I stood in Winterfell's Raven's Tower, fingers brushing the old stone as I gazed out the open window, ravens coming and going below me, looking over the Home I'd shaped as much as it had shaped me. The northern wind toyed lightly with my hair, carrying none of its usual chill today, only the thrill of excitement instead. The sun hung high in the morning sky, casting a warm glow over my home, and for the first time in a long while, hope flickered on the horizon like the light itself. King Robert Baratheon was on his way to Winterfell, and with him came the chance for still more opportunities to position the North for what was coming.
At my current height, I stood over most everyone around me, including my own father. I'd worked hard to earn my reputation as warrior, leader, and trainer of men, honing my skill until I was more than just heir to House Stark — a man to be respected and reckoned with. A year had passed since I bested Styr and brought the Thenns and giants across the Wall, and most of the North had at least heard rumors of the duel, and of what the Starks had accomplished since. The stories, of course, had grown in the telling — supposedly I'd fought a giant and three of the Thenns' fiercest warriors both, to make them bend the knee. The tales traveling the North now painted me in the same light as Ser Arthur Dayne, or Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf himself. And perhaps, with whatever blessing from the Old Gods seemed to be growing plainer by the day, some of those tales might carry real weight before long. I stayed keenly aware of the trust and betrayal lurking under the surface of this world. The Lannisters were a cunning lot, though not quite so cunning as they believed themselves, and I knew well enough the danger that walked alongside them, or the Tyrells.
Looking over Winterfell's inner courtyards and walls, my eyes drifted to Wintertown, transformed before my very eyes from a ramshackle village into a thriving settlement, the sounds of real work echoing where once there'd only been a somber quiet. The wider, better-kept roads and the insulated homes of earth and stone stood proud — not just handsome, but built to last. I took real pleasure watching the household and townsfolk make those new homes their own. At first they doubted their young lord's enthusiasm for helping, but now, settled into their pit homes and dugouts, I could see plainly enough how happy, how comfortable, they'd become. My thoughts trailed off as my sister Sansa called out to me.
"Robb!" she said, drawing my attention as she deftly arranged her braids. "The King's party arrives in half a day. Father sent an escort ahead."
"Good," I said, my heart already picking up at the thought of what was coming, turning to face her. "We'll want to present ourselves well, won't we, Sansa? Remember what you've learned from Wynafryd, and what I've told you — keeping our family strong and keeping our house safe are the same." I finished it with a hug, thanking her again for letting me know.
Turning back to the window, I felt a flicker of nerves, knowing how close the King now stood to the start of the events I remembered, even after nearly two years spent preparing for this. My eyes found Theon among the men training below, one of my closest companions now, closer than I'd ever expected given who he'd been when I first arrived. His growth was plain — he no longer sought his whole identity in being heir to the Iron Islands, but was carving out a path of his own, shaped by my encouragement and his own drive to better both himself and his people.
"Together, we're showing them what it really means to be an heir, a future lord bettering himself for his people," I remembered telling him once, back when we'd meet to talk through our plans, or go over our families' histories with Maester Luwin, or talk.
After reflecting on the past, I made my way through the castle to await Robert Baratheon, the Usurper, Demon of the Trident, and the fat king. Though even with all his faults, he was the best king out of the last three for the small folk, at least. I had to make a good impression on him, as securing a marriage alliance with Myrcella was the surest way to keep both Sansa and Arya here. With Bran already set to go to the Karstarks, I wouldn't have to worry about him heading south either. I just hoped Robert would be satisfied to take only Father with him this time.
As the day wore on, I found myself lined up with the rest of the family in the courtyard, the sound of hooves drawing nearer, excitement and nerves both rippling through the crowd. The King had arrived. His weight was plain as he dismounted, helped down by a broad stool from one of his attendants, after an embrace with Father both familiar and steeped in old friendship.
King Robert turned to me, and I saw the surprise plain on his face, his eyes catching on the pale scar along my cheekbone before he'd even finished taking the rest of me in, something in his grin settling, as if it answered a question he hadn't thought to ask aloud.
"By the gods, Ned!" he said, a grin spreading as he took me in. "Is that truly your son — my namesake — towering there?"
I stepped forward, taking the cue, bowing respectfully. "Your Grace. It's an honor to meet the man I was named for finally, and the brother my father speaks so highly of," I said, giving Father a small wink where no one else could see.
