, acknowledged for what he is.”

Roslin paused, trying to process it, the weight of the decision pressing between them. “I… I hadn’t thought of that. But… why now?”

“Because it’s the right time,” Robb said simply. “He has earned it, and I owe him that much.”

Chapter 5: Gold & Gains

Summary:

Arya is currently travelling and exploring the Summer Islands with her husband Gendry, and with their son Alaric. Though Alaric has other plans, ones that lead Arya slightly confused, but not unimpressed.

Sansa and Theon have more loans to pay back, and Theon is losing supporters, he doesn’t want to be overthrown, but he can tell his House is fading.

The Archipelago of the Summer Islands sprawled before Arya like a dream made flesh,  a scattering of lush, emerald-green isles rising from turquoise seas that shimmered beneath the sun. Palms swayed in the gentle, warm breeze, and the scent of salt and flowers mingled in the air, a heady perfume that made every inhale feel like a blessing. The beaches were golden, soft, and endless, curving around coves that glittered with hidden reefs and coral gardens, and the distant mountains of volcanic rock rose proudly, their dark silhouettes softened by mist. Arya walked hand in hand with her husband, their fingers intertwined, while Alaric ran ahead along the sand, laughter spilling over the waves as he chased a flock of colourful seabirds. The boy’s dark hair glinted in the sun, and his eyes mirrored his mother’s keen intelligence and curiosity, wide with excitement at the new world around him.

Arya’s heart swelled with a happiness she hadn’t known she could feel, a quiet, deep joy that came from seeing her family together, safe and whole. Her husband laughed as he lifted her onto a small outcrop of rock to watch the sunset, and Alaric shouted from the sand, waving his arms as if to embrace the entire sea. Everywhere she looked, the islands seemed alive, flowers of impossible colours clung to trees, birds with radiant plumage darted through the air, and the gentle hum of distant waterfalls added music to the paradise. Arya breathed it all in, feeling the sun on her skin, the salt in her hair, the laughter of her family, and she knew they had found a place that would hold them together for many years. Here, far from wars and shadows, their hearts were free, and each moment felt like a gift.

Night had fallen over the islands, and the vibrant colours of day had faded into deep blues and silvers under the moonlight. Arya and her husband had retired to their quarters, while Alaric, restless and curious, wandered along the beach, the soft sand cool beneath his bare feet.

Gendry just couldn’t sleep well, perhaps it was the hot sun? he just felt as though he should take a walk out and enjoy the moonlight and the summery weather, so he decided on inspecting the docks nearby, noticed the boy speaking with a foreign girl, her skin sun-bronzed, her hair dark and braided with shells. The words passed between them in a language Gendry could barely comprehend, though he had long since learned to pick up fragments through their travels. Despite the barrier, it was clear to him that the conversation was innocent and lively, full of laughter and gestures, and Alaric’s keen intelligence was on full display.

When Alaric noticed his father watching, he bowed politely to the girl and left her, running up to him with an excited sparkle in his eyes. “Father, did you know they eat a kind of fruit that floats on the tide, and their festivals involve dancing under firelight? Their stories are about sea spirits and gods that walk among humans…”

Gendry listened quietly, pride warming him. But as he watched his son speak, something tugged at him, a quiet, unspoken thought. He didn’t want Alaric to be lost to constant wandering, never rooted, never settling. He wanted his boy to grow up as a Lord’s son, to have a home, a family, a life that could endure beyond endless travels. And yet, he knew Alaric’s status as a commoner-born child complicated things. Still… perhaps, he thought, there could be a place for him in Winterfell, a place where the boy could belong, even if only partly, where he could live and love and grow into the man he was meant to be.

Gendry said nothing aloud, letting the waves and the night hold the thought, but his resolve quietly hardened. He would find a way. 

Soon enough he trekked back to his quarters in the house they had rented for the week, and he sat back down on the bed, only to realise that his wife was awake. So he spoke to her, told her about his feelings, what he saw, what he wanted for his son, their son. 

So the firelight in their quarters casted warm shadows across the room as Arya stayed sat beside Gendry, staring out at the moonlit water. The waves whispered against the shore, carrying a quiet reminder of how far from Westeros they truly were. “I understand what you mean,” Arya said softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her knees. “I… I know it matters to you. But I still have to find my own purpose. There’s nothing left for me in Westeros. Nothing I can do there that matters to me anymore.”

Gendry reached over, taking her hand gently. “But your family is there, Arya. Robb, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, the children… everyone you love. Surely that matters?”

Arya shook her head, firm yet sad. “No. When I say there’s nothing, I mean for me. I want to see lands that haven’t been seen, discover what’s unknown. And I want Alaric to see it too, to grow up knowing the world is larger than any one place.”

Gendry’s expression softened, though a shadow of concern lingered. “I know… but I think Alaric should have a choice. A home, stability. Something to anchor him. He doesn’t even fully know what that word means yet, but he’ll need it one day.”

Arya sighed, guilt threading through her chest. “I… I didn’t plan for him. I wasn’t ready for a child after everything that’s happened. Alaric’s birth felt like a setback, a delay to seeing the world. But…” Her voice faltered, tears welling. “I’ve tried. I’ve done my best for him. I love him more than I ever thought I could. But…”

Gendry drew her close, resting his forehead against hers. “He deserves the choice. He deserves a home. And I think Winterfell could be that for him. You could write to Robb, let him know. Give Alaric a place to belong, if he wants it.”

Arya hugged him tightly, her heart caught between fear and love. “I… I don’t know if I can let him go like that. I’ll miss him so much.”

“You won’t be losing him,” Gendry said gently. “He’ll be seen more than once a year. We’ll make trips. He’ll always have you. He’ll always have us.”

She nodded, a small, fragile smile breaking through. “Then… I want to do it. I want him to have that. Even if it means… I’ll have to be brave and let him grow in ways I can’t always follow.”

Gendry kissed her temple, holding her close. “We’ll do it together. And he’ll be a part of both our worlds, the adventure and the home. He’ll have the best of both, Arya. I promise.”

___________________________________

The solar was warm with the late afternoon sun, the smell of parchment and salt drifting through the open window. Sansa sat by the table, quill in hand, reviewing trade accounts while Theon leaned against the edge of the desk, half watching her and half pretending to read a report.

“You know,” Theon murmured with a faint grin, “you look far too serious for someone so beautiful. You might scare the quill into behaving better than your husband.”

Sansa didn’t look up, but her lips curved slightly. “The quill listens. You never did.”

He laughed under his breath, just as the door swung open. Maron stepped in, not with his usual youthful swagger but with the kind of deliberate calm that made both his parents glance up.

“Father. Mother.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow. “You sound like a maester about to lecture us.”

Maron didn’t smile. “I was in the lower harbor this morning. People aren’t happy. They’re saying the new tax on salt and tar is too high. Some are shouting that House Greyjoy’s become as greedy as the Westerlanders.”

Theon’s expression darkened slightly, though he forced a light tone. “Fishermen always complain, son. It’s a tradition older than the Drowned God.”

Maron stepped closer, his clear blue eyes sharp. “It’s more than that. I heard men from House Blacktyde whispering at the docks. They’re saying if the taxes keep rising, they won’t send their ships north anymore. That they shouldn’t have to pay for Pyke’s fleets when their own ports are starving.”

That made Sansa set her quill down. “Blacktyde,” she repeated softly. “They’ve always been proud. And proud men with empty purses can be dangerous.”

Theon exhaled through his nose, rubbing at his jaw. “I raised the tax to keep the fleets supplied, after that storm last month, we lost two longships, a dozen good men. The Islands can’t defend themselves on pride alone.”

Maron crossed his arms, his posture eerily similar to Sansa’s when she was thinking deeply. “But if the people start to believe we’re taking more than we give, they’ll stop seeing you as their protector and start seeing you as their enemy.”

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint sound of gulls outside.

Sansa gave her son a small, approving smile. “You’ve been listening well.”

Theon looked between them wife and son, both far too clever for his comfort and muttered, “Seven hells, he’s going to outthink us both one day.”

“He already does,” Sansa teased lightly, though her eyes were thoughtful. “If Blacktyde truly stirs rebellion, we’ll need to act carefully. One wrong move, and the Isles fracture again.”

Maron nodded, serious. “Then we should act before they do. Maybe… visit their port. Show them we’re not enemies.”

Theon studied him for a long moment, then smirked faintly. “You’d make a fine lord yet, boy. But gods help me, you sound just like your mother.”

Sansa smiled faintly. “That’s why he’ll survive longer than you ever did, my love.” Theon laughed. 

Theon knew for the longest time that something was up, he was worried this would happen, that he would get betrayed but he didn’t want to stress his wife and son out so he left it behind, didn’t bother, he’d hope it would pass their generations well off, but it didn’t. He needed to make sure he had his meetings and explain his side of the story, what happened with them, he knows they know the story over and over again, but he can’t trust they won’t turn on him. And he’s unsure if he wants to start a war, and he doubts he had any money for one either. 

Chapter 6: Old Wolves

Summary:

Robb is deciding on who will marry his precious daughter Emirei, he struggles with this thought a lot but has realised he needs to do this. At the same time he wonders on legitimising Jon and how long that process will be

Arya is thinking of sending Alaric to Winterfell, but she’s worried Robb won’t treat Alaric as well as he treats his own children due to Alaric’s status. She knows Robb is her brother but Arya still married a commoner and her child’s status is not as large as Robb’s children’s.

Notes:

Minor and slight NSWF themes.

“Oh please Robb, I said I’m sorry-“ Roslin told her husband, walking fast, trying to keep up with her husband’s fast stride. She bunched her skirt up and was trying to keep up with him with her heels on. 

“Please Rose, I’m in no mood.” He muttered angrily before locking himself into their chambers. 

“Oh you! son of a- the word I’ll have with you.” She stopped her foot angrily and turned her head, only for her fast to slam into her son’s chest. 

“Mother… are you alright?” Torrhen asked, steadying her. 

“Yes,yes sweet pea. Mothers alright, just your father giving my head a good spin.” She said, smiling and looking up at her second son. 

“You sure? sounds like you did something to annoy him.” Torrhen cracked a small smile. 

“Oh Goodness no! I mean- he’s maybe, I mean. Well…. I told your father that I wanted us to bring more cooks who know more… recipes because Winterfell kitchens can be very bland-“ 

“So it’s all for food that’s it? and what father was unimpressed?” Torrhen asked, with genuine confusion. 

“And maybe because he was already stressed with Jon’s legitimacy and doing the paperwork for it and whatever he is doing…. and also potentially because I’ve already started agreeing with some of Emirei’s suitors.” She said the last bit very fast, and Torrhen knew exactly the mistake his mother made. 

“She’s 16 mother?” He started off 

“No I know she is I just told which suitors had the best chance that’s all! I promise.” Roslin replied, trying to defend her reasoning. 

“I’d never marry her off so long, it’s just the alliances were too good to be true. and your father is overbearing that’s all… and maybe she met some of the suitors I agreed too.” 

“Mother!” 

“Don’t talk like your father! It can be good for her you know!” 

Torrhen shrugged, “Whatever you say.” 

Roslin rolled her eyes and shooed her son away, both Ned & Torrhen were fiercely protective over Emirei, especially since she was 16 years old, and would be looking for a marriage partner soon, out of all of their children, she was the most like Sansa when it came to being a hopeless romantic, even as a little girl she’d try her hardest to play with the boys and he like her older brothers, but she’d also make a muck of herself. It wasn't even helpful over how beautiful the girl was, she had taken the best features from her parents, like her mother’s nose and hair and freckles. Then her father’s curls on the end of her hair, and her father’s softer looking eyebrows, and even though she had her mothers eye colour, sometimes she’d look at Robb or Roslin or anyone really and you could see her father in her, they have very similar characteristics. 

“Robb… let me in…. or what If i just go and speak with that one soldier-“ 

The door suddenly unlocked. The only way to get Robb to do anything when he’s angry is to get him jealous, even if it’s mild. 

So Roslin stepped in, and started up the conversation when her husband would look at her in the eye. 

“Come on Robb, I think Emi really enjoyed the idea of being married at 19, and it would be great for her to have an idea of a partner.” 

“It really isn’t.” He said, sitting down on their shared bed. 

“Well, when I was younger I used to dream of a prince in shining armour to come rescue me.” 

Robb rolled his eyes, “It’s different, you were younger and you wanted.. no needed rescuing from your cursed House.” He remarked to her, practically spitting at the thought of House Frey. 

“She may not need rescuing but it’s good to get her out there.” 

“Just admit you were wrong.” 

“… I was wrong.” Roslin said shyly, before moving to sit on Robb’s lap. “You have to understand though that girls love LOVE! and maybe the thought excited her and it excites me too.” She tells him before rested her head against him. 

He put his hand into her hair without thinking, his grown wife cuddling against him to ask for forgiveness, what has the earth come too? 

“Rose please, I get it your sorry but she’s my litter girl I don’t want to just send her away without a doubt in the world, she doesn’t know things like we know them. I kept her well sheltered you know that.” 

“I know you did,” She said while he stroked her hair. “She’s getting old and soon she’ll marry and Maera will” 

“Stop it that’s not funny.” 

“It is” 

“It’s not.” 

“Do you want another baby?” Robb randomly asked. 

“I’m?? no i’m more then fine thank you very much but I do want a grandbaby.” 

“You’re right. I just miss pregnant you.” He said squishing her waist. 

“Hey! I mean I don’t it was fun when I was young but I’m 40 I do not think that’s healthy.” 

“But it does mean I can sleep with you and know that there is no consequences!” he giggled before tickling her and throwing her into a fit of giggles, and then pushing her onto the bed, and having his hearts content with her. 

___________________________________

Arya laid next to Gendry, both slick with sweat, she’d been riding him for about fourty minutes before she’d called quits and came over him, and he came in her. 

She didn’t bother getting off until like an hour later, both of them were just really knackered and were tying their best to keep it down knowing that their son was sleeping in a room the couple doors down. 

“So about Alaric.” He started up. 

Arya rolled her eyes and kept her blanket covering her and stayed facing from her husband. 

“I know, I know, but can I just keep him for the week and then I will break the news. I’m not sure how he will handle it.” 

“He’s a strong lad, he’s got Stark blood! and maybe a bit of baratheon if you know what I mean-“ Arya whacked his arm, “He doesn’t know the Baratheon bit! and it could get him in trouble you know that!” 

“I know that” He murmured planting a kiss onto her shoulder. “Feisty for a girl who I had to upstroke because she wasn’t going as hard as she usually is.” 

“Oh shut up, you know mind is elsewhere” Arya sneered. 

“Fine you win. That’s only because I love you..” he said singsongy. 

“I know…. I love you too.” She replied back, and he smiled and left a longer kiss into her shoulder. 

The next morning came around fast, and Arya thought this was the best moment to tell her son about their plans and about what she wanted to him. It was scary, and she wasn’t quite ready to let her son go so close. So she looked over at Gendry one last time before sitting infront of Alaric for breakfast.

“So.” She looked over at him, as he ate some summer fruits for breakfast. 

“What is it?” He asked politely. That boy was too kind for his own good. 

Arya gulped. “Do you like travelling?” 

“I mean it’s all I know. Not sure what I’d do if I stayed in one place. Where was I born again?” 

“Braavos.” She told him, “We stayed there with you for five months, till I felt comfortable to take you elsewhere in Essos.” 

“Interesting.” He nodded, and he took a bite out of the mango that was laid infront of him. 

“Being in one place.. is that scary? I mean it isn’t, I mean, it’s a good thing to be in one place.” 

“Then why aren’t you.” Alaric looked at her with wide curious eyes, they had the same pair of eyes, big and brown, his were just softer and more naive. Another Sansa trait. 

“Because I want to know who I am. Maybe that’s why, I like discovering and researching the highs and lows and I write it all down in my book, which I will gift to you when my time is done.” She said, before Gendry handed her, her breakfast food, which was also some fruits. 

Alaric gave a nod. 

“Your father.. and I were thinking of taking you to Winterfell.” 

Alaric gave her a weird look, and tilted his head. “What’s that?” The way Gendry’s head flipped so fast and turned to catch Arya’s reaction. 

“That’s- That’s where I’m from. Your heritage. You’re northern, a northerner and I feel like that I did not tell you about your heritage and I didn’t tell you much at all. So I’m planning on sending you there.” 

“Sending me where?!” He asked alarmed. 

“There, Winterfell.” Gendry corrected. 

“I don’t even know the place!” 

Gendry bit into a pear “Yes you do, you’ve gone twice when it was your cousins weddings.” he chewed. 

“Do I look like I care?! I don’t want to go to some Winter scary sounding place I want to travel with you!” He started up again, Arya knew that this argument would have continued on and on. So she gave him a long monologue on what this means to her. 

“Look, what’s your home?” Alaric’s mouth opened but no words came out. “Exactly, you don’t know. So I’m sending you to my home and it will be your home and when you realise what home is only then can you come back.” And the second the last word hit Alaric hit her with so many counter arguments, she ignored them all and went on back outside with her husband by her side. 

Chapter 7: Occurrences

Summary:

Thorough look at the Starks, all of them, a timeline, their feelings and finally we get to see a POV of Rickon and the life he leads as a Stark Prince.

Robb of course, became King of the North, so he ended up ruling the entirety of the North, which meant that him and his siblings couldn't all stay in Winterfell. Robb had betrothed Theon to Sansa, so she went of with Theon to Pyke, even though she was more quiet, reversed and was overall scared of leaving Winterfell again, Theon was very calm and understood all her concerns, even though a Pyke was definitely more of a shithole next to Winterfell, Sansa managed to settle in calmly, but that was thanks to Theon. Though she would send lets to Robb of being so homesick for the whole ordeal, and being seasick from the salt smell that would permanently be stuck into the air, but she was comfortable enough with Theon despite him being her husband now, and she managed to quickly get comfortable in the chambers, where she spent most of her days, before Theon got her comfortable with other things, but he made sure she was never alone (which Robb asked for) and that helped Theon too. 

Next after Sansa left, it was Arya, she wanted to do her own thing alongside her lover Gendry, which Robb wasn't too pleased about, especially since she was 17 when it started (Robb let her run around too much, or perhaps it was Roslin's fault since she was the one who convinced Robb to let the girl do what she pleased), and she was still a child in his eye, he knows that Arya means well and she can live on her own, but he forbade her from travelling outside Westeros and the North too until she was off marriageable age, and until she was married to her lover. Robb did not approve of her relationship, which he viewed as Taboo, but Arya reminded Robb of his own mistakes, which he then reminded her they were mistakes and only mistakes which he learnt by, but he realised that him and Arya's situations are different. Arya doesn't have as much to prove on, and she doesn't have as much power and people don't have so many rules or expect much from her, so he let her and approved the relationship of her and Gendry, though warning her she was still a Stark, and a princess now, so she needed to show that she has that lineage and that she's upper class, even if she's romantically involved with a bastard (though Robb forbade them of doing anything sexual or taboo but it was a little too late for that, better he doesn't know that though) overall, Arya just took it off as her brother being overprotective and not wanting Gendry to take away the girls honour, even if he already did, and even if it was Arya who made it happen. The 5 king War lasted around 3 years, Robb was about 23 when he won it, and Sansa was 18, Arya 14, and Bran 12, Rickon 10. 

Sansa was betrothed to Theon, in a weirdly manner where Robb did not discuss it with Theon but made hints, his mother always thought of a marriage between the two, and it was Theon who managed to get in with some scouts and rescue her, Theon never saw Sansa romantically growing up, but he always sensed that if he was going to marry anyone it would be his best friends sister, and that it was the only type of marriage that would work, he felt bad for Sansa, but he thought he'd be a good husband to her, even if he wasn't a good man. Robb married them when Sansa was 18, after they were officially betrothed for about a couple months, he told Theon a year before her 18 (so when she was still 17) that he was going to marry them, and that Theon needs to improve his behaviour because there is no other man that Robb entrusts Sansa with other then Theon, and he knows Theon will protect her. Despite the age gap between Sansa and Theon. Theon, he made sure he never did anything that made her feel as though they shouldn't be together, he would talk to her, keep it quick and nice, but never awkward, and there was never any shameless flirting, and then when she was ready they married in a respectable ceremony for the new princess to marry her lord. Her lord who she grew up with and had been in her life since forever. 

