Robert Baratheon's POV
My head pounded like a war drum, the kind the bloody Dornish beat before they charged into some fool's battle, or bed — I could never tell with that lot. Gods be good, last night's feast had been a blur of ale, venison, and Northern wenches with hips that could crush a man's resolve. Gods, why did I let myself drink like that anymore? I wasn't the young stag charging through the Trident with a hammer in hand these days. Hell, if I could go back, I'd have never taken that shit crown at all — given the damned thing straight to my brother, grim Stannis, and let him deal with it. I laughed to myself, picturing my dour brother wrestling with all these snakes and bootlickers instead of me. But no — I was the fat king with a crown that weighed heavier than my own gut, and fuck the lot of them if I had to keep dealing with talk of rights and favors, I'd drink and eat what I pleased, and they could go bother Ned about it instead. I groaned, hauling myself out of bed, Winterfell's cold stone floor biting at my bare feet like some reminder of this frozen hellhole. Still, damn it all, it was good to be up North again, away from the scheming snakes of King's Landing. This was the kind of place a real man could live free — forests, game aplenty, wildlings to hear tales of, even a decent fight if a man went looking for one. Gods, it had been too long since I'd had a fight worth having. Only in my dreams could I truly fight anymore; none of these so-called men nowadays wanted to lay a hand on their king.
A servant had already laid out my clothes, simple but good wool and leather, none of that silk shit Cersei always favored. I dressed quickly, ignoring the ache behind my eyes, and made my way to Ned's solar. The man was there waiting, same as always, that stony face of his, that damned sense of duty — but I loved him for it. None of these other cow-pies would ever talk to me straight the way he did. And there beside him stood his boy, named for me — Robb Stark. Hell, Ned must have done something right somewhere. The boy stood tall as these bloody northern trees, Tully eyes and hair on a proper Stark build, a warrior's build if I'd ever seen one. The lad had tied with Jaime bloody Kingslayer Lannister in the yard yesterday. Tied! I'd heard the whispers from every guard at the feast. Hell, I wished I'd seen it — that smug prick taken down a notch, matched by a Northern pup barely grown. Cersei's precious Jaime, the golden lion himself, matched blow for blow — that had pissed her off good, I'd wager. That fire, that raw strength, reminded me of myself before this blasted throne turned me soft. Aye, Robb Stark was the sort I'd have ridden with in my younger years, crushing skulls and laughing about it after.
"Morning, Your Grace," Ned said, rising from his desk with a nod. Robb echoed him, voice steady, no trace of the feast's excess showing on him. Clever lad, that one.
I waved them both off, dropping into a chair that creaked under my weight. "Spare me the courtesies, Ned — and seven hells, stop calling me Your Grace. It's Robert, damn it. You helped me take this crown. You slew Ser Arthur Dayne. You're my brother — you'll call me Robert, that's an order. My head's splitting like a melon under my own hammer. What's this meeting about? You said you and the boy had some ideas."
Ned glanced at Robb, who stepped forward with a letter in hand. "Robert," he said, with a smirk. The lad didn't hesitate, didn't shy from a bit of cheek. I liked that.
Robb began, his Northern burr thick but clear. "We've a proposal, agreed to by the Watch, to end the Targaryen stain on the North — to wash away what little they left of it, since all they ever knew how to do was take, even what was never theirs." There was real heat building in his voice as he spoke, something close to true anger. "Out of every house and kingdom, the Starks and the North know that better than most. My grandfather, my uncle, my aunt — all taken, all lost, to those dragon-spawned bastards." A hatred I'd never once seen on Ned's face showed plainly on his son's, and thinking on it, what the dragons had cost me doubled, maybe tripled, what they'd taken from Ned's family. "But that's past, and there's nothing to be done for it now. Still, what they left behind in the North — the New Gift, that strip of land along the Wall — was handed over by those same dragons without a thought, out of nothing but pride and ignorance, centuries back. It was never truly theirs to give, and the Watch can't properly work it or hold it. We have a letter here, from Lord Commander Mormont himself." He passed it to me, and I skimmed the words — aye, agreeing to hand it back to Stark hands, so long as the Watch kept a cut of whatever crops and resources the new settlers brought in, settlers chosen by House Stark itself.
I felt a growl building in my chest at the mere mention of Targaryens — those silver-haired bastards, fire and madness the whole lot of them. Aerys, Rhaegar — they'd taken everything from me. Lyanna. My youth. My peace. "Bloody dragons," I snarled, crumpling the edge of the letter in my fist. "Thought they could carve up the realm and take my wife like some dam spollied child. Aye — take it back, Ned. The Gift's yours, Stark land once more. Let the Watch beg for scraps if it comes to that. Anything to spite the Targaryen legacy."
Ned's eyes softened with that quiet gratitude of his. "Thank you, Robert. It'll strengthen the North, and please more than a few of my houses besides."
Robb nodded, though he wasn't finished. "There's more, Your Grace — about the betrothals. Myrcella's a fine match, and I'm honored to join your house. But I'd ask that she stay here at Winterfell a while before the wedding, under my mother's eye. Lady Catelyn came from the South herself — she can teach her our ways, and help her adjust besides. And my sister Arya, if she could stay too, rather than travel to the capital with you, Myrcella could use a friend her own age, someone to ease her into Northern life. She can visit the Crown later, of course, but for now, let her learn what will be her home."
I barked a laugh that echoed off the stone. Clever boy — keeping the girl up North gave his father some peace and quiet once he left, most likely, and no doubt the same went the other way. And Arya, Ned's other girl, the wild one? She'd drive Cersei half mad in King's Landing — though it'd be funny watching her try. "Ha! Aye, why not? Let the princess stay with your son, Ned. Your wife's a proper lady — she'll see the girl's well looked after."
Ned added, "And I hope Queen Cersei might teach Sansa something of what it means to be a future queen."
I snorted, nearly choking on the thought. Cersei, teaching? The woman could easily scheme a man into his grave, but teach queenship? "Good luck with that one, Ned. My wife's more lion than teacher."
Robb pressed on, blue eyes sharp. "I'll send messengers to the Northern houses myself, Your Grace, so they might come pay their respects to their future Lady of Winterfell, and to the alliance between Houses Baratheon and Stark."
I grinned, clapping my hands on my knees. The lad even offered that in a few years, my second boy, Tommen, the soft one, might stay at Winterfell alongside Bran and Rickon, forge the kind of bond Ned and I had once found in the Vale. Gods, if only Joffrey had half this boy's spine in him. "Done," I said. "Let the lads grow up swinging swords together. Might toughen mine up some."
As we wrapped things up, I caught Robb's eye once more. Tied with Jaime, I thought again, and from what I'd gathered of the bandit raid he'd just led, and what Ned himself had said of it, the boy led men like a true warrior already. Aye, this Stark pup was no green boy — he'd make a fine lord, do any father proud, and at the least he'd see Myrcella well cared for, gods know I never quite managed that myself. If only all my problems were as simple as my dreams — one good swing of a hammer, another dead dragon, and rubies scattering into the ford.