He looked at me like a merchant appraising his wares. "You're a fine sight, boy! A true Stark, I'd say — and blooded already besides, by the look of that cheek. Wasn't just some spar that did that, I'd wager — you'll have to tell me the tale of it sometime. It's an honor your mother named you for me — whatever they're feeding you up here, I need to find some for my own boy, put some hair on his chest. You'll make my name proud," he said, clapping a heavy, strong hand on my shoulder and giving it a shake.
He then moved on down the line to greet the rest of my family, a touch different than I remembered from the show, before he and Father disappeared into the crypts, where I knew he'd raise his proposal, and Father would counter with our own.
Preparations for the feast began soon after, laughter and wine already flowing freely, though the sun hadn't yet set. Father, it seemed, had proposed our match — Myrcella and myself — in place of Sansa and Joffrey. Though I hadn't truly expected that alone to hold, since Sansa and I were still set to be betrothed to the Baratheon siblings both. It helped, at least, in keeping Arya here as a sister and guide for Myrcella, even if Sansa was still bound for King's Landing at Father's side.
As the gathering wore on, I found myself with Jon and Theon in the training yard, waiting for the last of the guests to file into the hall. I never shied away from public gatherings, and led them well enough when I had to, but given the choice I'd rather not spend all day at it. Knowing I wouldn't be needed until later, when Robert and Father announced the betrothals at the feast, we talked among ourselves — until I noticed Jaime Lannister approaching, watching me with a keen eye and a smirk on his lips, his gaze catching for a moment on the scar along my cheek before he spoke, something assessing flickering behind the smirk. "Ah — just the pup I was looking for. Care for a spar, Stark? Could use a warm-up before dinner, and I hear you're gifted enough actually to keep up with me."
"Only if you think you can keep up with a Stark," I said, matching his tone, poking a little at how most people only thought they knew the truth of how my father killed three of the Kingsguard. I welcomed the chance to measure myself against the finest swordsman alive, well aware that gifts alone wouldn't keep me safe in the coming war, and that I couldn't afford to sit in the back lines when it came. This would be the safest and toughest test of my skills I'd get for a while.
In the yard, the clang of swords drew a crowd fast, Theon egging on the Lannister guards among them. I settled into the spar, each strike and parry humming with a kind of electricity, the two of us pushing each other harder with every exchange. We danced through it, a real test not just of skill but of the sort of dedication to training most men didn't have — both of us well above the ordinary in physical fitness. It was intense, fast, and it didn't take long before we'd both had our fill of testing each other's limits.
As our swords crossed, I leaned in, breathing hard. "You're as good as they say, Lannister," I said, holding his eyes in a moment's stalemate.
"And you're not too shabby yourself, Stark," he said, grinning as he stepped back. We both took a moment to catch our breath, though it didn't last long.
Jaime Lannister's POV
I couldn't shake the smirk from my lips, my gaze fixed on a challenge I hadn't expected this spar to last this long. No words between us now, just his quick smirk answered by a raised brow and one of my own. I struck first — a lightning feint to his left flank, my body twisting like a coiled serpent, eyes on his shoulder for the tell. He shifted seamlessly, weight pivoting on his heel, parrying with a clash that rang through the yard. By the Seven, he's fast — faster than I'd expected from some northern boy raised in the cold. His stare stayed unyielding as he read the flicker in my eyes, and I pressed on, whipping my sword in a high arc, muscles rippling. He ducked low, quick as a blur, countering with a thrust that grazed my arm guard. Strong too — that blow carried the weight of a man twice his size behind it. I'd do better dodging than trying to parry or block outright.
My breath plumed in the cold air; his, though, didn't, likely used to weather like this by now. We fell into a rhythm, speeding up as I pushed the pace, curious whether this wolf pup could truly keep up. When it hit its peak, blades singing, I narrowed my eyes and spun to slash at his midsection, but he leaped back with a kick, gaze fierce, launching a quick thrust that spun into a move that forced me back onto my heels. Sweat beaded despite the chill, limbs a blur, his shoulders tensing for a downward strike I twisted to dodge, our bodies inches apart, every twitch betraying the intent I searched for. A low sweep from me nearly caught his knee, and I turned it into an upward slash that almost nicked the shaved side of his head, but he rolled through the dodge, his sword only glancing off my thigh. Skilled — damn him — more skilled than half my so-called brothers in the Kingsguard back in King's Landing. He was reading my moves as fast as I made them.