Arya's and Gendry's relationship was much more different and unique. Of course it was taboo, but Robb was busy managing a whole kingdom now, that and Sansa's future wedding. He was happy Arya was found and safe, and Arya was happy to reunite with her family, though it took them longer to find her. Arya was missing four-five years, compared to Sansa being away for three years. Even after they stormed the castle and took back Sansa, Arya was nowhere to be seen, they didn't know where she was, it took them another two years for them to find her. First of all, she didn't escape from Tywin for some time, she helped kill him as a child, but it took her a couple months for that to be done and dusted, before she and The Hound took her and they started travelling North together, Robb wasn't actively looking for her after they got Sansa back, they tried scouting, but a northerner should stay north, and Robb didn't want to take any chances, so they went back North. He proclaimed her dead, without knowing the real truth. Arya returned to Winterfell, when she was 14, with the Hound, and he was praised for his deeds, Robb offering him anything, nay gold and any treasure, but The Hound declined, and swiftly left, Arya was happy to be back in Winterfell, but she still thought about what she missed, the adventure and journey of coming back to Winterfell, and seeing Gendry, and meeting him. Arya told Roslin all about Gendry, for several months before Roslin spoke to Robb about letting Arya adventure in the North, Robb was not too pleased but came around the idea, and asked if she needed protection, in which Arya declined, saying she learnt many things when she was gone, and so after a quick sparring session with Robb, he decided he'd let her go out, but not too far, and to be so careful, he didn't want to lose her. Arya understood her brothers concerns, but she did go quite far south in the North, which is where she met Gendry again, who told her he was searching for her, and their friendship bloomed again, Gendry didnt have a home so Arya invited him to Wintertown, where he started to live his life, and they would see eachother all the time, and would grow together, Robb was wary of Gendry, and the lords told him that he was a bastard of Robert Baratheon. Which Robb could see later on with how Gendry looked, he could see the Baratheon in the boy, but he never told Arya that he could no longer be with him (friendship wise) but when Arya was 16, she had a more romantic relationship with him, and Arya only confided this with her sister in law Roslin, because she was the only Stark (now) who could keep her mouth shut, and didn't have raging anger issues and felt like their opinion needed to be judged 24/7, so Roslin stayed quiet about it, though mentioned to Robb that Gendry and Arya could be a good match when she's off age, which Robb said 'no' too almost immediately and that a Stark marrying a bastard would raise problems and Robb didn't have time for that, but after dealing with an angry Roslin for months on end, Robb finally allowed them to be together, but their wedding was not as huge as Sansa's and was more private and colder. Arya didn't care, as long as she was married to her best friend, she was fine enough with the marriage and she wanted to travel almost immediately, but again Robb remembered angry Roslin and allowed Arya's dream to come true, bu travelling, she wanted to go outside of Westeros, and he let her, and she never really came back. 

Rickon's marriage was all political like Robbs, though he married a southerner and brought her down north. He married Lady Alayna of House Redford, He also married once he became 20 ish year old to Alayna, who was about 19 when they married, but she was a sweet girl with dark raven hair and deep brown eyes, her skin was peach with a subtle tan but honestly she had a very earthy feel to her but also looked very deer like, she just seemed so gentle in both her mannerisms but her voice too, she was a great singer and could play the harp (which is another reason Roslin wanted her to marry Rickon, she was such a lovely beautiful and innocent young lady and she just seemed as though she was the best choice for Rickon's more wild, but demure energy. Rickon changed over the course of the years but he was still a young child confused over the war, who needed his brother desperately, but either way, he was good, a good person Robb raised alongside his firstborn child, Rickon was close to Robbs children, probably because some of them were quite close in age, but he still was the fun uncle to them. I mean how was Robb suppose to explain to his first son Ned, that his real first born son was his youngest brother, whose innocence was taken from the war Robb helped continue. Either way, after Rickon's marriage with Alayna, he brought her back to Winterfell, before Robb moved Rickon and his wife closer to The Rills and Stony shore, where he had a castle and would rule over there, he would rule over the houses nearby the area and would oversee all of their deeds, while also helping the community. So Robb ordered his men and built him a keep, called 'Winterbay' and it was set to oversea the Rills, and was near the mouth of it (and watch Salt shore) this was a Stark Branch Seat, and Robb ordered it to be built a year after the war was won, that way Robb could solidify the Stark name and build strong keeps for his kingdoms, as well as so that his descendants can carefully look over the North. His seat is a personal residence for Rickon, an administrative center for that coastal region and river valleys, military outpost for defending the eastern flank (Salt Shore and Rills) though it does belong to Robb, Robb is King in the North, so ultimate authority rests with him.So, while Rickon rules locally, he answers to Robb. He cannot raise armies independently for outside campaigns without Robb’s consent. It did take around 2-3 years for it to be finished being built and dealt with, so then once Rickon was married him and his wife relocated there with cooks and ladies in waitings all that they needed, and Rickon was now worth more (strategically) and was able to help Robb even more, and he was well happy with his wonderful wife. 

'Rickon love! wake up!" Alayna shoved her half asleep husband, she shook him violently until he jolted up awake. 

" 'Layna what was that for? its the dead of night what do you need?" He responded, he jolted up and sat up against the headrest before looking at his lovely sweet wife who seemed to be so infuriating at the moment, he brushed his hair out of his face before facing her fully. 

"I want some water, but Im too scared to go by myself, and Im sure I heard something lurking." She whispered to him, her hands clutching the blanket and her eyes filled with fear. 

Rickon couldn't help laugh at his wife, she looked adorable, though she was thirsty and didn't want to be alone. There was something odd about the girl, he only realised into months of marrying her, she was overly kind, and she didn't like the feel of certain things, or the texture, and she was so shy people used to call her a mute, but even if she had all of that, Rickon still wanted to protect her, no he needed too, he didn't even enjoy the idea of being married to someone else, and it wasn't even in a way where he felt like they needed so many children to prove their love, but just in the small things, sure they had two children and only two, and that would seem little compared to how he grew up, but he believed this was the best, and he would never want to put his wife through so much stress of pregnancy, and she was content with a family of four, that they were. 'I will come with you dear,' He tells her gently, before taking her hand and walking down to the kitchen's he poured her a glass of water, watched her sip it till the glass went dry, and he offered her a second glass, which she declined too, he took her hand and walked her back to bed. 

The next day came rather quickly, and it was off to take care of their menaces. Rickon through himself into work, checking on the lords, counting the sheep, and making sure all conflict within the land was restored and done with, he then checked taxes (double checked them) and made sure the money would both be good for his own lifestyle as their Prince, while also being making sure that the money would help benefit the people. He was a good and respectable man and Prince, and he never rarely caused issues for the people, they followed him effortlessly, and he thanked Robb for that. 

'Father, Alessia is irritating me!" Rickon's oldest son whined first, he was 9, and turning 10 soon, his name was Wylis. Alessia was Rickon's daughter, her full name was Alessia Osha Stark. Alessia means defender, guardian, and the name Osha means protector, he named Osha as his daughters middle name after Osha who protected him for so long, and kept him safe, so it was the least he could do to honour her, the name Alessia was because he wanted to start his own names, Rickon watched Robb name his children either after others in their family or after one's that resembled names in Roslin's family, Rickon wanted to start his own thing, which is where Alessia came from.

'What could she possibly be doing, hm?" HE looked at his son with one brow raised. 'She's only 7." 

"Well actually, she's been awful all day-" 

"The day's just started son." 

"Well she kicked my sand castle down! you know from our playroom!" Wylis started, chest puffing and looking proudly, like a true Stark. 

He ruffled his son's hair, and he got up to go deal with his little girl. He made his way down the corridor and into the playroom where he could see Alessia playing around making her own sandcastle, and he saw Alayna in there too. "Alayna, Alessia kicked down Wylis's sand castle, were you there?" 

Alayna looked up at him, "No, I just came. I didn't know that. Alessia is it true you did that?" She gave a scowl at her beloved daughter, who resembled her aunt Arya, and uncle Jon. Same dark eyes and dark hair, with only a little tan. 

Alessia had innocence in her eyes. "Maybe mama.." She then went back to playing, her brother however, with dark hair and blue eyes had a scowl and stopped his little foot. 

"She always does what she wants! I'm going to play with the big boys!" Wylis gave a dirty look, before going to leave the room but Rickon stopped his son.

'No big boys for you to play with, you know I don't want you playing with 'em" He told his son, grabbing the boys hand and turning him back to face his naughty sister.

"Sorry Wy!" She said with big doe eyes before carrying on, it was obvious the girl just didn't care. 

'Father she's being mean!" Wylis ran up at his sister and kicked her castle which made her squeal before the two of them started physically fighting it out on the floor, rolling around and all. Alayna grabbed Alessia, and Rickon grabbed Wylis, the girl was screeching and Wylis was howling back, both trying to play victim. 

Rickon couldn't help but laugh awkwardly at the whole situation, and Alayna gave the same thing back. After dealing and spanking the children equally, the children were made to apologise, no one was allowed to make sandcastles for the rest of the day, Wylis was told off for starting the physical fight, meanwhile Alessia was told of for causing the whole conflict, and both children were sent to other area's and were with their nannies and maids. Later Rickon sat in his chambers with his wife, having a discussion about their children, and how naughty they really could be, both were asking if were ever like that at that age, which they both shook their head at, so maybe it wasn't genetics and how they raised the children, either way they were ready to get that attitude out of them.

Alayna sighed, flopping onto the pillow. "I swear, Rickon, those two are going to give us a heart attack before Wylis even turns ten."

Rickon grinned, shaking his head. "You mean the boy whose sandcastle Alessia demolished this morning to build her own? And then he… attacked her right there in the playroom?"

Alayna rolled her eyes, burying her face in her hands. "Attacked her! In front of us! And she just gave that sneaky little ‘sorry-not-sorry’ grin and fake apology like it was all part of the plan. I thought I’d have to drag her off by her ears."

Rickon laughed, shaking his head. "I saw that. Wylis went at her like a little wolf defending his den. And they were rolling around the floor. I swear, she’s going to cause problems to her future lord husband."

Alayna sat up, throwing a pillow at him. "‘She knocked over his entire castle, stole the best flag, and when he confronted her, she practically dared him to fight again. I thought Wylis would never calm down."

Rickon leaned back against the wall, rubbing his temples and laughing. "And yet here they are, perfectly asleep upstairs. The little monsters. You know… in another life, they’d be leading armies together, or at each other’s throats for real."

Alayna leaned her head on his shoulder, exhaling. "I know. But even when they’re maddening, they’re… ours. Wylis is reckless like you, and Alessia is cunning like… well, like both of us combined. I can’t stay mad, perhaps its just the Stark and the Redford playing into her."

Rickon smiled, pulling her hand into his. "True. And you remind me that no amount of scheming or fighting will stop a mother from keeping them alive. They’re lucky to have you."

Alayna smirked. "And lucky you married me. Otherwise, Wylis and Alessia would probably be trying to conquer the Salt Shore by now."

Rickon laughed, squeezing her hand. "True. But somehow… I wouldn’t trade this chaos for anything." 

 

 

Chapter 8: Something ahead them

Summary:

After Arya's conversation with her son Alaric, he's been colder to her, she know's he feels betrayed, but she wants him to understand that it with the choice for the both of them, and she knows it's what he needs, so she sends a letter to Winterfell, bearing the news.
Robb's reaction to the letter, alongside his relationship with Torrhen, which was getting better these past few years, but has been pouring back down a little and how he's handling the stress of being a King and a father.

Notes:

somewhere here i’ve written Torrhen is 12! i meant 20 but for the life of me i cannot find that 😭😭
edit: FOUND IT

Alaric continued travelling the summer island's with his parents, even after the news, he kept himself quiet and composed though definitely something was burning under his skin I mean how could they just abandon him like that? how could they just choose what he must do. It was their own fault they didn't raise him in a home so now he has to pay the price. It was despicable of them to turn their back on him and make him go so far away. Yet under all of that hatred and the seething and the betrayal, Alaric felt like a small boy again, being abandoned by his parents for the idea that it was 'good for him' he was only 15, hardly a man, he was still a young boy with things to learn, and he didn't know what he do if his parents weren't with him. 

"Mother please-" Alaric begged while he watched his mother write a letter up, quill in hand. 

"Please Alaric do not make it harder than it has to be." She replied sternly, her voice slightly tired.

"I don't want to go where it's so cold and I won't make any friends!" 

She sighed, "Your cousins live there."

"I don't care! nor know their names!" he huffed

"Gendry! collect Alaric he's giving me a headache!" Arya shouted

"Am not!"

"Are too!" 

"Gods forsaken me, by the seven could the two of you stop screeching!" Gendry yelled from the bathroom. 

"Il currently writing the letter to Robb about Alaric and giving him a spot so could you possibly take Alaric out, I can't think with him in here bothering me." Arya moaned as Alaric continued his little adolescent tantrum 

"On it!" Alaric yelled from the bath, and about 20 minutes later Gendry grabbed Alaric and took him on a 'boys walk' 

Arya sighed and shook her head, and went back to writing her letter to Robb.

"Dear Robb,

This is Arya, I know I have not written to you in two months, but If I could write all the adventures I have had in two months then I would, but this letter is not that. Though currently I reside in the Summer Islands peninsula, we as a family are enjoying ourselves as we go on. Alaric has grown, he's 15 years of age now, but he is the reason I write to you, Alaric has given me a reason, as my firstborn son, and only child, I refuse myself to fail him and allow myself to lead him on an adventure when he was never given the opportunity to discover himself. So here I write to ask you permission to allow my son to live in Winterfell with you, I understand that his status may be an issue but please allow him through your gates and give him good treatment as your sisters own son, your own nephew, even if he's a bastards child he is still a princesses son. Your own blood. I demand you to reply within the next coming days, and expect you to take him up, whether you will treat him like your own or like a servant I have no idea, but just know that I expect you to take me up on my request, even if my son does not help you politically, I expect you to be kind to him and to open your arms warmly, perhaps even find a marriage for him when he's off age if it makes you happier, I just want him to know his routes." 

Arya sealed her message with wax and a stamp and sent it out the second it was finished. It was like a anvil was lifted off her shoulder's, now her son will reside happily in the north, and can half live a normal life, but dread also filled her, to be without her son made her feel as though she is the failure, and it hurt her to know she was sending her baby to the north, where the weather was cold and the people colder. Now where she was, the night air was mild — too mild. The wind here smelled of dust and olive trees, not snow. The stars shone soft and golden, not sharp and clear like they did over Winterfell. Arya sat alone by the open window, her cup untouched, the candle beside her burning low. It had been years since she’d felt the North’s breath on her skin, that clean, biting air that stung the lungs and made every heartbeat feel alive. The South never bit like that. Down here, the cold never reached the bone — nor did the truth. She closed her eyes and remembered how the wind once howled through the godswood, how her hair stuck to her face in the sleet, how the stones of Winterfell always held the chill no matter how many fires burned. It wasn’t just the weather. The people were the same, quiet, proud, bound by duty and silence. They didn’t smile much, didn’t flatter. They endured and now she was sending her son there. The thought twisted in her chest, slow and heavy. He was so young still too soft, too full of questions. The North would strip that warmth from him. It would harden him, just as it had hardened her. And yet… wasn’t that what he needed?

“The cold will teach him,” she whispered to herself. “The way it taught me.” She could almost see him standing in the courtyard at Winterfell, breath clouding the air, his cheeks red with wind, his hair tangled and wild. A Stark among Starks. The blood of wolves, finding its way home. Still, her throat ached. No mother wanted to send her child into the cold. But she understood now what her own father had once understood that love sometimes meant distance, that protection sometimes meant pain.

Arya drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was far too warm for it, but she needed its weight, its memory. The North was far away, yet it lived in her bones still, in the silence between breaths, in the steel beneath her heart. The North remembers,” she murmured. “And so will he.” Outside, the southern wind blew soft and warm. It carried no frost, no wolvesong,  only the faint whisper of waves against the shore. But for a moment, Arya could almost feel the snow again, cold and clean against her skin, and she smiled through the ache.

---

The fire in Robb’s solar had burned low, throwing long shadows that danced against the stone. The North was quiet that night, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and sank deep into the bones. Outside, the wind keened softly through the courtyards of Winterfell, and from somewhere beyond the godswood, a lone wolf howled.

Robb Stark sat alone at his desk, the letter open before him. The parchment was creased, the ink faintly smudged from salt air and long travel. His name had been written in a firm, familiar hand, Robb, not Your Grace, not my brother, just Robb.

He’d known even before breaking the seal that it was from Arya.

He’d read it once. Twice. And a third time, slower.

"Dear Robb…"

By the time he reached the last line, his jaw had tightened, and the hand that held the parchment trembled slightly not from anger, but from something heavier.

Arya’s words rang in his mind long after he finished reading. The rhythm of her voice was still there, fierce and unyielding, cutting through the ink: even if he's a bastard’s child, he is still your sister’s son. Your own blood.

He stared at the fire, letter hanging loosely between his fingers.

Arya. Gods, he hadn’t seen her in years, not since she’d sailed away beyond the Narrow Sea, chasing something he couldn’t name. She’d written, of course, from time to time: wild stories of distant cities, faces she’d worn, and lands so bright and hot he could hardly imagine them. But this letter was different. It wasn’t the voice of his little sister who once chased cats through Winterfell’s halls, it was the voice of a woman who had lived hard, fought harder, and now spoke like someone who’d seen too much of the world.

And she was asking him, no, demanding, to take her son.

Robb let out a long breath, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow.

Fifteen. The boy was fifteen.

A bastard.

A Stark, by half.

And Arya’s son.

He set the letter down gently beside a stack of ledgers, the wax seal catching the firelight like blood.

When Roslin entered, she found him staring at it still. She paused at the threshold, her shawl drawn tight against her shoulders. “You’ve been sitting there for hours,” she said softly. “What is it?”

Robb glanced up, then motioned for her to come closer. “A letter. From Arya.”

She smiled faintly at that, stepping closer to his side. “It’s been some time since her last, hasn’t it?”

He handed her the parchment without a word. She read silently, her eyes moving steadily over the page. The fire popped, the only sound between them. When she finally looked up, her expression was thoughtful. “She’s sending her son here.”

“Aye.”

“You’re thinking of refusing.”

Robb shook his head, rubbing a thumb over the grain of the desk. “No. I couldn’t. She’s right, he’s blood. He’s a Stark.” He hesitated. “But the North isn’t gentle, Roslin. Not to bastards, not to boys who don’t know their place. And I’m not sure what place he’ll have here.”

She laid the letter down carefully. “You’ll give him one. You always do.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’m not sure my own sons would agree.”

Roslin’s gaze softened. “Torrhen again?”

He leaned back in his chair, the weight of the crown even now, when it sat on its stand, heavy on his shoulders. “He’s been… distant. Angry, even. I thought time would mend it, but it only grows worse.”

He remembered when Torrhen had been small, clutching his leg as he gave orders in the great hall, eyes bright and curious. But those days were gone. The boy had turned 20 this past winter, married and with a wife and carried himself like someone older, harder and when Robb spoke to him, there was a sharpness in his tone, a resentment Robb couldn’t quite name.

“He thinks I favor Eddard,” Robb admitted. “And perhaps I do, though gods know I try not to. Torrhen sees every decision as a slight.” He exhaled, long and low. “Now imagine how he’ll take this, his father bringing home a bastard cousin from across the sea.”

Roslin sat beside him, resting a gentle hand on his arm. “He’ll understand, in time. If not as a son, then as a Stark.”

Robb stared into the fire again. “He’s old enough to understand blood. But he’s young enough to hate it, too.”

Silence lingered between them. The fire crackled; the wind moaned against the tower walls.

After a while, Roslin rose. “You’ll do what’s right, as you always do. Write to her. Tell her you’ll take the boy. And tell Torrhen yourself before the letter arrives, he deserves that much.”

Robb nodded faintly. When she left, he reached for the parchment once more. The edges were worn, the ink faint where Arya’s hand had pressed hardest.

"Even if he’s a bastard’s child, he is still a princess’s son."

The words echoed in him like a vow.

He rose from the desk and moved to the window. Snow fell beyond the glass, soft flakes swirling through the torchlight of the courtyard. A few guards made their rounds below, their breath steaming in the cold. Winterfell slept, but the North never truly rested.

He thought of Arya his wild, unbreakable, untamed sister, like as the wind itself and wondered what kind of boy she’d raised. A bastard, yes, but born of her fire. A boy of fifteen, sent north to learn his roots, to walk the halls she’d once run through barefoot.

And he would come here, to Robb’s hall.

Robb sighed, his reflection faint in the glass. “You always did know how to make trouble, Arya.”

When dawn came, he found Torrhen in the training yard. The boy was already up, sword in hand, striking at the dummy with fierce precision. His breath misted in the air, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Your stance is wrong,” Robb said as he approached.

Torrhen didn’t stop. “It works.”

“Until someone knocks you on your back.”

The boy turned then, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a defiance that reminded Robb too much of himself. “Then I’ll get up again.”

For a moment, Robb almost smiled. But the words stuck. “We’ll have a guest soon,” he said instead. “Your cousin. From across the sea.”

Torrhen frowned, lowering his sword. “Which cousin?”

“Arya’s son. Your mother’s nephew. He’ll be staying with us.”

The boy’s jaw tightened. “A bastard?”

Robb’s tone sharpened. “A Stark.”

Torrhen looked away, sword tip digging into the snow. “So you’ll treat him like family, then. Like me.”

The words stung more than Robb wanted to admit. “You are family,” he said quietly. “Never doubt that.” but the boy didn’t answer, he only turned back to the dummy and raised his sword again, the rhythm of his strikes filled the yard, sharp and lonely.

Robb watched for a moment, then turned away, back in his solar, he sealed the parchment with wax and pressed the direwolf sigil into it. His reply was short  a promise was being made.

"Send him. He will have a place here." He watched the wax cool and thought of Arya’s son riding north through the snow, of Torrhen’s silence, of the long road of duty that stretched before them all, the wind outside keened again cold, clear, Northern and Robb Stark, King in the North, closed his eyes and let it wash over him like a blessing and a burden both.

---

The fire in the solar burned low, throwing shifting amber light across the room. The air was thick with smoke and silence. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpanes, soft but relentless, like a warning carried by the wind.

Robb sat behind his desk, posture rigid, the letter from Arya laid out before him its folds worn now from the number of times he’d read it. He didn’t look up when Torrhen entered.

His son closed the door quietly behind him, the faint thud echoing in the stillness. “You sent for me, Father?”

Robb gestured for him to sit. Torrhen stayed standing.

“I did,” Robb said, voice low. “You’ve heard of the letter, I assume.”

Torrhen crossed his arms. “The one from Aunt Arya. About her boy.”

“Her son,” Robb corrected. “Alaric. He’ll be coming to live here.”

Torrhen frowned, his tone sharp with disbelief. “To Winterfell? Why?”

Robb leaned back, studying him carefully. “Because Arya asked it. Because he is family.”

“Family?” Torrhen’s laugh was quiet, but bitter. “You mean a stranger born across the sea, son of a bastard blacksmith? That’s who we’re opening our halls to?”

Robb’s eyes narrowed, and the air seemed to cool. “You watch your tongue.”

Torrhen met his father’s stare, chin raised. “I’m only saying what every northern lord will think. What do they gain by sheltering a boy like him? You’ve enough sons of your own to worry about.”

Robb rose then, slowly, the old wolf in him stirring. “That boy is your cousin. He bears Stark blood, same as you, same as I. You forget yourself when you speak like that in this hall.”

Torrhen’s jaw worked, his anger flickering beneath the surface. “It’s not forgetfulness, Father, it’s reason. You’d welcome him here, give him a room, a name, a place at our table, for what? Because Aunt Arya demanded it?”

The door opened quietly then. Roslin stood in the threshold, her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. She had heard enough already, the sharpness of her son’s voice, the iron in her husband’s tone. “Torrhen,” she said softly, stepping forward. “Do you hear yourself?”

Torrhen turned to her, the heat in him faltering at the look in her eyes, sorrow, not anger. “Mother, I—”

“No.” Her voice trembled as she crossed the room, her skirts brushing the rug, her hand gripping the back of a chair for balance. “You forget what it means to be a Stark. To carry honor with your words. That boy has done you no harm, and yet you speak of him like some threat to your pride.”

Torrhen looked down, shame flickering, but the pride in him refused to die. “I only meant—”

“You meant to wound him,” Roslin said. “Or wound us.” The silence that followed was raw. Roslin turned away, one hand pressed to her chest as though to steady herself. “I raised you to know better than this. To see the good in blood, not the flaw.”

Robb watched her closely, concern deepening as he saw the tremor in her hands. “Roslin—”

But she wasn’t finished. She looked back at Torrhen, her eyes bright with sudden tears. “You speak like my brothers once did,” she said quietly. “Like my father. Cold, cruel, thinking yourselves above others because of name and birth. I’ve spent my life trying to forget those voices, the scorn, the way they spoke of those beneath them.” Her voice broke. “And now I hear it in my own son.”

Torrhen flinched as though struck. “Mother, I—”

“Get out.” Robb’s voice cut through the room, sharp and final.

Torrhen’s head jerked toward him, stunned.

“Out,” Robb said again, stepping around the desk. “Now.”

Torrhen opened his mouth to protest, but the look on his father’s face silenced him. For a moment, his gaze lingered on his mother, tears streaking her cheeks, her body trembling with hurt and guilt rooted him to the spot.

“Go,” Robb said, softer this time.

Torrhen bowed his head, turned, and left, closing the door behind him with quiet care.

The sound of his retreating footsteps faded, and Roslin collapsed into the nearest chair, burying her face in her hands.

Robb crossed the room in two strides and knelt beside her, his hands closing over hers. “Roslin,” he murmured, “look at me.”

She shook her head. “I thought… I thought I’d left that behind. The way my family spoke, the way they treated those who weren’t them. I swore I’d never raise sons like that.”

Robb’s heart twisted. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t I?” Her voice was barely a whisper now. “He sounded just like them. Just like my father when he’d speak down to servants, or my brothers when they mocked the smallfolk. I hear them again, and it terrifies me.” She pressed her sleeve to her eyes. “The Freys were cold, Robb, cruel. I wanted our children to be better, kinder. But hearing him speak that way, with such disdain—” She broke off, the rest swallowed by a sob.

Robb wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against his chest. She shook in his hold, her tears soaking into his tunic. He pressed his lips to her hair, whispering softly. “He’s young, proud. He forgets what he’s saying in the heat of things. We’ll teach him better, I promise you. I’ll speak with him again when tempers have cooled.”

Roslin leaned back enough to look up at him. Her eyes were red, but her voice was steady. “Promise me, Robb. Promise me he’ll understand. I cannot watch him become like them.”

Robb cupped her face gently. “He won’t. He’s my son, and yours. He has your heart, even if he’s forgotten how to use it.”

Her lip trembled. “You always know what to say.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve had practice.”

That earned the smallest laugh from her, brittle but real. He kissed her forehead, then rose to tend to the fire, adding another log to the embers. The flames flared, lighting her tear-streaked face with a warm, trembling glow.

“I’ll send for Maester Kile,” he said softly. “You should rest.”

Roslin nodded, wiping her eyes. “Thank you, Robb.”

He turned at the door, his expression softening as he looked back at her. “He’ll come around,” he said quietly. “Our son is no Frey.” When the door shut behind him, the room fell still again. Roslin sat alone by the fire, staring into the flames until her breathing slowed.

---

Torrhen stood in the hallway, back pressed to the cold stone, his mother’s words echoing in his head. You sound like my father… my brothers…

The shame burned in his gut, hollow and heavy.

He had thought himself justified, thought he was protecting his family’s dignity. But now he saw only his mother’s tears, the disappointment in her voice, the look on his father’s face when he’d been told to leave.

He didn’t sleep that night.

---

By morning, the frost had deepened. He found her in the gardens, cloaked in fur, hands buried in the brittle herbs of the dying season. The sun was pale behind the clouds, the air sharp with cold. “Mother?”

Roslin looked up, startled. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but her expression softened at the sight of him. “Torrhen.”

He approached slowly, boots crunching in the snow. “I… wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Roslin sighed, brushing soil from her gloves. “I know.”

“I shouldn’t have spoken like that,” Torrhen said, voice rough. “It wasn’t right. I was angry, but that’s no excuse.”

She nodded faintly. “Anger is easy. Compassion is harder. I should know.”

He hesitated. “You said I reminded you of your family. Of your father. I didn’t mean to—”

Roslin cut him off gently. “I know, Torrhen. But words have power. You must remember that. When you speak of someone like Alaric, you speak of someone who will already feel out of place, who will look around these halls and see strangers. It will take courage for him to come here. Don’t make him regret it.”

He nodded, his throat tight. “I won’t, Mother. I promise.”

Roslin smiled softly and reached up to cup his cheek. “Good. Because I raised you better than to see rank or birth before heart.”

He smiled faintly, tears stinging his eyes. “You did.”

She pulled him into a hug, and for a long while, they stayed that way, mother and son in the quiet of the Northern morning, the cold air biting but clean.

When she finally stepped back, she brushed his cheek with her thumb. “You’ll make it right,” she said.

He nodded again, eyes steady. “I will.”

And as the snow began to fall anew, Torrhen Stark made his silent vow that when his cousin arrived, he would be ready to greet him not with judgment, but with the strength and kindness of the house his mother had fought so hard to make better.

---

 

Chapter 9: Context (2)

Summary:

More context but this is just an update that tells you everyone's ages and their partners. (since we have names now!) I have edited previous chapters that depict wrong age so if you go back the ages would have changed but here is a better and clear view without any mistakes (hopefully) that makes well sense.

I also would like to say is that I did make some age changes because it did not fit the storyline in terms of it just not making sense. 

First I am starting a list of Eddard Stark & Catelyn Stark's grandchildren oldest to youngest, with their ages and who their parents are. 

- Eddard Stark (R&R) 22 

- Torrhen Stark (R&R) 20 

- Serena Greyjoy (T&S) 19 

- Maron Greyjoy (T&S) 18 

- Emirei Stark (R&R) 17 

- Rodrik Greyjoy (T&S) 15 

- Alaric Waters (A&G) 15

- Maera Stark (R&R) 14

- Allara Greyjoy (T&S) 13 

- Catelyn Greyjoy (T&S) 11

- Wylis Stark (R&A) 9 

- Cregan Stark (R&R) 9 

- Alessia Stark (R&A) 7 

 

Obviously as the age depicts who's the oldest from here we can see who got married first etc from the first four. I also did have to change the Greyjoys ages and aged their kids down because they were too old and Sansa is 37 in this au and Theon is 42 so I needed to make sure all ages were fine and made sense, so now Serena and Maron are more closer in age then I wanted but that's okay! Here's everyones aged currently: 

- Theon 42

- Robb 42

- Jon 41 

- Roslin 40 

- Sansa 37

- Arya 35

- Bran 33

- Rickon 31 

Their partners are roughly around the same age (so with Arya Gendry is just a year older then her while with Rickon his wife is one year younger) also Rickon's wife is Lady Alayna of Redford

Grandchildren of Ned and Cat's wives and husbands!

Ned - Lady Rheona Cerwyn 

Torrhen - Lady Sarya Blackwood 

Serena - Lord Aaron Estermont

Maron - Lady Aera Ashford 

(all current marriages) 

Wives are all of the same age as their husbands/vice versa. 

Chapter 10: Kindness

Summary:

Alaric is in the North officially.
Rickon about finding out his nephew is here and is scheduling a visit to see him.

The wind over Winterfell carried the scent of rain and smoke late autumn’s breath before the first snows. The gates creaked open, and hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as Arya Stark rode in beneath the grey banners of her house.

Behind her came her husband, Gendry, and their son Alaric his horse keeping a steady pace.

It wasn’t the first time the boy had seen Winterfell, but this time it felt different. He wasn’t here for a feast or a wedding. He was here to stay.

The castle loomed like a memory half-buried towers of weathered stone, the faint hiss of steam from the hot springs beneath. Somewhere in the distance, a direwolf howled.

“Still feels like a dream,” Gendry muttered as he dismounted, brushing the frost from his cloak.

Arya grinned, handing her reins to a stable hand. “Winterfell always does.”

At the top of the yard, Robb Stark waited, his wife Roslin at his side. Behind them stood their children Eddard, Torrhen, Emirei, Maera, and little Cregan along with Lady Rheona of Cerwyn and Lady Sarya of Blackwood.

When Alaric swung down from his horse, Robb stepped forward, a faint smile curving his lips. “Five months feels longer than it should,” he said, offering Arya a brother’s embrace.

Arya smirked. “That’s because you don’t write.”

“You don’t either,” Robb shot back, laughing softly. 

She grinned, but the protective tilt of her shoulders toward her son didn’t fade. Her hand rested lightly on Alaric’s arm, as though she’d been waiting years to make sure this moment went right.

Roslin approached next, her expression warm but measured. “Welcome, Arya. And welcome again, Alaric. You’ve grown since Maron’s wedding.”

Alaric inclined his head. “So have your sons, my lady.”

That earned him a genuine smile.

Torrhen, standing a little apart, gave a curt nod polite, practiced, the sort that came easily to a prince but never from the heart. Eddard, ever the diplomat, stepped forward to clasp Alaric’s arm. “Good to have you here again, cousin,” he said. “It’ll be good to have another wolf in the hall.”

“Thank you,” Alaric said, meeting his gaze evenly. “It’s good to be back.”

Emirei, bright-eyed and poised, added, “I hope you still remember everyone’s names. Cregan’s doubled in mischief since you last saw him.”

Cregan tugged his sister’s sleeve indignantly. “Have not.”

Alaric smiled, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s eyes. “If you say so.”

Laughter rippled lightly through the group, softening the chill of the courtyard. Even Arya’s shoulders eased a little.

Robb gestured toward the keep. “Come. Supper’s nearly ready, and you must be tired from the road.”

As they crossed the yard, the guardsmen nodded in greeting, the Stark direwolf stitched in silver on their cloaks. Steam curled up from the hot pools that ran beneath the courtyard stones. Alaric’s eyes followed everything the ancient walls, the scent of pine smoke, the faint hum of ravens overhead.

Inside the great hall, warmth wrapped around them like a cloak. The fire roared high in the hearth, throwing golden light over the banners of House Stark. The smell of roasted hare and baked bread filled the air.

The family gathered around the long table Arya and Gendry seated beside Robb and Roslin, Alaric between Eddard and Maera. Lady Rheona and Lady Sarya sat farther down, speaking quietly between themselves.

For a while, conversation flowed easily. Arya told stories of the Summer Islands of bright markets and salt-sweet winds, of sailors who mistook her for a boy until she outdrank them all. Cregan’s eyes went wide with every tale.

“So,” Arya said, leaning back and smirking toward her brother, “still haven’t found a way to make Torrhen smile properly?”

Roslin nearly choked on her wine; Torrhen gave his aunt a look that would have wilted a lesser soul.

Robb chuckled. “He smiles when he’s hunting.”

“Or fighting,” Eddard added.

Torrhen shot his brother a glance, but Alaric only grinned faintly, hiding it behind his cup.

Roslin placed a calming hand on her son’s arm. “Torrhen smiles plenty,” she said smoothly. “You simply have to know when to look.”

The room’s laughter broke the tension like a thaw.

As the courses came and went venison, bread, stewed onions conversation drifted to news of the realm. Arya spoke briefly of the King’s Landing court, her tone clipped when she mentioned names of southern lords. Gendry listened more than he spoke, his large hands folded neatly, his eyes watchful.

At one point, Alaric caught Lady Sarya studying him not unkindly, but appraisingly. She leaned to Torrhen, whispering something that made him stiffen slightly.

Roslin noticed. Her gaze lingered on them, then shifted back to Alaric and she saw, in the boy’s careful posture, the faint tension of one who knew he was being measured.

When the meal ended, Robb rose. “We’ll have rooms prepared for you all,” he said. “Alaric, your chambers overlook the east wall near the rookery. It’s quiet there.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

Arya stood too, her hand again finding her son’s shoulder. “He’ll manage, Robb. Don’t coddle him. He’s had enough of that from me.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Robb said, smiling faintly.

Still, when she looked at Alaric, her eyes softened. “You’ll be all right?”

Alaric nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good. Remember what I told you be kind, but never let them mistake it for weakness.”

Her voice was quiet, but Robb heard it all the same. So did Torrhen.

That night, the courtyard was nearly empty when Alaric stepped out again, his breath misting in the cold. The moonlight gleamed off the wet stones. From somewhere near the kennels came the faint bark of dogs and the rustle of unseen wolves.

He’d been shown his chambers warm enough, with furs stacked high and a narrow window facing the trees. But he’d wanted a moment alone, to breathe the air of the place that would be his home.

“You’ll freeze,” a voice said from behind him.

He turned. Emirei approached, her hands clasped behind her back. Her hair caught the firelight from the windows above, burnished gold against the grey.

“I’ve had colder nights,” Alaric said with a half-smile.

“Then you’ve never been north of the Wall.”

He laughed softly. “Not yet.”

They walked a few paces in silence, the sound of the wind between them.

“Does it feel strange?” Emirei asked finally. “Being here again?”

“A little,” Alaric admitted. “Everyone’s kind, but… you can feel when you’re being watched, judged.”

Emirei tilted her head. “You think we’d judge you?”

“I think I’d judge me,” he said.

She smiled. “Then you’ll fit right in. That’s what we all do here, judge ourselves and pretend not to care.”

He looked at her then properly looked and for the first time since arriving, he felt ease

When he finally returned to his room, the fire had burned low. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the carved direwolf above the mantle. Winterfell, his mother had called it  home of wolves, keepers of the old blood. He lay back, listening to the wind outside, and wondered which kind of wolf he’d become.

The corridors were quiet. Winterfell at night smelled of smoke and stone, of burning pine and damp floors. Alaric’s boots echoed against the flagstones as he carried a small satchel from his chambers toward the kitchen. He hesitated at each doorway, peering into the darkened halls, listening.

He had been here before, but the castle had grown in his mind since the last visit. Now it was his home. He rubbed the edge of his satchel strap absentmindedly, the leather rough under his fingers, and wondered if he would ever feel fully part of this place.

In the kitchens, the maids were clearing dishes, stacking plates. One looked up, then back down, unsure whether to greet him. Alaric gave a small nod and moved along, carefully avoiding the spilled water near the hearth. He noted everything. The way the firelight flickered across the stone. The faint scent of rosemary. A stray loaf of bread left too close to the edge of the table.

He returned to his chambers carrying a small cup of water. The room was colder than he remembered, but he didn’t mind. He set the cup on the small table and ran a hand along the carved direwolf above the mantle. The grain of the wood was rough, the edges worn smooth by decades of hands. He traced it slowly, feeling the grooves like lines in a map.

Later, he wandered down the hall toward the rookery. The crows murmured softly, ruffling feathers in the dim light. Alaric paused, letting the sound fill him. He had been a stranger once. Here, he would not be. He reached into his pocket for a small token from Arya, a carved wooden figure she had pressed into his hand before leaving. He turned it over, absently biting his thumb while considering which crow to watch.

He found Maera in the hallway, crouched near the base of the stairwell, whispering to Cregan about some game he had misplayed earlier. Their heads turned in unison. Alaric smiled faintly, leaning against the wall.

“I didn’t know you liked watching crows,” Maera said.

“I like seeing things move I don’t expect,” he replied. He tilted his head. “Crows move differently than people.”

Maera blinked. “You sound strange.”

“Maybe,” he said, then glanced toward the hearth. “But I like it.”

Eddard came around the corner, sword in hand, practicing slow movements. Alaric stepped back, then studied him as if learning the rhythm. He noticed the small twitch of Eddard’s wrist, the way his foot hit the floor almost silently. He mimicked it once in place, barely moving, and allowed himself a small smile.

Torrhen appeared then, in the doorway of the armory. His posture was rigid, as if the castle walls themselves had carved him straight. “You shouldn’t be wandering here,” he said. His voice was low, measured.

“I could say the same to you,” Alaric replied. He lifted his chin. “I’m learning the castle. How it breathes at night.”

Torrhen’s eyes flicked to him, a shadow crossing them. “Careful. Nights have eyes.”

Alaric nodded, pretending he understood more than he did. He liked the look in Torrhen’s eyes, though. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous. Like a wolf testing another wolf.

The day had ended, but Alaric did not sleep right away. He lit a small lantern in his chamber and examined the bedspread. He smoothed the folds with one hand, brushing imaginary dust off the pillow. Then he unfolded a small notebook he had carried, flipping to a page with sketches of a ship from the Summer Islands. He traced the lines, noting every mast, every sail, committing them to memory.

He paused at a sound, footsteps above. Someone moved along the balcony outside his room. He held his breath, the sound passed, he exhaled slowly. By the hearth, he placed the token from Arya, the wooden figure, upright. He stared at it for a long moment, fingers twitching as if he wanted to pick it up and spin it in his hands. Instead, he sat cross-legged, letting the warmth seep into his bones.

Winterfell was large. It could swallow a boy whole. But for the first time, Alaric felt that the stone, the cold, the shadows, could also hold him. That he could learn its rhythm, move within it, and not be crushed.

He thought of his mother, Arya would have stayed if she could, her eyes had burned with something fierce when she left him at the gates, protective and unyielding, she had told him once that the North was harsh, that the wolves were sharper than he could imagine, he understood now what she meant.

His thoughts drifted to Torrhen again. That moment in the hallway had felt like a challenge. He could not call Torrhen friend yet, but he could measure him.

The candle burned low. Alaric lay back against the bed, hands behind his head. He watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling. He thought of the rookery, the crows, the whispering hallways. Winterfell was not the Summer Islands but he could belong here. He would make it so.