Faster now, the crowd a blur around us, I brought my arm down in an overhead strike meant to end this farce of a spar, but he arched to block, riposting with a ferocity that drove me back three full steps. How is he this strong, this fast? I wanted to roar. A wolf pup matching a lion? I let a roar of exertion loose from my lips. As we clashed again in the center yard, swords locked, grinding, faces close, his eyes burning with a wolfish intensity I hadn't seen even in older men, and I matched his look with my own. The boy was a natural, truly — body honed by winter, and maybe by real fights with wildlings, since these Northmen surely faced their share of raiders from beyond the Wall — before we broke apart in one last burst of motion. Then I felt it, strange as it was — my pride wearing thin, the weight of my own boots suddenly heavy beneath me. I hadn't fought, let alone sparred, this long in years, and the thought that Robb Stark, of all people, a boy barely grown, was outlasting me gnawed at something in my chest. I lunged low in anger to end it. My pride wouldn't stand for losing to some northern upstart, however skilled the pup proved to be. He sidestepped, swung high. I parried mid-air, twisting to thrust at his center as his blade came down.
In an instant it was over. His dull edge pressed cold against my throat, my own point hovering at the soft spot beneath his arm, both of us frozen in lethal balance, chests heaving, eyes locked in startled stillness.
"Yield," we both growled and snarled at once, voices rough, overlapping.
The courtyard erupted — Northmen and visitors alike clapping, wide-eyed, murmurs rippling through the crowd of "a match for the Kingslayer, Lord Robb's a marvel" and "Jaime tied with a boy? Must've been tired from the long ride" as Robb Stark thanked me for the spar and turned back toward Ned's bastard and Theon Greyjoy. I left the yard myself, looking to find either my sister, my brother, or a drink.
Robb Stark's POV
When the spar ended, Theon and Jon congratulated me alongside Dacey and Wynafryd for tying with the Kingslayer; I felt the weight of the day finally settle over me. I wasn't just an extension of House Stark — I was a leader, the future lord of the North, and if my plans held, the future King of Westeros besides. I'd needed to prove my martial skill, to myself as much as to anyone watching, and tying Jaime Lannister, the finest sword of the age, was a fine way to do it. It was the fastest I'd ever moved in a fight, and through it I'd seen firsthand just how far my strength had come. I'd have to thank the unknown savior of King's Landing for that by sparing him later.
After cleaning up and finally stepping into the main hall for the feast, I noticed just how many people had come. The retinue the King had brought must have numbered well over a hundred — most of them I'd never know, and likely wouldn't care to, as I made my way to my seat at the main table, thinking how many of them were probably just part of Bobby B's collection of bootlickers. I greeted the King and Queen with a proper bow when I reached them, taking the Queen's hand and pressing a kiss to it even as she was staring daggers into probably for tying with her beloved Jaime — but I would admit the book and show hadn't done Cersei Lannister's beauty justice. However, I knew well enough what a wicked woman she truly was. I noticed too that Joffrey looked more like his book self than his show one, which put him at odds with almost everyone else here, making him look every bit the regal prince, if you didn't already know how black and empty his heart was. I offered Myrcella my hand as well, aware it might be harder on her than most, given what was coming and what I had planned. I meant to be as kind to her as I could manage, before taking my own seat, kissing my mother's cheek and giving Father a nod.
The rest of the feast played out much as I remembered from the show — my namesake leaving the main table more than once to relive his glory days through tales and drink, one hand finding a serving girl's waist along the way. Somewhere amid the revelry, he did take the moment to announce both betrothals between House Baratheon and House Stark — mine to his daughter, Sansa's to Joffrey — going on about how a match like this should have happened a generation ago. The hall grew louder still at the news, a fresh wave of energy sweeping through it, though I caught Cersei's cold stare even through the noise, and Myrcella's nervous, kind smile, which I returned. Settling back into my chair, waiting out the rest of the feast and picking at my plate, I found myself looking forward mostly to Robert's eventual departure so that I could get on with the rest of my plans. I had a meeting arranged with him and Father, come morning too, though I doubted he'd remember it himself, given how his night of drinking and whoring was clearly only just getting started. I laughed to myself, thinking that at least the first day of the King's visit was finally drawing to a close.