The sound of a distant door closing startled him slightly, and he held still. The castle was alive at night. Every stone, every hallway, every shadow spoke. He would listen. He would learn. He would wait.

And in the quiet, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Tomorrow he would begin again.

 

Notes:

if there’s any errors! please tell me! thank you!!

Chapter 11: Candle night Stories

Summary:

A few days after Alaric’s arrival. Maera’s curiosity draws her to him, they talk about his travels, trade small secrets, and explore the castle library together. Cregan joins in, through their shared wonder, Alaric begins to belong.

The days grew shorter, and Winterfell took on its late-autumn hush. Smoke curled from every chimney, turning the air above the yard into a drifting veil. The mornings were thin with frost, the stones glistening faintly before the sun melted them away. Alaric had started to learn the rhythm, when the bells sounded for lessons, when the yard fell still for supper, when the ravens called before dusk.

He liked the library best. Its air was thick with dust and old firewood, and the tapestries smelled faintly of age. The northern winds never reached this far; here it always felt slightly warm, and sometimes he forgot the cold existed at all.

Maera found him there one afternoon, seated cross-legged by the hearth, a book open and a cup of tea gone cold beside him. She moved quietly, her steps soft as the whisper of the pages.

“You read strange things,” she said.

Alaric glanced up. “Strange?”

“Travel journals. Sea maps. People who built boats or wrote about birds that don’t exist anymore.”

He smiled faintly. “I like things that go far from where they began.”

Maera came closer, brushing her hair from her eyes. “You’ve gone far.”

“Not far enough.”

She sat across from him, folding her legs as he had. “Tell me about the Summer Islands again,” she said. “You said the sea looks green there. Is that true?”

“It’s green near the coast, where the coral shines through the shallows. Deeper out, it turns blue, darker than night, the air smells sweet, like fruit and salt mixed together. You can hear birds all day.”

Maera’s eyes brightened. “And you swam there?”

“Every day. Sometimes with fish larger than my arms.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re making that up.”

He laughed. “Would I?”

“Yes,” she said, grinning. “But it sounds lovely.”

From behind them came a boyish voice. “I want to swim with big fish.”

Cregan stood in the doorway, his hair messy, a wooden sword clutched in one hand. He looked between them, hesitant, as if unsure whether he was intruding.

Maera waved him in. “Come sit, little wolf.”

Cregan plopped down beside her, dropping the sword with a clatter. “Tell it again,” he said to Alaric. “The one about the storm.”

Alaric leaned back, pretending to think. “The storm off Fair Isle?”

Cregan nodded eagerly.

“Well,” Alaric said, lowering his voice. “The ship rocked so hard the masts screamed. The sails tore clean through, and lightning split the sea. I thought the world was breaking open. The captain said, ‘Hold fast,’ so I tied myself to the rail. And then—”

A loud thud interrupted him. Cregan had jumped at the word “lightning,” knocking over the tea. Maera laughed, grabbing a cloth to blot the spill.

“You ruined the story,” Alaric said with mock sternness.

Cregan grinned. “Sorry.”

They cleaned together, Maera scolding her brother, Alaric smiling quietly. When the mess was gone, he picked up the book again. The pages smelled faintly of cedar. He slid a small pressed flower between the leaves, a habit he’d learned from Arya (his mum) then closed it gently.

Maera noticed. “You keep flowers in all your books.”

“They remind me where I’ve been,” he said.

She tilted her head. “You’re strange.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She laughed softly, and for a while, the three sat in companionable silence. Cregan fidgeted, Maera turned the pages, and Alaric watched the fire. He had thought belonging would be harder. It wasn’t easy yet, but it was starting.

Later, as evening bled through the tall windows, Eddard entered. His presence quieted them without words. He nodded at Alaric. “Father’s looking for you,” he said to Maera and Cregan. “Supper soon.”

When they left, Alaric lingered. He traced the edge of the hearthstone and thought of the sea again, of waves and salt. He wasn’t sure yet if Winterfell’s stillness suited him. But he liked Maera’s laughter. It made the castle sound less hollow.

___________________________________

Winterfell slept beneath a thin veil of snow. The torches along the inner yard hissed and dimmed as the wind turned sharp, slipping through every crack of the old stone.

Alaric could not sleep. The castle still hummed at night the creak of timbers, the sigh of fires dying down, the steady drip of meltwater from the roofs. He dressed quietly and stepped into the passage that overlooked the great courtyard. The air was cold enough to sting his lungs. Somewhere below, a wolf howled once, then was still.

He meant only to walk, but sound carried strangely through the keep. As he passed the royal chambers, a muffled voice stopped him. Roslin’s. He froze.

“…I don’t know what more to do, Robb. You look at me and I can’t tell what you’re thinking anymore.”

Her tone wasn’t angry, only small like a whisper pressed flat by fear.

Inside, Roslin sat on the edge of the bed, hair loose, her hands knotted in her lap. The fire had burned low, throwing long shadows over the walls. Robb stood by the window, the faint orange light touching the lines around his eyes. He turned when she spoke.

“You do enough,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “You say that, but I see how you look when the council quarrels, when Torrhen answers you sharply. You look… tired of me. Like I’m a burden. I keep thinking one day you’ll wake up and realise you’d rather be free of it all of me.”

Robb crossed the room and knelt before her. “Look at me.”

She hesitated, then met his gaze. His eyes were steady, calm as the slow fall of snow outside.

“I fight lords, winters, and memory,” he said. “But I don’t fight you. I never have. You’re the reason I still know where to come home.”

Her breath caught. “Then why do I feel as if you’re already gone?”

He took her hands. “Because the crown steals time. It takes hours from us, not love. You think I would trade you for silence?”

A faint, trembling laugh escaped her. “Sometimes I wonder if the silence would suit you.”

Robb smiled tired, fond. “It never has.”

She leaned forward then, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind outside rattled the shutters, the only sound between them. When she pulled back, tears had marked the corners of her eyes, but her voice steadied.

“I keep thinking I’m failing them. The children, you… even the servants. My mother used to say a wife must be everything at once. I can’t be that.”

Robb brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “No one can. Be yourself. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Her shoulders loosened at last. She exhaled shakily, then reached for him. “Promise you’ll tell me when I start to drift.”

“I’ll hold you before you drift,” he said.

He drew her into his arms and stayed there until her breathing slowed, until the room was quiet again save for the soft crack of the hearth. When at last she fell asleep, he lay beside her, staring at the ceiling. His hand rested lightly over hers, as though even in dreams he meant to keep her close.

Outside the door, Alaric stood still. He hadn’t meant to hear; he felt almost guilty for it. Yet the sound of Robb’s voice the calm, the gentleness rooted him where he stood. He’d known kings who commanded with noise and fury. He moved away quietly, back through the corridor, heart full of something he couldn’t name. The castle around him seemed changed, as if he had glimpsed the pulse that kept it alive.

When he reached his chamber, he paused by the window and looked out over the dark courtyard. Snow had begun to fall again, fine as ash. Somewhere below, a lone torch flared and went out.

Alaric whispered into the stillness, more to himself than to anyone, “They love each other.”

He said it like a discovery, and the words stayed with him as he climbed into bed.

__________________________________

The letter arrived on a crisp morning, its wax seal cracked by the rider’s gloved hand. Rickon unfolded the parchment at the breakfast table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows of Wintersbay. Alayna poured tea for the children, Wylis squirming in his chair, Alessia chasing the steam from her cup with her fingers.

Rickon read the words aloud, his voice steady at first, then faltering slightly as he took in the news.

“Alaric…” he murmured, tracing the name with a finger. “…he’s staying in Winterfell.”

Alayna paused, concern softening her features. “The boy Arya brought north?”

He nodded, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Our Arya’s boy. I can hardly believe it. I haven’t seen him properly since… Maron’s wedding. Five months gone.”

Wylis leaned forward eagerly. “A cousin? Is he coming here?”

“No, little wolf. He’s staying with Uncle Robb. But I’m going to see him.” Rickon’s eyes shone. “I want to ride to Winterfell myself. I want to see him, meet him properly.”

Alayna reached over, squeezing his hand. “Then we shall go. The children can come, too, if you wish. Wylis and Alessia will love the journey.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and unrestrained. “Of course they will. They’ll think it’s an adventure. We’ll ride the roads, watch the rivers, maybe even tell a tale or two along the way.”

Alessia clapped her hands. “I want to see Winterfell! Do they have direwolves there?”

Rickon ruffled her hair, smiling at the mischief in her eyes. “They do. And the wolves are clever, cleverer than any child.”

Wylis frowned. “I want to ride a wolf.”

“Patience, little one,” Rickon said, chuckling. “We’ll start with the horses.”

Preparations began at once. Rickon walked among the stables, checking each mount with a careful hand, brushing the horses’ flanks, adjusting the saddles. Alayna oversaw the packing of provisions dried meats, breads, wool blankets, and a small chest with toys and books for the children. Wylis insisted on carrying a slingshot, Alessia demanded her sketching set. Rickon allowed both; the adventure would teach patience as well as courage.

He paused at the door, gazing out over the bay. The tide was low, the sea a dull silver beneath the autumn sky. His children ran ahead, chasing gulls along the shore, their laughter sharp and clear. He breathed in the cold air, letting it fill him with the same joy he had always felt as a boy. Wintersbay was calm, peaceful, but Winterfell promised stories, and family, and reunion.

Alayna came to stand beside him. “You’re excited,” she said gently.

Rickon grinned, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I am. Arya’s boy… I’ve heard her speak of him enough to know he’s clever, brave. And now I’ll see him. Maybe teach him a thing or two about wolves of the North.”

She smiled, her eyes warm. “And you’ll teach him the right way, won’t you? The way your heart says.”

“I will,” he promised, his gaze drifting back to the children tumbling through the yard. “But more than that, I’ll show him that family is something worth holding. That even a wolf can be gentle if he knows where home is.”

By midday, the horses were ready. Carts carried the provisions; bags were tied and strapped. Wylis bounced in excitement, Alessia attempted to ride the smallest pony herself before Alayna guided her carefully onto its back. Rickon mounted his own horse, brushing the mane absently as he glanced at the children.

“Steady now,” he said. “We ride slow, enjoy the sun while it lasts, and remember every road leads to stories worth telling.”

Alayna rode at his side, her hand brushing his occasionally, a quiet reassurance. “And every story brings us home,” she said.

Rickon nodded, turning to the path ahead. The road to Winterfell stretched through frost-covered fields and rolling hills, dotted with farmsteads and smoke rising from chimneys. Ravens circled overhead, and the wind carried the scent of pine and salt from the bay.

As they rode, Rickon told the children tales of Arya’s adventures, of hidden islands and secret markets, of storms and faraway cities. He imagined Alaric listening to these stories, eyes wide, already forming plans of mischief and exploration. Perhaps they would race through Winterfell’s corridors, or sneak past the kitchens to taste the kitchens’ pies. Perhaps they would argue over maps, as he had with his siblings in his own youth.

Chapter 12: Sansa’s Birthday

Summary:

It’s Sansa’s Birthday and she’s celebrating with her closest family.
Rickon also reaches Winterfell and meets Alaric, he’s met him before and is excited to see his nephew again.

The wind tore across Pyke that evening, sharp and briny, rattling the torches along the battlements. The sea below roared like a living thing, waves smashing against the jagged cliffs, sending sprays of salt into the air. Smoke from the hearths mingled with the mist curling off the Iron Islands, scenting the hall with pine and the faint tang of fire. Inside, the great hall was warm and glowing, lit with hundreds of candles and lanterns, their flames trembling in rhythm with the wind outside.

Sansa stood near the hearth, her hands folded in front of her, gazing out one of the tall windows. The familiar roar of the waves always calmed her, reminded her that even the smallest human quarrels felt petty beside the vast, relentless sea. Tonight, though, she felt the soft pressure of her thirty-eighth year, a quiet awareness that time was moving, that her children were growing, and that the world beyond these walls was never quite still.

Theon appeared at her side, his cloak damp from the sea wind, hair still wild from the ride along the battlements. “You’re staring as if you’ve aged a decade while I wasn’t looking,” he said with a teasing lilt, his dark eyes softening on her face.

“I was thinking of the tide,” Sansa replied, a faint smile touching her lips. “And of how fast it runs, even when the rocks stay the same.”

He laughed, low and warm, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then let us make this evening one where the tide runs kindly for you.”

At that moment, the hall door opened, and Serena swept in, Aaron at her side, both dressed in fine garments that gleamed even in the candlelight. Serena’s poise mirrored Sansa’s own when she was young, though her smile carried the warmth of youth and joy, her movements fluid, confident. “Happy birthday, Mother,” Serena said, inclining her head as Aaron offered a polite bow.

“Thank you, my loves,” Sansa said, her voice soft with affection. She stepped forward, taking Serena’s hand for a brief moment before letting it fall. “And how are you both? The journey here did not tire you?”

“Not at all,” Aaron said. “The Estermonts are used to long rides along windswept coasts. And I would not have missed this evening for the world.”

Maron followed close behind, his wife Aera trailing gracefully. Maron’s resemblance to Theon was striking the same dark hair, the same steady eyes though gentleness softened his sharp lines. “Mother,” he said, bowing slightly. “We’ve brought gifts, though none seem to compare to what this day deserves.”

“You need not bring anything,” Sansa said, cheeks warming. “Your presence is more than enough.”

The younger children tumbled in next, Rodrik’s wide grin revealing a missing tooth, Allara clutching a small notebook, and Catelyn bouncing on her heels, eyes wide and alive with excitement. “Happy birthday, Mother!” they chorused, voices overlapping in eager delight.

Sansa laughed softly, reaching down to ruffle Rodrik’s hair. “Thank you, all of you. Come, sit, before the wind carries you away.”

They moved to the long oak table set for the feast, its surface gleaming with polished plates, cutlery, and goblets. Platters of roasted meats, spiced fish, and fresh breads filled the air with rich, enticing smells. Bowls of salted vegetables, pickled in jars of seawater brine, sat alongside pies decorated with the family’s emblem the Stark direwolf intertwined with a Greyjoy kraken, a subtle reminder of her two worlds.

As the family settled, Sansa felt a small envelope pressed into her hand. She looked down to see the familiar handwriting of Robb, the seal already broken. She set it aside, curious, before a second followed from Arya, Bran, and finally Rickon & Alayna. Her heart warmed at the thought of her siblings, scattered across the North and beyond, taking the time to mark her day.

Serena noticed her pause. “Are these letters from your siblings, Mother?” she asked, leaning closer.

Sansa nodded. “Yes. I will read them soon. I want to savor the moment first, before the words remind me of how far they all are.”

Aaron smiled at the exchange. “Then let us enjoy the feast while you still have us within reach,” he said, raising his goblet.

The hall settled into gentle chatter as Theon called for the first course. Rodrik and Catelyn jostled quietly over who would sit nearest to Sansa, while Allara carefully noted the table arrangements in her notebook, perhaps dreaming of the day she might plan feasts of her own.

Sansa smiled, watching her family. She saw in Serena’s careful gestures the patience she herself had once needed to learn in Maron’s quiet attentiveness, echoes of Theon, in the youngest three, the sparks of curiosity and mischief she remembered from her own youth.

When the first platters were cleared, Sansa finally turned to Robb’s letter. He wrote simply, words filled with warmth and restrained humor, recounting the events at Winterfell and sending his love, with Roslin’s carefully chosen phrases threading through it, reminders of shared history, of family, of the north. Arya’s note was lively, teasing Sansa for her still-stubborn ways, full of small stories of Alaric’s antics that made Sansa laugh softly. Bran’s letter was quiet, thoughtful, sharing his observations of the world beyond the North, his words carrying the weight of wisdom and distance. Rickon and Alayna’s message was playful yet tender, describing their children’s small mischiefs, the growing joy of their household, and their hopes that the evening reminded Sansa of how deeply she was loved.

The candlelight flickered over the letters as she read, the wind sighing against the stone walls. She felt warmth unfurl in her chest, a tether to all her siblings, a reminder that no matter how far the tides carried them, their hearts remained with her.

After the letters, Serena and Aaron suggested a toast. The hall fell silent, only the muted roar of the sea beyond interrupting. Serena’s voice rang clear. “To Mother to her wisdom, her kindness, and her courage. May she continue to guide us, and may the sea carry her laughter always.”

Theon raised his cup as well, dark eyes meeting hers. “To my Lady, my heart, and the mother of our children. May your days be long, and your evenings full of love.”

Sansa’s cheeks warmed. She lifted her goblet, glancing at each child and adult present. “To family,” she said simply. “To love, and the storms that teach us how to stand together.”

The hall erupted in quiet cheers, Rodrik nearly tipping his chair over in his excitement. Laughter rolled across the stone walls, mingling with the wind outside, carrying salt and promise.Later, as the plates were cleared, Sansa walked with Theon to one of the upper balconies, the sky was a deep slate, waves crashing against jagged rocks below, lightning flashing briefly far off over the horizon.

“You look happy,” he said softly, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“I am,” she admitted. “Even knowing the wind never truly sleeps, even knowing Pyke waits for trouble. Tonight is ours.”

He kissed her forehead, letting the moment linger. “And tomorrow, we face whatever comes. But tonight, it is yours, and ours, and theirs.” He nodded toward the hall, where laughter still rang. Sansa leaned against him, letting the cold air tangle with the warmth from the hearths, the sea roared, the candles flickered, and for a single evening, she let herself forget the distant political storms, the rebellion whispers, and the weight of her title. She was surrounded by love, by family, and by the wild beauty of Pyke itself. She knew the tide would rise again, that the world beyond these cliffs never stayed still. But tonight, she allowed herself to simply be daughter, mother, sister, lady, wife and felt, for the first time that evening, a profound joy.

___________________________________

The wind was crisp over Winterfell’s outer walls, carrying the faint scent of pine smoke and snow-damp stone. Rickon Stark guided his small party along the road to the castle, his eyes bright with anticipation. After months apart, he was eager for a simple joy seeing his nephew Alaric, now a growing young man, and watching his children meet their cousin for the first time.

Alayna held Alessia close as Wylis trotted on his pony, his excitement barely contained. “Father, do you think Alaric will remember us?” Wylis asked.

“He will,” Rickon assured him, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “He’ll be older, yes, but family remembers family. And you and Alessia will make him happy to see you.”

The gates of Winterfell opened with a creak, and the family entered the familiar courtyard. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that danced across the snow-dusted stones, from the steps of the great hall, Robb Stark stepped forward, his blue eyes scanning the visitors with warmth. Beside him, Roslin smiled softly, welcoming.

“Rickon,” Robb said, descending the steps. The brothers embraced briefly, the familiarity of Stark blood easing years of distance. “And you’ve brought quite the family with you.”

Rickon gestured to Alayna and the children. “We’ve traveled to see Alaric. That is the true reason we’ve come north for him.”

Alayna gave a polite nod. “It is an honor to visit Winterfell, Lord Robb. But our main purpose is family.”

From the great hall’s upper steps, Alaric appeared now a tall, confident youth of fifteen, his eyes immediately lighting on his younger cousins. He ran down to meet them, throwing himself at Wylis and Alessia with enthusiasm. “I’ve missed you!” he shouted, spinning Wylis around in a playful hug before giving Alessia a careful, teasing bow. Alaric knew well his Uncle Rickon’s children and his younger baby cousins, this is because Arya stayed the closest with Rickon, and that’s because Rick always stayed looking up to her, so they’d write to eachother much often then to anyone else, and so then Alaric started writing to his younger cousins, and they got on quite well, he enjoyed their company very much so and thought they were very adorable, Rickon and his two children would also visit plenty to go see Arya while Alayna would mostly stay home and look after their seat in the North. 

Rickon laughed, shaking his head at the chaotic joy of the children. “You’ve grown fast,” he said, looking fondly at Alaric. “And you’re as lively as ever.”

The rest of the visit unfolded as a quiet, contented day. The children explored the castle, guided by Wylis’s careful curiosity and Alaric’s playful leadership. They ran through the courtyards, examined the stables, and even ventured into the training yard, where Robb allowed them brief supervised practice with wooden swords.

Alayna walked with Roslin through the halls, speaking quietly of family and travels. “He’s grown so much,” Alayna said, watching Rickon laugh with the children. “And yet… you can see the Starks in him, the same warmth I hoped he would inherit from you.”

Roslin nodded. “It is good that they have each other, even if just for a short time. They’ll remember these days, the laughter and the bonds. That is what family truly is.”

As the sun dipped behind Winterfell’s towers, Rickon’s party gathered once more. Though their visit was brief, the warmth of shared kinship lingered, and Rickon could see, in the bright eyes of his children and Alaric, that distance had not weakened family ties.

“Thank you,” Rickon said to Robb, clasping his brother’s shoulder. “For allowing us this day. For Alaric, it has meant everything.”

Robb smiled. “Family is never far, Rickon. And today, none of it feels distant at all.”

Chapter 13: Hear ye Hear ye

Summary:

Theon realising that stakes are high, and he needs to fight against wrong. Though his army is small, and he must call for aid, but will Winterfell answer?

Night had settled over Pyke like a shroud, the sea thrashing below in a frenzied rhythm that mirrored the tension twisting inside Theon’s chest, the council chamber was dim, lit only by a few guttering candles and the glow of the brazier. Maps were strewn across the table ports circled in ink, supply lines marked in harsh black strokes, the names of vassal houses scrawled beside their sigils. 

Theon stood over it all, hands braced on the table, jaw tight. His breath misted faintly in the cold air.

Behind him, Sansa watched quietly, wrapped in a deep blue mantle to keep out the sea wind that seeped through every stone of Pyke. Her hair still red as flame though streaked now with gold brushed her shoulders as she stepped closer.

“You’re thinking yourself into a grave,” she murmured gently.

Theon didn’t look up. “I’m thinking myself into a war.”

One vassal house small, but loud and venomous had stirred trouble for weeks, rallying other minor lords who were angered by raised taxes and old grudges. But now Theon saw what he hadn’t wanted to see this was no simple protest, this was plotting. This was treachery, and every carved symbol on the map felt like a warning.

“My army is too small,” Theon muttered, grip tightening on the map edges until the parchment crinkled. “We have ships, yes, but men? Not nearly enough. If they rise, if they choose to fight me publicly—”

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“—then the Islands fracture. And if the Islands fracture… the sea will swallow us.”

Sansa moved beside him, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re not alone, Theon.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Aren’t I? Every man on this rock questions whether a Greyjoy with a Stark wife can rule them. They like Serena well enough, they respect Maron. But me? They’ve never stopped doubting me.”

“And yet you’ve given them twenty years of stability,” Sansa countered softly. “You’ve given them peace. They may test you, but you have proven yourself more than a thousand times.”

Theon looked up at her then, at the woman who had once been a girl in a lion’s den, fragile and lost but now strong enough to stare down storms. And he wished, not for the first time, that he had half her calm.

“I have to call for aid,” he said quietly.

Sansa stiffened. “From Winterfell?”

His eyes lowered. “Aye.”

For a moment she said nothing. The candlelight caught the hollow of her cheek, the curve of her lips as she considered the weight of his words.

“Robb loves us,” she said finally. “But he is King in the North, with his own duties. And he may not want to interfere in the Islands’ affairs. The North is independent now he has to choose what’s best for his people.”

Theon nodded grimly. “I know. Which is why I hate even thinking of asking him. He’d come if we were dying—he always would. But would he send men? Would the North bleed for Pyke?” His voice cracked without meaning to.

“Would Winterfell answer us?” And now the fear was out there, hanging heavy between them.

Sansa stepped closer until her forehead touched his. “You don’t ask him as a king,” she whispered. “You ask him as your brother.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Theon breathed. “That I’ll force him to choose between being my brother… and being a ruler.” Outside, the sea crashed against the rocks like a warning.

Theon closed his eyes. “The stakes are too damned high,” he whispered. “And if I do nothing… we lose the Islands. If I act alone… we lose the Islands. If I call Winterfell and they refuse… we lose the Islands.”

Sansa kissed his knuckles, grounding him. “Then we make a plan a real one we fight for what’s right, not what’s easy & we trust that the men who call themselves our family will stand with us.”

Theon opened his eyes slowly and something hard and determined burned there now, something he thought the sea had taken from him long ago.

“I’ll send the raven at dawn.”

___________________________________

The ravens had come from the Wall two days earlier, and Robb had barely slept since.

Jon was returning.

Finally. After twenty years of duty and ice and distance he was coming home. Robb stood in the courtyard, the pale light of early evening stretching long shadows across the snow. Roslin stood at his side, her arm looped through his, while behind them the children gathered with murmured curiosity.

But Robb wasn’t thinking of politics, or winter stores, or the matters waiting on his desk.

He was thinking of Jon, of his brother and a part of him felt like he was sixteen again, waiting for Jon to walk into the training yard with that steady, knowing look.

“Father, you’re fidgeting,” Emirei murmured.

She stood beside him in a deep blue cloak lined with white fur, her hair swept back neatly, practically grown though Robb pretended not to see it.

“I do not fidget,” Robb muttered.

Emirei smirked. “You do when you’re excited.”

Robb nudged her lightly. “Careful, Emi, or I’ll marry you to the first dull lad who can’t take a joke.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’d never curse me with that, Father.”

Roslin laughed softly. “She has you there.”

Maera, stood tucked slightly behind them. her face narrower and something in that solemn expression often reminded Robb painfully of his mother. She clutched a book but kept glancing toward the gate with a yearning she tried to hide.

Then the horn sounded. Three blasts, for an honoured guest. The gates slowly opened, creaking under the weight of ice and winter.

And through the falling snow rode a single rider in black, hood back, dark curls dusted white.

Jon.

Robb didn’t realize he’d moved until he was already crossing the courtyard.

Jon dismounted slowly, eyes lifting and the moment their gazes met, the years melted.

“Robb,” Jon breathed.

Robb pulled him into a fierce embrace, holding the back of Jon’s cloak as if afraid he might vanish again. Jon clung just as tightly, breath shaking, the cold clinging to him like a second skin.

“You’re home,” Robb said thickly, voice breaking. “Jon… you’re home.”

When they finally stepped back, Robb drew in a breath and turned proudly.

“Come. There is someone you must meet.”

Roslin stepped forward gracefully, offering a warm smile.

“Jon,” Robb said, “this is my wife Lady Roslin.”

Jon bowed his head respectfully. “My lady. I’m honoured.”

“And I,” Roslin said with genuine warmth, “am glad you are here. Robb has spoken of you often.”

Now Robb began the introductions, one by one.

Eddard, tall and calm, with his wife Lady Rheona at his side.

“Named for Father,” Robb said softly.

Torrhen, proud and sturdy, with Lady Sarya Blackwood, Raven-eyed and steady. Then Emirei stepped forward, offering a perfectly executed curtsy.

Jon blinked, visibly struck. “She looks like you, Roslin,” he murmured. “Truly.”

Emirei flushed with pleased embarrassment.“Father teases me enough, don’t you start too, Uncle Jon.”

Robb chuckled. “She deserves it.”

Then Maera approached, clutching her book.

Jon studied her with softer eyes.

“She looks… a touch like Lady Catelyn,” he said quietly.

Robb swallowed hard. “Aye. She does.”

And finally, little Cregan, who rushed forward with no sense of proper formality at all.

“You’re Uncle Jon!” he declared.

Jon laughed, ruffling his hair. “That I am.”

Robb’s expression softened further as he guided Jon toward one more figure standing to the side, hesitant but trying to look composed.

A boy of fifteen tall for his age, dark-haired, grey-eyed.

“And this,” Robb said gently, “is Alaric. Arya’s son.”

Jon froze, the boy dipped his head. “Uncle.”

Jon’s breath left him in a rush.

“He has her eyes,” Jon whispered. “Gods… he has her eyes.”

Alaric gave a faint, awkward smile. “She says I argue like her too.”

Jon actually laughed a short, broken sound full of memory. “Then Seven help the world.”

Robb placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder, grounding him. “Come inside,” he said gently. “There is food, warmth… and family.”

Jon nodded, blinking away the threat of tears.

“Aye,” he whispered. “Family.”

Chapter 14: Spread of News

Summary:

Stark family found out about the incoming war, Robb prepares, he reads the letter Theon sent him, and realised he must help his brother in law.

Roslin finding out too, and at first she doesn’t want Robb to go, but she understands duty, Jon is the same, Robb doesn’t want Jon to come along and that he should stay in Winterfell but Jon is not as complaint and wants to fight by his brothers side.

“To my brother, Robb Stark, King in the North,

The tides have turned against Pyke. The vassals who once swore loyalty have faltered, and my hold over the Islands has been shattered. The rebellion grows bolder each day, and I have no choice but to take up arms.

I ride to war not for conquest, not for greed, but to preserve what is ours: the Iron Islands, our people, and the honor of the Greyjoy name. I cannot face this alone.

I ask, Robb, that if your heart and your sense of duty allow, that you ride with me. I know our years have been marked by distance and… differences. Yet I am your brother, and there are bonds that even time and hardship cannot sever.

I would have you at my side, not as a king against a king, but as brothers facing what must be faced. If you choose to come, we will fight together. If not, I understand but know that Pyke stands or falls in the shadow of this coming storm.

May the Old Gods guide your hand in this decision.

Theon Greyjoy, Lord of Pyke”

Robb held the scroll in his hands, the familiar weight of parchment heavier than the finest iron. The wax seal was cracked, the ink faintly smudged in places a sign of haste, of urgency. He unrolled it slowly, each word settling into his mind like stones in a river, making him pause at intervals.

“The tides have turned against Pyke…” he murmured. His voice barely above the whisper of the northern wind through Winterfell’s open windows.

Robb’s gaze lifted to the courtyard below, imagining the castle of Pyke, the high walls battered by storms, the banners of House Greyjoy trembling in the wind. He is asking me to ride with him… to war.

A tightness gripped his chest. He had fought so many battles, shed so much blood, yet here he was again, being asked to consider raising his banners, to enter a conflict that could shape the fate of the Iron Islands and perhaps the Seven Kingdoms once more.

His mind flicked to Theon, the brother he had once been at odds with, the man he had forgiven and trusted, the man whose courage and recklessness were inseparable. And yet… he calls me now as family, not as a king.

Robb rolled the parchment gently between his fingers. His heart beat faster, a mixture of fear, resolve, and the undeniable pull of loyalty. The North had fought for independence, the North had endured. And yet, the call of brotherhood, the call of duty, and the inevitability of war tugged at him like the tide itself.

“I will ride,” Robb whispered to the empty hall, his voice low, steady, resolute. “If Theon calls me… I will not turn away.”

He folded the scroll carefully, placing it over his heart for a moment, feeling the weight of the hasty decision. 

Robb and Theon were not on the best terms, and it wasn’t for any reason so terrible, but rather because Robb did not hold out his hand to Theon, even when he knew the man needed help. Theon had been suffering from the consequences of helping Robb’s kingdom become independent, but when it came for Theon’s punishment, Robb did not help, but rather cared more for his people. 

It wasn’t really neither persons fault, but Theon felt betrayed, but Robb knew he could not fight another war right after losing so many men to the War of the Five Kings, and he needed to boost morale. He also knew that it wouldn’t be easy to get his soldiers to fight for the Greyjoy’s especially since they all wanted to go home. So Robb let them. 

20 years later and he’s watched how Pyke has fallen, but he never felt as though he should help them, he’s a busy man after all, but this was one of his regrets. And to hear that they were going to war, filled Robb with more emotions than he thought. 

“Love, are you alright?” A soft voice came from the door, making Robb jolt. 

He turned to face his wife, “Of course….” He looked back at the paper and then back at her and back at the paper again, “I must tell you something.” He said solemnly. 

Roslin entered the room, her hands laid on her lap as she sat on the chair opposite to him. “What is wrong?” 

“Dearest….” He started, “Theon calls me for war, he asks for aid, Pyke is going to fight for freedom.” 

Roslin froze, both in shock and horror. War? again? She couldn’t handle it the first time, the stress of it all, and to think he was leaving her again. 

“..Roslin?” He asked gently, she stood up quickly and he stood up too, and bolted right into his arms. 

“Promise me… Promise me you’ll come back, safe and unharmed, not a cut on your brow. Tell me that now.” Her face was pressed against his chest. 

“You know me love” He stroked her hair, “I may not be young anymore but I am still a wolf.” She looked back up at him, teary eyed. 

“Is Sansa and the children alright? do they know?” 

“He made no mention of them, but I assume they must know already.” He looked down at her, he holds her face with his hands, his eyes searching her face. “My sweet love, they will be fine, but I must tell you something aswell.” 

“What is it?” 

He bit his lip nervously. “I want to take the boys with me to war.” 

“What?!” Roslin shouted, Robb quickly placed his hand over her mouth, his hand was very big so he covered practically half her face while doing so. 

“Listen.” But she was not listening at all. Her babies? her boys? Eddard and Torrhen? facing war? possible demise. She’d not allow it. Not allow it at all. She squirmed for a second, muffled curses vibrating against his palm. “Mmff—you can’t—mmff—what about the children?!—mmff!”

Robb tightened his grip just slightly, trying not to laugh at her muffled indignation. “I know exactly what you’d say, and yes, I can hear it all, but listen.”

He slowly removed his hand, and Roslin crossed her arms, scowling, though a trace of a smile tugged at her lips. “Go on, then. Enlighten me. Make me regret not smothering you while I had the chance.”

Robb drew a deep breath. “I want to take Eddard and Torrhen with me. To war. And I know it sounds reckless, but—”

“Mmmh! Reckless? They’ll die!” she interrupted, throwing her hands up.

“They might,” he admitted. “But they are strong, capable, trained men. And they’ve grown up under the North’s shadow, under our guidance. If Pyke falls completely to chaos… I would never forgive them, I need them. And I need them by my side.”

Roslin’s eyes softened, though worry still laced every line of her face. “And what of me? Of the family here, Robb? You want to risk them risk our sons because of a rebellion on rocks and tides?”

Robb reached out, gripping her shoulders gently. “I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s not simple. But Pyke is Theon’s home, our family’s blood runs there, and if the Iron Throne council moves in, they’ll take more than Pyke they’ll take lives that belong to no one but the Greyjoys. I can’t… I won’t let that happen.”

Roslin exhaled sharply, letting herself sink into the warmth of his hands. “So you drag them into a war because… it’s the right thing to do?”

Robb nodded, eyes hard but full of quiet resolve. “The right thing to do. And maybe… because it’s the only way to make sure our family stands.”

She shook her head, half exasperated, half admiring. “You’re infuriating, Robb Stark. But… I suppose I can’t argue with you. Not really.”

He smirked, leaning closer. “Good. Because next time I’m thinking of dragging you into battle, I’ll expect full compliance.”

Roslin rolled her eyes, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Robb laughed softly, tucking her close.

“The North,” he murmured, “we fight for family. Even when it scares us.”

___________________________________

The next morning, Robb called his sons Eddard and Torrhen into the solar. The fire was low, casting a golden glow over the room, but the weight in the air was palpable.

“Father,” Eddard said as he stepped forward, standing ramrod-straight. “You summoned us?”

Robb nodded, unrolling Theon’s letter. “Pyke has fallen. The vassal houses are stirring rebellion, and Theon will march to war. I intend to ride with him. And I want you both at my side.”

Torrhen’s jaw tightened. “You want us to leave… now?”

Robb’s eyes softened. “It’s dangerous, I know. But the Islands belong to family, and I won’t let them be destroyed while I stay here safe. You have your mother’s strength, your own skill… and my trust. That is all I can offer. Will you ride with me?”

Both boys exchanged a glance, a quiet understanding passing between them.

Eddard nodded slowly. “We will follow you, Father. Always.”

Torrhen exhaled, stiffened, then gripped Robb’s shoulder. “We go together, then.”

Robb placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “You’ll be careful. Honor the North, but remember family comes first.”

Both men nodded and went to go tell their wives respectively in their chambers. 

Eddard found Rheona pacing by the window, her hands fidgeting nervously, the wind rattled the shutters, carrying the tension of Winterfell’s quiet morning.

“We ride with Robb,” Eddard said, his voice steady but gentle. “I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

Rheona froze, eyes wide, and then the tears came not just of fear, but of urgency. “Eddard… I—I can’t bear the thought of you leaving, not knowing… not knowing what might happen…”

He took a step closer, reaching for her hands. “Rheona, look at me. Whatever it is, we face it together.”

She swallowed hard, voice shaking. “There is something I must tell you before you go. Eddard… I’m… I’m with child.”

Eddard blinked, stunned for a moment, then a slow, awed smile spread across his face. “You… are?”

“Yes,” she whispered, gripping his hands tightly. “I didn’t know how to tell you, with all of this… with the war, with everything. But you should know our child is coming.”

Eddard’s chest swelled, and he drew her into his arms, holding her close. “This… this is wonderful, Rheona. You’ve given me hope even now. I will come back to you and our child. I swear it.”

Tears fell freely now, mingling with laughter and relief. Rheona buried her face against his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Eddard. Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I promise,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her hair. “I will return. I will protect you and this child with my life.”

___________________________________

Torrhen found Sarya standing on the balcony, gazing toward the snow-dusted courtyard. Her dark hair was pulled back, the wind tugging gently at the strands framing her face. He approached quietly, knowing words would be enough without ceremony.

“Father has asked me to ride with him,” Torrhen said softly, his voice steady. “To Pyke. There is war coming.”

Sarya turned, eyes serious but composed. “I know,” she said simply. “I had feared as much.”

Torrhen swallowed, studying her face. “You are not afraid to see me leave?”

She stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Of course I worry, Torrhen. But I trust you. I trust your judgment, your skill, and your heart. And I trust your father.”

He took a deep breath. “I will be careful. But… the Iron Islands may fall if we do not act swiftly. I cannot stay behind, not when this is their home, their people, and our family at stake.”

Sarya nodded, her expression steady and strong. “Then go. Go with my blessing, Torrhen. And come back to me.”

He smiled faintly, reaching to cup her cheek. “You are remarkable, Sarya. Calm and brave when I would have faltered.”

She returned his smile, a warmth in her eyes that steadied him. “We are stronger together, even when apart.”

Torrhen leaned down, brushing his lips lightly against hers a soft, lingering kiss full of promise and reassurance. “I will return,” he whispered.

“And I will wait,” Sarya replied, resting her forehead against his. “Be swift. Be safe. Bring honor… and come back.”

Torrhen drew a deep breath, the weight of duty settling on his shoulders. But the certainty of Sarya’s trust steadied him, giving him courage. 

The great hall of Winterfell was unusually still, the fire crackling faintly in the hearth, casting warmth across the stone floor. Robb stood before his children, Roslin close by, her hand resting lightly on his arm, sensing the heaviness he carried.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet their eyes.

“Eddard and Torrhen ride with me,” he said quietly. “To Pyke. There is war coming, and I have asked them to stand at my side.”

For a moment, only the fire seemed to respond, flickering in the silence.

Emirei, standing nearest to him, pressed a hand to her mouth. Then, as if a dam had broken, tears spilled down her cheeks. She collapsed slightly against her mother, wailing softly, “Father! My brothers! They can’t go! They can’t—”

Roslin wrapped her arms around her, stroking her hair and whispering reassurances. Robb’s heart ached at the sight like mother, like daughter both carried the same fierce love for family that would not let them rest easy.

Maera, beside Emirei, turned pale. Her eyes were wide, glistening. “Older… brothers… joining you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. Her hands gripped the hem of her dress as if grounding herself, bewildered by the thought that Eddard and Torrhen, usually so close and protective, would now ride into danger with their father.

Alaric, standing slightly apart, stiffened at the news, his grey eyes sharp and bright despite the shock. “I… I understand why it’s necessary,” he said slowly, his voice firm. “They are brave. Father- Robb needs to defend them. And… Pyke is just theirs to defend, to help Sansa. I just… did not expect it.” In this moment Alaric almost slipped up to call Robb father, Robb was so kind hearted and such a great father figure these past few days, and honestly it brought Robb a warm smile.

Robb then placed a reassuring hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “I have sent word to your mother,” he said. “She will come to the North soon. She will know. And she trusts us, Alaric, as I trust you, to stand strong until she arrives.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, a mixture of determination and longing passing over his features. He nodded once, sharply. “I will do my best. I promise.”

Little Cregan, too young to fully understand the weight of the words, clung to Roslin’s skirts, burying his face against her. “I don’t want them to go…” he whispered, small arms wrapping around her legs.

Roslin bent down, gathering him into her lap, holding him close. “I know, little wolf,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know. But they ride for the family and for us.”

Robb watched them all, chest tight with sorrow and pride, each of them carried the fear of losing those they loved most, yet he also saw sparks of courage and loyalty in every face.

He drew a deep breath. “We will pray for their safe return,” he said quietly. “And we will honor them by standing strong here, together. That is how we protect Winterfell, even when the North rides to war.”

Emirei sniffled into her mother’s shoulder. Maera wiped her eyes, still trying to comprehend, Alaric squared his shoulders, determination etched on his face, and Cregan clung to Roslin, too young to understand fully, but safe in the arms of those he loved.

___________________________________

The morning air was sharp, cold enough to sting the cheeks, but bright with early sunlight reflecting off Winterfell’s snow-dusted stones. Robb moved through the corridors with a heaviness he had known too many times in his life. Today he would leave for war with Eddard and Torrhen and every step felt like a piece of home was being carved away.

He found Emirei first. She stood in the solar, her hands trembling around a small object. When she turned, Robb’s heart cracked. It was her old direwolf plush the one her mother had sewn when she was still a babe. One ear was crooked; the stitching uneven. She’d slept with it until she was nearly ten.

“For you, Father,” she whispered, voice wavering. “I want you to take it with you. So… so you’ll have a piece of me.”

Robb knelt before her, the plush settling into his palm like a piece of her childhood returned. He pulled her into a tight embrace.

“I promise you, Emi,” he murmured into her hair, “I will return. You will see me again. And every time I look at this, I’ll remember that little girl who followed me everywhere in Winterfell even when you could hardly walk. The one who grinned like the sun and wanted every story I knew.”

Her tears spilled freely, and he held her until her shaking quieted.

Maera waited nearby, hands clasped before her. Always quieter, always more reserved. But her eyes shimmered.

“Father,” she said softly, “when you return… could you bring me a book from Pyke?”

Robb smiled and cupped the back of her head, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “Of course, my little scholar.”

She hugged him fiercely though she was the independent one, always reading, always thinking. And he remembered her as a babe, when she’d once tried to latch onto him by mistake. The embarrassment, the laughter afterward and now here she was, tall and clever, a young woman he wanted to know even better.

A small shape appeared in the doorway. It was Cregan. Barely nine, still soft in the cheeks. His lower lip trembled.

“Father…?”

Robb lifted him at once, pressing a loud kiss to his cheek. Cregan clung to him like a frightened pup.

“All will be well, little wolf,” Robb whispered.

Cregan sniffled. “Will you be back for my tenth name day?”

Robb froze, breath catching. He knew the war would last longer than four months. He kissed Cregan’s hair.

“I… I cannot promise I’ll be here for the day itself,” he admitted softly, “but I swear to you I will return and when I do, I will bring you more gifts than you’ve ever seen.”

Cregan curled into him, nodding against his shoulder. Robb lowered him gently. Roslin brushed Cregan’s hair back, her eyes glossy but proud.

Later, Robb found Jon in the courtyard. The cold wind whipped their cloaks, but neither moved.

“I am sorry,” Robb said quietly. “You’ve only just returned, and now war calls us all. I wish… I wish you could have had peace.”

Jon studied him with the same seriousness he’d had since they were boys. “War comes for us whether we want it or not. I ride with you, Robb. I’ll stand with Theon as well. Whatever comes we face it together.”

Robb nodded, emotion thick in his chest. “Thank you, brother.”

Chapter 15: Bear the swords, light the fires

Summary:

Robb & Jon leave for war, giving his final goodbyes Arya arrives to Winterfell, but just after Robb has gone, and her and Gendry plan on staying at Winterfell till the war is over, to provide protection and to be with their son.

The courtyard of Winterfell was alive with cold, metal, and fear. Snow drifted from a pale sky, swirling around the gathered soldiers and Stark banners, clinging to armor and fur in white dust. Horses stamped anxiously, their breaths rising like smoke. Every clang of steel echoed against the ancient stone walls.

Robb stood in the center of it all tall, broad-shouldered, armoured in dark steel and grey wolf fur, every inch looking like the King of the North… and every inch looking like a husband and father trying not to break.

Jon Snow waited near the open gate, mounted on a black horse, Ghost at his side. Greywind not too far behind. His gloved hand tightened on the reins as he watched the sharp winter wind rush in and out of the gates, as if the world itself were calling them away. His jaw was set. His eyes kept flicking between the horizon and Robb the unspoken urgency heavy in his tense shoulders.

Eddard and Torrhen stood with their father, already astride their horses. Their wives Rheona and Sarya clung to one another for strength, hands tightly interlaced. Rheona’s cheeks were blotchy from crying, her fingers trembling around Sarya’s, while Sarya kept her lips pressed together in an effort not to break in front of the men she loved.

Emirei was weeping openly, brushing tears away so aggressively her cheeks were red. Maera stood beside her, trying to keep composure but failing her eyes shimmering, lips quivering.

Cregan clung to Roslin’s skirts, only nine and unable to understand anything except that everything felt wrong. Robb hugged each child tightly.

Then the two young wives hugged Eddard and Torrhen one last time Rheona pressing her forehead into Eddard’s chest, Sarya kissing Torrhen once, hard, memorizing him.

“Go with honor,” Sarya whispered.

“Come back,” Rheona whispered.

At last Roslin knelt and hugged Cregan, smoothing his black hair, kissing his cheeks over and over. “My sweet boy,” she murmured, “Father will come back. You must be brave.”

Then she rose and embraced Maera, who cried silently into her shoulder. She cupped Emirei’s face next, wiping the tears from her daughter’s cheeks with trembling thumbs. “He will return,” Roslin whispered into her hair. “He always comes back to us.”

Then she embraced Alaric, Arya’s son the nephew she had come to care for. Only after saying goodbye to her sons, Eddard and Torrhen and giving them kisses to their foreheads and praying over them did she turn toward Robb.

Robb stood still, waiting for her. Roslin approached slowly, as if each step was something she had to will her body to take. When she reached him, she laid both hands on his armored chest, the cold steel biting her palms through her gloves.

“You look too calm,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Far too calm.”

“I’m shaking on the inside,” he murmured.

Roslin pulled a long strip of soft blue fabric from within her cloak a torn piece of her gown. The edges were uneven, frayed slightly. She had ripped it in haste or desperation. “Lift your arm.” Robb raised his left arm the one bearing his shield.

She reached up stretching onto her toes and laid the fabric across the broad curve of his armored bicep, just beneath the fur of his cloak. Her fingers fumbled at first, stiff with cold and nerves, brushing against the hard steel. She smoothed the fabric gently, then wrapped it again, looping it around the metal until it lay snug against him  a bright ribbon of blue in a world of grey and snow.

Her hands trembled as she tied the final knot. “It’s to tell them…” Her voice cracked. “To tell everyone you ride with my favor. That you are mine. Always mine.” Her thumb brushed over the knot as though she could anchor him to Winterfell with that single touch.

Then she pulled out a handkerchief white linen, soft and beautifully embroidered in blue thread: Roslin Stark

She stood on her toes again and gently pressed the cloth to Robb’s forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat beneath his hairline, smoothing the strands away from his face. “You’re sweating like a boy, not a king,” she whispered, trying to sound teasing but her voice buckled halfway through.

She folded the handkerchief into his hand.“Keep it. Bring it back to me.”

“I will,” Robb said, his voice thick, deep. “Nothing in this world will keep me from returning to you.”

She surged upward, grabbing his cloak and kissing him fiercely, desperately, lips trembling against his. Robb wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her fully into him, sealing memory and longing into that single kiss.

When they broke apart, her tears were already freezing in the cold. Jon shifted in his saddle, eyes flicking to the gate again.

“Robb,” he called softly. “It’s time.”

Robb exhaled slowly, painfully. He brushed a final touch across Roslin’s cheek, then mounted his horse in one powerful motion.

Jon leaned forward slightly, giving Roslin a respectful nod a promise wordlessly given.

“I’ll guard him with my life,” Jon said.

Roslin clasped her cloak tightly around herself, nodding once, tears falling soundlessly.

Robb looked back at his family his wife with her hand over her heart, his children gathered around her, the blue ribbon fluttering against his armor.

Then he raised his voice. “Ride!” The gates thundered open.

And Robb Stark with Jon Snow at his side and the direwolf banners snapping behind them rode out of Winterfell into the white horizon, the blue strip of Roslin’s gown bright against the steel of his arm.

Roslin stood in the courtyard until the last echo of hooves faded. And only then did she let herself break.

___________________________________

Arya skimmed the words of the letter, her brother? to war? Pyke falling apart, literally everything going downhill! Arya told Gendry straight away and both came with a plan, to take a journey to Winterfell, they must go back to protect Alaric. 

The letter Robb sent them took a week to come, so she knew that he would have left already, but she doesn’t kno the state Robb has left Winterfell in, how protected it was, considering Robb took his strongest soldiers and his sons. She didn’t know what to expect. 

It was a two week ride to Winterfell from their current location, Arya paid as much as she could to reach there, to see her family. 

It pained her knowing Sansa was in so much trouble, and whatever was going over there, so she prayed, for the first time, that they would be okay, she remembers her first war, and she would not want any worse to happen. 

She learnt about Jon joining the war too, and that also hurt her. Her brother Jon. Who was at the Wall for so long, and he finally thought he found peace, only for him to be forced into battle, but she knows that he will want to do this, for the family. 

Notes:

wanted to write more for arya but this was honestly all i could think that she could think.

Chapter 16: March To Pyke (1)

Summary:

This is from the POV between Jon and Robb, I will put a disclaimer infront of whose mind we are in.
This is the march to Pyke, the army is currently on their way to Rickon’s seat (other context, yes Rickon was in Winterfell before the war was talked about and before Theon agreed but he only stayed for about two days, not every chapter is from one day to the day after. Rickon is currently back at his seat (Winterbay) which is between The Rills and Stony shore.

Currently Robb & Jon’s army are at Torrhen’s Square.

JON’S POV

Jon had always thought of marching to war as something distant, abstract, like a story read by firelight in the quiet of the Wall. Standing now among the gathered banners of the North at Torrhen’s Square, the chill air biting at his face, he understood the weight of leadership in a way he never had before. Every horse, every man, every pile of supplies carried a potential life or death. Every decision mattered.

The sight of the Northern lords saying their farewells to Robb strong men, weathered and scarred, their faces taut with worry yet firm in loyalty struck him with an unexpected pang. These were the men who would follow Robb into Pyke and beyond, who would bleed and die if necessary. Jon had known few like them personally, yet seeing them bow their heads, pat a brother’s shoulder, hand over a coin or a prayer, reminded him of the scale of what was coming.

The army’s organisation was chaotic, yet efficient in its own grim way. Supplies were being loaded onto wagons, horses checked, scouts riding ahead through the forested outskirts. Jon watched as a group of men hoisted sacks of dried meat, salted fish, and barrels of grain, weapons were being counted, armour checked, the wagons of tools and siege equipment secured behind the infantry. Winterfell’s stores had been carefully divided, and now the army stretched long across the snow-covered plains, flags snapping in the wind. Every man knew his role yet in Jon’s mind, the danger was everywhere, a misstep in supply, a delay in communication, an ambush from the Iron Islands or the coastal raiders.

Jon glanced at Robb riding alongside him, the familiar sweep of dark hair falling over his forehead, the weight of command etched in his face. Even on the battlefield, Robb carried the air of a man born to lead, yet Jon could see the shadows behind his eyes the worry for his family, the children left behind, the wife who had tied a piece of her gown around his arm a day or more ago, honestly he was losing track off time & Jon wondered if anyone truly understood what it cost a man to leave home to defend others.

“Father’s spirit will not let us fail,” Jon murmured under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. He adjusted his cloak and looked at the rough trail ahead. Trees began to crowd in as they left the open square, the beginnings of a Northern forest looming dark and cold. Deepwood Forest, or its Northern equivalent, awaited a maze of frost-covered trunks, low-hanging boughs, and hidden dangers, ever footfall became a negotiation with the land itself.

As the army threaded through the woods, scouts ahead signaling, Jon felt the tension knot tighter. They were entering a terrain designed to slow movement, to give advantage to the unseen enemy. And yet, in that claustrophobic silence, Jon felt a bond with the men around him, with Robb beside him, the march was no longer about strategy, it was about every hand on a bowstring, every rider knowing the forest, every wagons’ wheel avoiding the frost-heaved earth.

A shout from the scouts echoed back through the trees, enemy scouts, or wildlings taking advantage of the forest’s cover, had been spotted, Jon tensed, gripping the reins, the North was beautiful, yes the towering pines, the glittering frost but it was dangerous, alive with ambushes waiting to happen.

Robb called the men forward, and Jon rode at his side, their shadows long across the snowy floor. Steel met steel, arrows clanged against armour, and the enemy was driven off, though minor wounds were taken.

Jon noticed Robb’s calmness despite all, the way he directed the men with clear commands, checking on wounded, ensuring the wagons were protected.

Jon could feel the weight of leadership settle on his own shoulders that every choice he made here could save a life or cost one.

By the time the skirmish ended, the army was exhausted and slower. The harsh terrain had taken its toll, snowdrifts, ice-covered roots, and fallen trees forced the wagons to a halt more than once. Jon dismounted to help guide a particularly stubborn oxen team over a frozen rut, and Robb did the same with his men. The North was testing them already, and Jon realized that the coming days would demand more than just courage they would demand endurance, patience, and the kind of quiet, steady leadership he was only beginning to understand.

Riding beside Robb through the forest, Jon allowed himself a quiet moment of reflection. They were brothers now in a way the Wall had never prepared him for. Not by blood alone, but by shared duty, by shared loss, and by the weight of the North pressing down on them both. Jon thought of the men behind them, the lords at Torrhen’s Square who had trusted Robb with their sons and swords, and he realised that no matter what came next, he would ride by his brother’s side.

ROBBS POV

The crunch of snow beneath hooves, the scent of frost and pine, the low murmur of men marching beside him all reminded Robb of what he was leaving behind. His thoughts swirled constantly between the army in front of him and the home he had left behind at Winterfell. Roslin. His children. The direwolf plush Emirei had pressed into his hands. The ribbon tied around his armored bicep, fluttering as a silent promise to return.

Every step forward was a battle against longing. Every glance at the rough trail, the forest closing in on either side, reminded him that duty now outweighed family. Yet in the quiet moments, when the men around him were preoccupied with wagons, supplies, or minor bickering, Robb allowed himself to imagine the children’s faces, the memory of Emirei’s grin as she had once chased him across the yard, Maera reading with a book balanced on her knees, Cregan shyly peeking around his mother’s skirts.

He adjusted the blue strip of Roslin’s gown over his bicep, her mark, her presence, a talisman against despair. Her handkerchief, folded and tucked in his armor, carried her name and scent. He ran his fingers across it, trying to memorise every line, every stitch.

Jon rode beside him, riding with a stillness that Robb had always admired. He could feel Jon’s strength, his calm, and he allowed himself to relax slightly but only slightly. Leadership was not a matter of relaxation. Strategy and judgment would be tested at every turn, with the terrain, the weather, the unknown scouts, and the enemy’s schemes pressing in constantly.

“Supplies?” Jon’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We need to ensure the wagons keep moving. Food for men and horses, the weapons we carry, we cannot falter here.”

Robb nodded. “We will make arrangements. Torrhen’s Square is a well done place, but the forest is different. We will split the wagons, keep scouts ahead, and rotate the men.”

Jon glanced at him, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “And what of the vassals? The lords at Torrhen’s Square were nervous when we left. Some asked if we were prepared to meet a rebellion, should the Iron Throne take notice.”

Robb allowed a dry laugh. “A rebellion on top of war. Good to know our problems will compound nicely.” He looked at Jon, smiling faintly despite the tension. “We’ll deal with it together.”

“Though in our case is Rebellion and War not the same thing?” Robb clicked his tongue and Jon’s head dipped as a chuckle came across him. 

“Aye my brother, rebellion and war is our same.” Jon nodded. The forest thickened, snow-draped trees loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching across the trail and a branch snapped somewhere ahead, Robb felt the familiar quickening of the pulse, the prelude to danger.

“Wildlings or enemy scouts,” Jon muttered, voice low. “Could be either.”

Robb signalled the men forward, soldiers arrows were notched others had their swords drawn & wagons halted, the tension increasing.

The clash was brief but sharp. There were Minor injuries, a few arrows lodged in shields, but the enemy whoever they were was driven off. The men murmured praises, but Robb barely heard them, his eyes scanning, always scanning. Every man, every wagon, every flank the weight of responsibility pressed him into the saddle.

Afterward, the march resumed, but the snow and uneven ground slowed them. Robb dismounted, helping men heave a stuck wagon past a fallen tree. Jon mirrored him, adjusting a pair of oxen on the other side. In the shared effort, the brothers found a quiet rhythm, a wordless bond two men who had fought, lost, and now carried the North together. 

Robb allowed himself a brief smile. Jon beside him, the army moving as best they could through harsh terrain, a skirmish survived, and the knowledge that Roslin, the children, and Winterfell waited for him all these thoughts mingled. It was a fragile hope, but a hope worth carrying.

JON’S POV

Jon rode beside Robb, the forest slowly giving way to a harsh, wind-battered coastal plain. The pine shadows faded into jagged cliffs and rolling grey waves. He had thought he knew hardship years at the Wall, cold, hunger, the constant fear of the Others, the endless watch but the march to Pyke felt different, this was responsibility beyond personal survival. Every man, wagon, and horse mattered. Every decision could mean death for someone who trusted them, someone whose family would weep in the North if they fell.

He remembered the Wall in the dead of night frozen wind cutting through the black of the sky, the sound of patrol boots on ice, the silence broken only by distant cries. He remembered the fear, the emptiness, the way a man could feel invisible yet entirely visible to the cold. That trauma had hardened him, yet left him restless. Here, moving with Robb, he felt exposed in another way a different kind of vulnerability the burden of life and death on men who were not strangers, on brothers in arms who trusted him implicitly. And yet, Jon felt a flicker of something new a rare lightness he hadn’t felt since leaving Winterfell. Riding with Robb, working alongside him, he realised that this was the life he had longed for in secret a purpose beyond survival, a family united under banners, a chance to fight for justice, to protect what was his.

Robb glanced at Jon, catching him staring at the cliffs beyond the trees. “You’re quiet,” he said. “Thinking about the Wall, I suppose?”

Jon nodded. “I think about it too often. About what it made me… what it took from me. And about those I left behind. You, the children… Winterfell.”

Robb’s face softened. “I know, Jon. I’ve always known. The Wall shaped you, but it doesn’t define you. Not here, not with me. Not in this war.”

Jon swallowed. “And this war… Pyke. I’ve heard little of it. Why march so far north into such poor land? I… I do not know the Isles like you do.”

Robb exhaled slowly, hands steady on the reins. “Pyke is poor, Jon. Terrible taxes, the people barely survive. Theon betrayed them. He let the North become independent. I should have helped him, but I couldn’t. The North is my people first. Sansa… she’s still there, Jon. She’s my responsibility. And I could not stretch myself thinner than I already am.”

Jon’s chest tightened. “So they suffered because of choices made for the North.” His fists clenched lightly. “Sansa… she lived like that?”

Robb’s jaw stiffened. “Yes. And she survived. That’s all that matters. Now it’s Pyke’s turn. They must be free. Their rebellion is ours as much as theirs Theon needs us, and the Council of the Iron Throne cannot crush them again.”

Jon’s gaze softened. “And we fight for independence. Pyke’s freedom. Not conquest, not glory. Just… righting what was wrong.”

Robb gave him a brief nod. “Exactly. We march to the coast, and Theon will meet us there. From Torrhen’s Square to Pyke, it’s not far a week’s travel with the wagons and men. Harsh terrain, the forests, rivers… it will test us all. But when we arrive, Pyke will know the North stands with them.”

Jon considered the barren coastline stretching ahead. “And the army? Do you trust them?”

Robb smiled faintly. “I trust the North, Jon. I trust them as I trust my own blood. And you… I trust you beside me.”

There was a brief silence. Then Jon spoke quietly. “What of your life, Robb? These years… the children, Winterfell… Roslin?”

Robb’s gaze drifted, unguarded for a heartbeat. “I miss them. Every step reminds me of Emirei’s grin, Maera’s quiet determination, Cregan… and Roslin. But this war… this is what must be done. When we return, I will hold them again. I promise you that.”

Jon gave a small, understanding nod. “And I? Do I… ask too much to be at your side? I have my own life now, my own purpose… yet here I am, bound to yours.”

“You are bound by blood and trust,” Robb replied. “No more, no less. You’ll ride with me, Jon. Side by side. And when this is over, the North will still be ours to keep. Together.”

Jon exhaled, a mixture of relief and fear. “Then we ride. And we make sure Pyke stands free. That Theon, that people… they are not crushed again. Never again.”

Robb’s hand brushed briefly over Jon’s shoulder a simple gesture of reassurance and shared resolve. “Never again,” he agreed.

The wind carried the scent of saltwater now, cold and bracing, and Robb glanced at the horizon where the Iron Islands rose like jagged teeth from the sea.

“Soon,” he said quietly, “Theon will meet us there. And we begin.”

Jon followed his gaze, the weight of the coming battle settling over him. “I thought the Wall tested me,” he muttered. “But this… this is different. This is the North, Robb. And the sea. And we will fight for them all.”

Robb’s eyes softened. “For the North. For Pyke. For family. Let’s ride.”

The brothers pressed forward, the wind tearing at cloaks, the snow crunching beneath hooves, and the horizon promising battle, hardship, and the chance to right a grave betrayal.

Chapter 17: Serena’s Nameday

Summary:

Serena’s name day, her POV as Theon and Sansa’s first born, her marriage to Aaron of Estermont and her feelings as husband plans to join his father in law to war.

Serena lived a more lavish life in Greenstone as opposed to the life her family lived. Greenstone, House Estermont was a vassal house to the Baratheons, in which majority are dead. The current rulers of House Baratheon are the distant cousins of the main line, and even some bastards have been legitimised in a quick moment in order to keep alive the line. 

Currently, war brewed around her, and she couldn’t understand why. Her father was a good man. He did no wrong, he always did whatever he could to keep Pyke afloat and now suddenly the islands are turning against him? and must be fight against the Iron Throne council? To Serena, her father Theon Greyjoy was the bravest man alive. He had gone through so much in his life, and was betrayed countless times but others and even his family around him. He even helped Robb Stark win the 5 Kings war, and he helped rescue her own mother Sansa. Yet for what? for Robb to turn his back on him? For Sansa to live in a coastal area where salt clung to everything and made her skin itch and dry. 

“Serena?” Aaron grumbled, his eyes tightly shut, before sitting up from the bed, the bedsheet falling down his torso. 

Aaron was a well built man, he was more lean but medium height, though more on the tall, which made Serena swoon when she first saw him. His brown hair looked shaggy, it was his bed hair after all, and Serena couldn’t help but blush at the look of her husband of what? a year now? 

“Serena.” He said once more, though she kept her eyes shut tightly, with a small grin, she didn’t know why he wanted to wake her so badly but she wanted to tease him. 

“Serena, I’m not joking.” He then suddenly pushed her (basically nudged but Serena is a little dramatic) and she jolted up awake, her red hair falling by her side in a mess, but still in nice waves but covering most of her face. 

“What?” She snarled, much more angrier than she wanted to show him. 

“Oh- Well I just wanted to wish you a happy name day.” He blushed a little red. 

Then she went bright red, same colour as her hair. “I’m- Yes I mean thanks-“ He then cut her off with a sloppy kiss and she pulled him on top of her. 

“I see someone wants a birthday present early..” He cheekily gave her a grin before Aaron’s face suddenly turned down. 

Serena’s eyes widened, “What is the matter?” 

“Nothing- sorry… where were we?” He gave a small smile but his eyes still loomed elsewhere. 

“Sex.” She said confidently. 

He went red again, “By the seven! Serena! you cannot say that it is not very lady like.” He blushed, his cheeks were a crimson colour but Serena only wore a sharp grin to her face. 

“Don’t you know my father well enough? I am his daughter still.”

”I do know your father.” He brushed a hand through his face. 

“Yet I do know he’s called me to help him fight.” He said, obviously he wanted to say more but kept his mouth shut. 

“As much as I love my father, If you help the Iron council will give you the same hell my father gave you.” She said this with reason, as she wasn’t long. 

He then looked back at her, his eyes filled with so much emotion and thought. She was right. If he aided in anyway, then he’d be in trouble, with both his house being a vassal for the Baratheons and for him to aid essentially an enemy, even if it’s his own father in law. It is pretty obvious the trouble it would get him in, it would be better if he stayed out of the drama and the war, if the baratheons tried to get involved then he would have no choice to be a part of it all, so he was going to send Theon a letter, that he would not interfere and for the safety of him, his wife, future heirs and for his people. No amount of things could convince him to join Theon, even Serena told him it was not worth it, he would be in much further issues and would end up like how Pyke is, a dead place with no money, and Aaron’s ancestors would not agree to help them, like how Theon helped Winterfell, it was just not worth it, Robb did not even help Theon when Pyke was in trouble, so who would help him if the Iron Council would be after him.

___________________________________

The great hall of Estermont had been transformed for the occasion banners of silver and blue draped along the walls, candles flickering in brass sconces, and the scent of fresh pine mingling with roasted meats. Guests from neighboring vassals and a handful of loyal retainers filled the long tables, offering quiet congratulations as Serena moved among them with a gracious smile.

Yet behind the bright laughter and the clinking of goblets, Serena felt the weight of the day pressing in. She was twenty, the age when a woman of the Isles should be in full bloom, and yet her thoughts kept wandering to the North, to Pyke, and to the men she loved her father Theon, her brother Maron, and her siblings all risking their lives in war. The festive hall felt unreal, as if the candles themselves were trembling under a heavier wind than the one that pressed against the castle walls outside.

Aaron Estermont, tall and steady, with his deep brown hair catching the candlelight, moved to her side, bowing slightly. “Happy birthday, my love,” he said, placing a gentle hand over hers. “Twenty years… and yet you still manage to take my breath away.”

Serena smiled, hiding the unease gnawing at her. “Thank you, Aaron. You’ve made this day… perfect,” she said softly, though her eyes strayed toward the northern horizon in her mind, imagining the distant cliffs of Winterfell and the smoke of distant fires.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Aaron observed, tilting his head. “You’re thinking of someone?”

“I am,” Serena admitted. “Father, Maron… everyone. I worry for them. I should have… perhaps I should have let you join them, to stand with them. But…” Her voice faltered. “The Iron Council wouldn’t have allowed it. Baratheon wouldn’t have sanctioned it. You are Estermont, Aaron their vassal, and my presence here cannot undo that. I’ve kept you safe, but it feels… wrong.”

Aaron’s hand tightened over hers, reassuring. “You did the right thing, Serena. I may not be fighting beside them, but I am here for you. And for them in spirit. You’ve kept me safe because it was the only choice we could make. Do not carry guilt for that.”

She nodded, though a small, melancholy smile tugged at her lips. “I know… but still. A part of me wishes I could have had you at their side.”

Aaron leaned closer, brushing a loose strand of her fiery red hair behind her ear. “And one day, they will return. And we will be here to welcome them together. That is enough for now, isn’t it?”

Serena let out a small laugh, bittersweet, and leaned into him. “For now,” she whispered, feeling the weight lift slightly as the hall swirled around them with music and laughter. Still, in her heart, the shadow of Pyke and the North lingered the battles, the letters, the fear that every day might bring news of loss. Her 20th birthday was bright and festive, yet eerily underscored by the quiet tension of the war beyond the sea.

Aaron pressed a kiss to her temple. “Happy birthday, Serena,” he murmured. “I love you.” Serena nodded, letting the words sink in, the candles’ flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across her face, a reminder that even amid celebration, the war was never far from thought.

 

Chapter 18: Context (3)

Summary:

Context on the Iron Throne council and other minor facts.

Here I am answering more Questions! or Questions that people have not thought yet so I don’t have to answer questions! 

The Iron Throne council. 

The Iron Throne council, is a council (of course) that has around Seven Members, each that is supposed to represent the Seven Kingdoms. Obviously, the North is an independent state, but there is a northerner who is part of the council. I know that there is nine regions and seven kingdoms (or six now) but i’m going to do the main seven. 

The reason why there is a northerner is because I do not think there wouldn’t be that one individual who does want to be part of the seven kingdoms, like there is definitely a pros and cons list when it comes to being part of the seven kingdoms, and there will always be some people who are for the latter, not only that but this northerner is a bastard born. 

Not every member (but some) are bastards, some of them are other lords offspring that do not have much land or titles, like I lowly lords son could be part of the council, and it’s a republic kind of settlement. I want to introduce you to the members of this council and which parts of Westeros they represent. 

1. Rhyor Snow - The North 

A bastard of some forgotten petty lord near the Stony Shore. Hard-eyed, blunt, knows hardship better than politics. The council uses him to claim they have “Northern representation,” even though the North is fully independent and he holds no true Northern authority.

2. Ser Lymond Crowl - The Crownlands

From the extremely minor House Crowl, little more than marshland stewards. Practical, stiff, keeps records like a monk would. 

3. Lord Janson Musgood - The Reach 

Of the tiny and unremarkable House Musgood. Known for orchard taxes and sheep disputes. Easily pressured, often overlooked.

4. Halden Vypren - The Riverlands 

From the small and dwindling House Vypren. A cautious man, little influence, but good with numbers and tithes.

5. Ser Corren Shell - The Vale 

A second son of House Shell, a house barely larger than a mountain hamlet. Stern, devout, very focused on order.

6. Lord Renford Mertyns - The Stormlands 

The youngest lord of the craggy, wind-lashed keep of House Mertyns. Cautious and calculating, he knows how to survive storm both in weather and in politics He is ambitious but restrained & he’s often the voice of careful reason among his peers.

7.  Ser Naleem Qorgyle - Dorne 

A sharp minded third son of House Qorgyle. Ambitious, smooth spoken, and always watching for an opportunity to rise.

That is a brief introduction on each member, it’s pretty obvious how they came together or why it was formed, it was kind of an emergency situation as well as the kingdoms didn’t exactly have a ruler and there was no desire to go to war, especially with the lannisters being wiped out by a large margin with now a totally different line taking care of them (Tyrion is still alive just not active with leading the lannisters, but he definitely gives a lot of support and doesn’t provoke any attacks on others, he kind of sits in the back, listens to what they say and gives his opinion but he doesn’t want any main role) 

The Baratheons are in the same situation and are also wiped out, with only some of the bastards (who can prove their legitimacy) ended up ruling over, as well as any distant relatives of Robert Baratheon, but either way both these new Lannisters and Baratheons are not as large as before both in numbers but also trust, like they have their vassal houses but after such a decimating war which ended the main line they decided to try and keep the peace especially with the North, but between eachother houses aren’t getting in more fights because they have a representative up there to voice an opinion to, which makes things both tactical but easier to deal with. 

The council have a bias to each part they are from and also do not like The Iron Islands for their partaking in the war and aiding the North, obviously no one like the North other then the people/ houses that were not part of the war, and they are the only ones who really get trade going, otherwise it’s mostly done overseas at this point or with Dorne, or even with House Baratheon on some cases (And the Riverland's since Roslin is from there) & since Ned and Robert were such big friends and because Robb is named after the old Baratheon king and at the end of the day the Starks helped massively in the war against the Targaryen King, so even though they don’t like the North as much as they would like to admit, they still have some gratitude to them.

Bran Stark, now the Three-Eyed Raven, holds a crucial yet largely unseen role as the North braces for war. From Winterfell, he monitors the loyalty of Northern lords, ensuring none are tempted to side with the Iron Throne Council as Pyke faces Theon’s rebellion, though he rarely leaves the safety of his home, Bran remains close to Rickon and his children, Wylis and Alessia, offering guidance and emotional stability while subtly preparing the next generation in leadership and survival (he is also known to tell great stories to his little nephew and niece). Using his greensight, he coordinates scouts, spies, and messages across the North, sending visions or warnings to Robb, Jon, or even the Iron Council to help Northern forces react quickly to threats. Though he does not fight, his presence carries symbolic weight, his blessings, warnings, and occasional appearances at councils lend legitimacy to Northern decisions, influence morale, and remind all that the North is united and guided by a force beyond mere swords and politics.

Chapter 19: March To Pyke (2)

Summary:

Bran joining the battle, guiding both Robb and Jon, Theon's POV as he gets ready to leave Pyke and go to see the Northern army, both scared but also feeling hope.

The morning was sharp with frost when Robb Stark rode from Torrhen’s Square, the banners of the North snapping in the cold wind. Jon Snow rode at his side, cloak drawn tight against the chill, dark eyes shadowed with thought. The small square behind them was already buzzing with activity, Karstark men polishing their spears, Glover scouts checking the forest edges, and Mormont axes glinting as their bearers tested their grips. Umber and Rickon’s men were forming up behind them, the younger soldiers bristling with excitement and nerves. Bran arrived not long after, riding quietly, almost ghostlike, the reins loose in his hands. He had been staying with Rickon for weeks, traveling through the Rills and beyond, learning what the land whispered. His cloak was simple, well-worn, and his eyes, sharp and observing, missed nothing. As he approached Robb, he offered a slight nod. “I can help,” he said softly, voice measured. “I’ve seen the roads ahead.”

Robb’s jaw tightened in relief. “Good. We could use your eyes.”

Jon’s expression darkened. “Do we need them? I don’t trust visions. I trust steel.”

Robb gave him a pointed look. “And you’ll have plenty of that, Jon. But don’t underestimate him. Bran sees what we cannot.”

Bran’s gaze was steady. “The forests are empty now, but not all are friendly. The Ironborn move faster than we imagine. There are eyes along the rivers.”

Jon’s lips pressed into a hard line, but he said nothing. His thoughts drifted to Winterfell, to the new family he had left behind, to the children and the siblings scattered across the world. He rode silently for a while, letting the wind cut through him as much as the distance from home.

---

The army set out in a long, uneven line, banners fluttering, the clatter of hooves and the shuffle of boots echoing through the frozen landscape. Small skirmishes came first at river crossings a handful of Ironborn raiders attempting to ambush Karstark scouts. Robb and Jon led the counter, steel flashing, commands shouted over the roar of water and wind. Bran’s warnings came in quiet murmurs, almost like a thought carried over the wind.

“Left flank,” he said, voice calm but urgent. “Rocks are loose. They’ll fall if they press.”

Robb adjusted the men, sending Mormont and Glover scouts to higher ground. Rocks tumbled harmlessly into the river as the raiders tried to advance, scattering under the sudden strategy. Jon, breathing hard, wiped blood from his sword onto his cloak, muttering. “I hate this. I hate leaving Winterfell. I hate… all of it.”

Bran’s eyes flicked to him. “You cannot dwell on what you cannot change. Your choices are here, with the men who follow you.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, but he gave a short nod, focusing on the next wave.

---

As the days passed, the army moved through forests thick with frost and over hills that shivered beneath the wind. The smaller vassals were eager to prove themselves, rallying behind Robb as though his very presence made them braver. Karstark men led charges to push away minor raiding parties. Glover scouts reported every hidden path. Rickon’s men were valuable, guiding the army through marshy ground where others would have floundered.

Night fell, and the campfires were small glimmers against the dark expanse of the North. Soldiers huddled around flames, sharing bread and salted meat, while the officers poured over maps. Robb and Jon stood apart, speaking in low tones.

“The coast is close,” Robb said. “Ironshore Village should be our next stop. If the Ironborn are assembling, they’ll be waiting there.”

Jon frowned. “I don’t like waiting. I want this over. I want…” His voice faltered, and he ran a hand through his dark hair. “I want to feel like there’s still something worth fighting for beyond all this.”

Robb laid a hand on his shoulder. “There is. You know there is. The North follows us because they trust us. That’s worth more than any victory yet.”

Bran, standing silently nearby, spoke softly. “And if you look carefully, you’ll see the signs the wind and rivers carry. We won’t be caught unaware.”

Jon’s expression softened, reluctantly. “I hope you’re right.”

---

The following morning, they encountered their first significant skirmish a small Ironborn party attempting to block the road through a narrow forest pass. The trees were bare, skeletal against the pale sky, branches clawing at the clouds. Robb’s men surged forward, disciplined and coordinated, the North’s reputation for loyalty and steel in full display.

Rodrik Karstark shouted orders, his voice carrying over the clash, while Rickon’s men flanked the enemy from the marshy side. Jon fought at the front, blades striking sparks as he moved, while Bran observed from a higher ridge, noting the enemy’s patterns, whispering directions that Robb relayed to the commanders.

The skirmish ended quickly but left the army wary. Bran’s warnings had prevented serious losses, but Jon’s mood darkened further as he thought of the families he had left behind.

---

The army pressed on, days merging into nights, the Northlands a blur of snow, river, and stone. The smaller villages provided fleeting rest, and at each, Bran’s insight guided them hidden paths, suspicious travellers, and early warnings of Ironborn scouts. Robb led with calm authority, inspiring his vassals, while Jon brooded quietly beside him, a shadow moving among the men, the weight of past losses etched into his face.

By the time Ironshore Village appeared on the horizon a scattering of grey stone buildings clinging to cliffs above the churning sea, the army was weary but resolute. Robb looked over his men, their banners snapping in the wind, faces set, knowing what was to come.

Bran’s eyes were distant, almost seeing something beyond the present, yet he spoke simply: “We are ready. Watch the water and the wind. They will tell us more than words.”

Jon exhaled slowly, gripping his sword. “I’m ready too, I suppose. Ready to see the end.”

Robb clasped his brother’s shoulder. “Then let’s end it together.” The wind howled as they descended toward the village, the North’s banners flapping wildly, the ocean spray rising against the cliffs. The final skirmishes awaited, and beyond them, the Ironborn forces gathering at the shore, unaware of the storm that had been building loyal soldiers, vengeful steel, and a Stark led fury ready to descend.

The days dragged on, each dawn a mirror of the last, grey skies, frozen earth, and the wind biting at their faces. The army moved steadily, the banners snapping in the gusts, each step bringing them closer to the Ironshore coast. Small villages passed under wary eyes, fields empty of peasants,  the North was tense, even in lands normally loyal. Each man, each banner, each horse felt like a lifeline between them and the storm waiting at the sea.

Bran traveled between the commanders, speaking softly, almost like the wind itself. “The marshes near Hollow Creek are treacherous. The Ironborn may try to cut us off there.” Robb’s sharp eyes met Bran’s, and Jon scowled. “We don’t need warnings about swamps. We’ll fight in the open if we must.”

Bran’s gaze was distant, thoughtful. “Open or hidden, the enemy leaves traces. They cannot hide everything.”

Jon pressed his lips together, pulling his cloak tighter. “I’d rather see them, not guess at them.”

But Robb listened. He always did. And so did the vassals, even if reluctantly. Karstark and Glover men muttered about Bran’s odd ways, seeing things without looking, speaking in riddles, but the Reeds nodded, trusting every word, their small contingent already accustomed to his visions.

The first major skirmish came at the foot of Frostpass Hill. A small Ironborn detachment had set up an ambush along the narrow road, hiding behind jagged rocks and frozen brush. Rodrik Karstark, eager to prove himself, almost charged headlong into them, but Robb’s hand stopped him.

“Wait. Observe. Don’t rush,” Robb commanded. He turned to Bran. “Your eyes?”

“They will move around the rocks at the edge,” Bran murmured. “Two of their men will fall if you step on the path by the river. Take the right flank.”

Jon’s hand fell on his sword. “I hate trusting shadows,” he muttered, yet followed Robb’s lead.

The attack was swift, the Ironborn caught by surprise. Robb’s men moved with precision, Karstark and Glover men surging forward as the Umber spearmen held the center. Rickon’s boys, familiar with the marshy ground, flanked from the trees, their guidance preventing many missteps. Jon’s sword flashed in the sunlight, blood scattering the snow, but his face remained somber, brooding as ever. Bran’s directions were subtle, almost invisible, but the skirmish ended cleanly with minimal loss.

Jon stood over a fallen Ironborn, gripping the hilt of his sword, jaw tight. “I… I hate this. I hate that I feel alive only when I’m fighting,” he muttered under his breath.

Robb rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’re needed alive. That’s enough.”

Bran said nothing, eyes already scanning the next ridge, noting footprints and signs of movement in the snow. His quiet presence, unnerving to most, had become a comfort to Robb. Even Jon grudgingly admitted Bran’s insight had saved lives. 
Evenings were the hardest. Camps were cold, the wind slicing through cloaks and tents, and the men huddled close to fires. Jon would stand apart, staring into the flames, tracing patterns in the stars above, lost in thoughts of Winterfell, of family, of the burdens he carried. Robb sometimes joined him, but mostly he moved among the men, checking on morale, giving instructions, speaking encouragement, keeping spirits steady.

Bran often sat near Jon, quietly speaking, sometimes in riddles, sometimes in blunt truths. “You carry them inside you. Your brothers, your sisters, your past. Let it guide you, not drown you.”

Jon grunted, but he listened. The nights were long, and the wind carried voices from the cliffs like echoes of the past whispers of Winterfell, of lost friends, of family left behind.

The army continued, moving carefully through the Northlands. Rivers were forded slowly, scouts sent ahead, and minor clashes happened daily: a band of marauding Ironborn, a raiding party along the woods, even a skirmish with disloyal villagers trying to block the route. Each time, Robb led with unwavering resolve, Jon fought with grim efficiency, and Bran observed, giving subtle warnings that saved men from hidden traps.

One evening, as the sun set over a frozen river, Robb called a brief council. Maps were unfurled, candles lit against the dimming light.

“The village of Ironshore is just beyond the cliffs,” Robb said. “We will have to approach cautiously. They will have scouts.”

Rickon leaned forward, his face lit by firelight. “I can lead you through a hidden pass,” he said. “It will save our men from the open approach, though it will take longer.”

“Good,” Robb said. “The fewer exposed, the better.”

Jon, tired, slouched on a log. “I just want this done. I want to see it finished.”

Bran spoke softly, as if the wind had carried his words. “You cannot rush what the sea has planned. Trust the path, not your impatience.”

Jon groaned, flopping backward. “I hate patience.”

Robb smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Patience keeps us alive.” The final day’s march was tense. The cliffs rose, dark against the stormy sky, the sea crashing against jagged rocks below. Ironshore Village appeared in the distance, small and huddled against the wind, banners snapping, watchfires flickering. Northern vassals straightened, swords ready, shields polished. The air smelled of salt and smoke.

Bran climbed a high ridge, surveying the coast. “They are gathering along the beach,” he murmured. “Not all, but enough to challenge us. Use the hidden path. You’ll arrive on the eastern edge.”

Robb nodded. “Then we do as he says, quietly, quickly.”

Jon gripped his sword. “I don’t like quiet. I like it over with.”

“You’ll have your moment,” Robb said, voice steady. “But we do this wisely. Too many men lost in the first clash, and we’ve failed before we begin.”

Rickon’s men led the way through marshy, hidden paths, careful and swift. The Ironborn scouts never saw them. The northern army moved like shadows over the snow and stone, disciplined and silent. Bran’s whispers guided the flanks, pointing out pitfalls, loose rocks, and small signs of enemy movement. Every step felt tense, every soldier alert.

When they finally reached the ridge overlooking the village, Robb paused, taking in the sight, Ironshore stretched below, smoke rising from watchfires, the wind tearing banners in the chaos. His men, loyal and fierce, waited behind him, and beside him stood Jon, grim and ready, Bran quietly noting every detail of the enemy’s arrangement.

Robb’s eyes swept over his army, over Jon, over Bran. “This is it,” he said quietly. “Ironshore Village. One more push, and we take our position. Then we wait for Theon.”

Jon exhaled, the tension visible in his shoulders. “I hate that waiting, too.”

Bran’s voice was calm, almost eerie. “Patience now brings survival later. Look for the signs.”

The Northern army crouched behind the ridge, waiting, silent except for the roar of the sea and the distant cries of the Ironborn. Tomorrow, the battle would begin. Tonight, they gathered strength men, brothers, and leaders alike, bound by loyalty, blood, and the long shadow of the North.

The camp settled into an uneasy quiet as twilight bled into night. The wind whipped down from the cliffs, tanging the hair of soldiers huddled close to smoldering fires. Smoke spiraled upward, carrying the scent of pine, salted meat, and the sea that churned endlessly below. Even the stars seemed fragile against the Northern sky, tiny pinpricks of light trembling above the dark horizon.

Robb walked the line of tents, checking on his men. Karstark, Glover, Umber each contingent moved with disciplined efficiency, yet the tension in their shoulders betrayed them. Rickon’s boys flitted through the camp, checking lines, listening for signs of scouts, their eyes sharp, their energy almost uncontainable. Every now and then, a soldier would glance toward the cliffs where the waves broke, wondering how far the Ironborn could see or strike.

Jon sat apart, hunched over the fire, sword across his knees. The flames reflected in his dark eyes, giving him a haunted look. He traced patterns in the ashes, each flicker reminding him of home, of Winterfell, of the family scattered across the North. His chest tightened with a dull ache that words could not reach.

Bran approached silently, his cloak brushing against the frozen grass. “You’ve been staring at that fire for hours,” he said softly. His voice carried no judgment, only observation. “The men see strength in your presence. They do not see your doubts.”

Jon’s head lifted, his expression guarded. “Maybe they should,” he muttered. “Maybe they should see I don’t always want this. That I’m tired. That sometimes I wish…” His voice trailed, lost to the wind.

Bran crouched beside him. “The burden of what you carry is yours. But you are not alone. Robb trusts you. Rickon’s men trust you. And I… I see things others cannot. Trust me when I say you will survive this, and the North will survive with you in it.”

Jon exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. “It doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like waiting for the next death.”

A small laugh interrupted them. Rodrik Karstark, restless even in the cold, jogged over with a handful of fresh kindling. “If you lot brood too long, you’ll freeze to death before the Ironborn even see us. Come on, Jon, lift that mood! It’s still night, and you’re acting like the ghosts of winter are already here to claim you.”

Jon scowled but allowed a faint twitch of amusement. “You speak as if ghosts amuse me.”

“They do when you laugh at them,” Rodrik replied.

---

Robb found them a few moments later, carrying a waterskin and a small plate of salted meat. He sat cross-legged, looking out toward the cliffs. “Quiet tonight,” he said. “Even the sea seems to hesitate before Ironshore. Listen. Every sound matters. Every shadow matters.”

Jon poked at the fire. “And yet we sit here, waiting.”

Robb’s eyes softened. “We wait so that when the fighting comes, it will be on our terms. Patience now saves lives later.”

Jon’s gaze fell to the flames, his fingers tracing the metal of his sword hilt. “I don’t know if I’m patient enough for that.”

Bran’s voice, calm and distant as always, cut through the darkness. “Patience is not about waiting. It is about seeing the path clearly. The path is not always easy to follow, but it is always there.”

Jon snorted, bitter. “Sounds like words from a boy who’s never swung a sword.”

Bran’s lips quirked faintly. “I’ve swung a sword in dreams, Jon. I’ve seen battles that have not yet come. That is enough to guide you.”

Jon did not respond, staring into the fire, but his tension eased slightly. Bran had a way of saying things that did not feel like advice, and yet it lingered, settling in the mind like a quiet hand on the shoulder.

---

The camp was alive with quieter moments. Rickon’s men sharpened blades, some whispering and laughing, their youthful energy a counterpoint to the adults’ grim focus. Robb rose and moved between the tents, checking on the younger soldiers, nodding at familiar faces.

Jon finally stood, pushing away from the fire. He walked along the edge of the cliff, letting the wind whip through his hair. Below, the waves crashed relentlessly, white against dark stone. He thought of Ghost somewhere in Winterfell, of family, of siblings, of the blood that tied him to the North.

Robb came to stand beside him, silent, for a long moment. “You miss them,” he said simply.

Jon’s lips tightened. “Every day. And I hate missing them. Hate feeling like I’m leaving them behind while I fight other people’s battles.”

Robb’s hand fell on his shoulder. “You do not leave them behind. You carry them with every step, every choice, every fight. That is how they survive you. That is how we survive each other.”

Jon exhaled slowly, letting the wind carry his breath away. “I just… want it done.”

“And it will be,” Robb said. “With you beside me, it will.”

Meanwhile, Bran moved among the vassals quietly, observing patterns in the camp, subtle gestures of loyalty and unease. A group of Umber spearmen had shifted their formation, leaving a slight gap. Bran’s hand traced a mental map. “Misdirection,” he murmured. “Not all are traitors, but not all are wise either.”

He found Robb again. “Tomorrow, Ironshore will be difficult. The tide and wind favor them, but the eastern approach is weak. We take that, and the village can be ours before they fully muster.”

Robb nodded, listening. “Then we prepare, quietly, efficiently. And when the moment comes…” He let the sentence hang, understanding that every man, every leader, every brother would play their part.

Jon returned from the cliffs, brushing snow from his cloak. He found Bran standing by the fire, looking into the flames. “You really see everything, don’t you?” he asked.

Bran’s expression was neutral. “Not everything. But enough.”

Jon exhaled, lowering his sword. “I hope you’re right. I’m tired of guessing.”

Bran said nothing, eyes fixed on the flickering flames, but Jon felt the weight of the boy’s quiet assurance. By midnight, the camp was almost silent. Robb stood over his men, inspecting the perimeter, checking on sentries. Jon leaned against a tree, lost in thought, while Bran traced patterns in the snow, murmuring quietly to himself. The wind howled like a living thing, carrying the scent of salt and stone, warning of the battle to come.

For the first time in weeks, Jon allowed himself a small, reluctant moment of calm. He thought of Winterfell, of family, of the North, and despite the cold and the uncertainty, he felt something akin to hope.

Bran’s eyes found him, sharp and quiet. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the North will need your strength.”

Jon nodded, finally letting himself slide to the ground, leaning back against the tree. “Tomorrow,” he muttered, voice low. “Tomorrow we see it through.” Robb and Bran watched him, silent, the firelight flickering across their faces. The night stretched long, full of wind and sea, and the Northern army slept, readying for the clash that would come at Ironshore. The horizon promised steel, blood, and loyalty tested but also the bond of brothers, both of blood and oath, holding firm against the storm.

---

The wind tore across Pyke that morning, whipping Sansa’s hair across her face and tearing at the banners that clung to the jagged towers. The salt spray from the sea stung the air, mingling with the tension that hung heavy over the castle. Theon Greyjoy stood at the edge of the cliff path leading to the harbor, the rope of the longship coiled neatly at his feet, and the scent of seaweed and brine filling his lungs.

He looked down at Maron, his eldest son, standing tall beside him, sword strapped across his back, shoulders squared. Maron had grown quickly, more like his mother than Theon liked to admit, but the boy’s steel in his eyes mirrored the fire of his father’s resolve. “Are you ready?” Theon asked quietly, hand resting briefly on the boy’s shoulder.

Maron nodded, though his jaw was tight. “I’ve trained. I can do this.”

Theon’s chest tightened. He wanted to say more, to shield the boy from what was coming, but he knew that was impossible. He had taught Maron enough to survive, to fight, to lead, but no amount of instruction could protect him fully from war.

Sansa emerged from the doorway of the keep, her cloak wrapped tightly around her. She had not slept, Theon could tell, her eyes red and raw, and yet she held herself upright, the lady of Pyke even in this moment of helplessness. Her gaze swept the deck where the men and boys would soon be loading, then fell on Rodrik, Allara, and Catelyn. The younger three clung to her skirts, eyes wide and uncertain. Rodrik, at fifteen, stared with a restless energy that made Theon uneasy.

“I want to go,” Rodrik blurted, stepping forward. “I want to help fight. Let me come!”

Sansa’s hands went to his shoulders, gripping them tightly. “Rodrik, you cannot,” she said, her voice shaking, her own panic barely contained. “You are not ready for this. You are my boy, and I cannot lose you!”

Theon knelt so his eyes were level with Rodrik’s. “Your mother is right,” he said firmly, though his heart ached. “You are too young. You have strength, yes, but not enough yet. This is no place for a boy, even one brave enough to stand at my side.”

Rodrik’s shoulders slumped, his chin quivering. “But I want to be brave. I want to—”

“You will be brave,” Theon interrupted softly but firmly. “You will fight and lead and honor your family one day. But not today. Today, you stay here, safe, with your mother.”

Sansa’s hands trembled as she brushed her son’s hair from his forehead. “I can’t lose you,” she whispered, tears breaking free. “I cannot bear it.”

Theon took her hand in his, holding it against his cheek. “I will come back,” he said quietly. “We will all come back. And I will bring your son home safely. I promise you that.”

Sansa shook her head, tears slipping freely now. “I don’t want promises. I just… I want to keep him here, keep him safe. I can’t bear it if, if something happens.” She choked on the words, gripping her children closer. Rodrik’s arms wrapped around his younger siblings instinctively, a small shield, and Allara and Catelyn clung to him, eyes wide and scared.

Maron stepped forward then, placing a hand on his mother’s arm. “I will be careful, Mother. I’ll watch for you. I’ll make father proud.”

Sansa could not answer. Her throat tightened, her hands shaking as she touched her son’s face. “You… you have to come back,” she whispered.

Theon rose, the wind catching his cloak, the sound of the waves below rising in a deafening chorus. “We will,” he said, though even as he spoke, the weight of doubt gnawed at him. “But now, we must go. The North comes, and we must meet them at Ironshore.”

Rodrik’s eyes lingered on his older brother and father, pleading silently. Sansa bent down to him. “You will stay here,” she repeated, her voice soft but unwavering. “You will train. You will be ready when it is your time, but not yet. Promise me you will listen.”

Rodrik nodded reluctantly, swallowing hard, trying to be brave. “I promise, Mother,” he said.

Theon’s hand rested lightly on Rodrik’s shoulder one last time. “Good boy,” he said, voice low, nearly lost to the wind. “Now, stay with your mother. Protect them, yes? But stay alive. That is your first duty.”

Sansa nodded silently, hugging him tightly. Her tears fell freely now, wetting the boy’s hair. “I love you,” she whispered. “Both of you. Please… come back to me.”

Maron tightened his grip on his mothers hand. “I love you too, Mother. I’ll make you proud.”

Theon’s jaw tightened. “You already do,” he said, though his throat felt raw. He turned to the ship waiting at the dock, the long oars gleaming, the ropes coiled ready for the tide. Sailors and soldiers shifted quietly, preparing for departure. He took one last look at Sansa, at the children clinging to each other, at the castle rising jagged and gray against the stormy sky.

Then he stepped aboard, Maron following him without hesitation. Theon felt the weight of responsibility settle heavier than any armor. He could not fail them. He would not.

Sansa watched until they were out of sight, her hands pressed to her chest, her heart pounding, the youngest three still clinging to her skirts. She could feel the distance already, a gnawing emptiness. Rodrik held her hand tightly, his chin quivering, and she whispered prayers under her breath, eyes to the horizon.

The ship shifted in the wind, oars dipping, the tide carrying them northward. Theon gripped the rail, his eyes fixed on the horizon, thinking of the battles to come, of the North’s army marching toward Ironshore, and of the promise he had made, to return, to protect, to bring his family home safe.

The wind roared in their ears, and the sea stretched infinite, grey and relentless, but Theon felt a steely resolve settle in his chest. He could not let Sansa’s tears mark the end. He would fight, he would survive, and he would keep his family whole.

Chapter 20: Moving on

Summary:

This chapter is going to be about Roslin’s POV on Robb in war alongside their two older sons and how she’s handling it.

Arya returning to Winterfell with her husband Gendry. Disclaimer! I had someone tell me that Arya’s surname wouldn’t waters but that this name would open a new branch, a good name idea was “Greystark” so for now on, Arya’s surname will be “Arya Stark” then for Gendry it’s “Gendry Waters” and then for Alaric, he has a new cadet branch (sort of like the Karstarks) and his surname is changed to “Greystark” when it’s time for me to add another context chapter (probably when Ned’s wife gives birth) then I will appropriately officially address him as such.

It was a windy day back in Winterfell, the sun shone low against the grainy backdrop of grey skies and full of pearly white clouds. Arya was going to arrive in the next coming hours alongside her husband Gendry Waters. They had come to Winterfell after news of the war that Theon led, were he was seeking independence for Pyke, but the reason that they were coming is to help protect Winterfell, Arya was very well trained in the art of combat, and was a good military leader, right now, she was planning on protecting her home just in case any soldiers from up south were to aim to Winterfell, though they all hoped not, because that would aim to a bigger war, since the North was now separate to Kings Landing, and Robb’s men have begun to grow over the last 20 years. 

Roslin bit her lip nervously, standing near the window as her eyes traced the horizon. The sun was beginning to dip, and every shadow on the snow-dusted courtyard made her heart skip. Arya and Gendry would arrive in only a few hours, and though Roslin had met Arya many times before and knew her courage well, the thought of the reunion filled her with a quiet tension. So much had happened since they had last seen each other, and the war still hung heavy over everyone.

Alaric Greystark moved beside her, his black hair ruffling in the chill wind. At fifteen, he carried himself with a maturity beyond his years, though there was a restlessness in him born of missing his parents. Having spent the past month living at Winterfell with Robb, Roslin, and the Stark children, he had come to see Robb as a kind of father figure. Robb had taught him strategy, leadership, and the ways of the North, and in the quiet moments he had found a grounding presence in the Lord of Winterfell.

“I can’t wait to see them,” Alaric said softly, his voice steady but carrying that edge of longing. “Father… and Mother. I’ve been thinking about everything I want to tell them, and everything I want to ask. I’ve missed them so much.”

Roslin turned toward him, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “I know, Alaric. I know you have. And soon you will. But… it isn’t just a visit. There’s still danger in the North, and the war is not yet over. Your father, your mother… they’ve faced peril, and so have your family here. That’s what makes me nervous.”

Alaric shook his head slightly, his dark eyes firm. “I know. I’ve seen how strong Father is, and how clever Mother is. They’ve been through so much. And Robb has taught me a lot too—I understand more than I did a month ago. I just… I want to see them both. I need to.”

Roslin’s chest tightened at his words, struck by his composure and the weight of his longing. “You carry yourself well, Alaric. Brave, and thoughtful. But courage doesn’t erase worry. I just… I hope they arrive safely, and that they know how much they’ve been missed.”

Alaric’s lips curved in a faint smile. “They’ll know. And I’ll tell them how much I’ve learned while I’ve been here, how much Robb has helped me understand the North… and life in Winterfell. Soon, I’ll see them both. Father and Mother.” They both gazed toward the horizon. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the cold promise of winter. 

______ 

Roslin closed the door gently behind her and found Emirei sitting on the edge of her bed, hazel eyes heavy with worry. The girl’s shoulders slumped, and Roslin could see the strain of the past months etched in the subtle lines of her young face.

“Emi,” Roslin said softly, perching on the bed beside her, “your father… he’ll be fine. Robb will be fine. He’s strong, he’s clever, and he knows what he’s doing.” Her words were meant to reassure her daughter, but as she spoke, Roslin felt them soothing herself as much as Emi.

Emirei’s lips trembled slightly, and she shook her head. “But Mother… all of this. The war. The Iron Throne. What if something happens?”

Roslin took a deep breath, brushing a loose strand of her daughter’s hair behind her ear. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But Robb has led men into battle before. He knows what he’s doing. And you… you’re strong too, Emi. Stronger than you realize.”

Maera appeared in the doorway, stepping lightly across the room. “Emi, Father is a good soldier,” she said gently. “He’s careful, he’s smart. He will come back to us.”

Cregan, small and earnest, wandered into the room clutching his ragged toy. He waved it above his head. “He’ll throw all the soldiers about! Just like in the stories!” His wide grin made both girls laugh, despite the worry that lingered in the room.

Roslin smiled, letting herself breathe a little easier. “Yes,” she said softly, “and he’ll come back to us. He always does. We just have to trust him… and each other.”

______

The courtyard gates creaked open, and Arya Stark and Gendry Waters finally stepped onto Winterfell soil, dusted from their long journey across the Summer Islands. Alaric spotted them first, his heart leaping as he ran forward.

“Mother! Father!” he cried, though he stumbled slightly over his own excitement.

Arya dropped her traveling cloak and knelt, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Alaric! I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his black-haired head. Gendry crouched beside them, gathering the three of them into a warm family hug, his arm resting protectively over Alaric’s shoulders.

“I’ve missed you too, Mother,” Alaric said, his voice steady though his eyes shone. “I’ve been thinking of you every day.”

Arya’s eyes glimmered, and she laughed softly, a sound full of relief and love. “You’ve grown so much! Look at you! So responsible… and still my little boy.” She ruffled his hair gently, smiling at the mixture of maturity and youth in his stance.

Once the initial joy had passed, Arya and Gendry straightened and turned toward Roslin and Robb’s children. Arya stepped forward first, giving Roslin a softer, polite hug, careful and composed after the whirlwind of the journey. Gendry followed with a bow, the gesture formal but sincere. Arya mimicked him with a delicate, respectful nod.

Roslin chuckled, brushing a hand across her forehead. “You don’t need to bow or curtsy,” she said warmly. “We’re family. Just… come in and breathe.”

Arya laughed quietly, relaxing into the hug, and Gendry’s shoulders eased. 

______

After the joyful reunion with Alaric, Arya turned her attention to Robb and Roslin’s children. She approached carefully, calm and measured, a hint of nervousness in her posture.

“Hello, Emirei,” Arya said softly, inclining her head. “It’s good to see you.”

Emirei’s hazel eyes widened slightly, and she gave a small nod. “Hello, Aunt Arya,” she replied, voice quiet but polite.

Maera stepped forward, hands folded in front of her. Arya’s gaze lingered for a moment, then she offered a polite smile. “Maera. You’ve grown. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Maera bowed her head slightly, cheeks flushed. “Thank you, Aunt Arya.”

Cregan peeked out from behind his sisters, holding his ragged toy. Arya crouched slightly to meet his eye level. “And this must be the youngest Stark,” she said gently. “It’s good to see you.”

Cregan grinned shyly. “Hello, Aunt Arya,” he said, waving his toy. Arya allowed a small, faint smile, letting a little warmth show through her calm demeanor.

Throughout the greetings, Arya remained composed, maintaining polite distance. She wasn’t yet close to them, but her gentle words and careful tone helped ease the children’s curiosity and nervousness.

Gendry lingered nearby, watching the interactions with a soft smile. Though Arya was reserved, the children seemed to sense her kindness beneath the calm exterior.