Nerd In the North II-4: Shifts In the North

II-4: Shifts In the North

Author’s Note: Yes, yes, I said I was sick. Yes, yes, I should be asleep. Are you gonna hassle me or read the chapter?

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

ROBB

The heavy oak door of his father’s solar—his solar now—groaned shut behind Robb as he entered, the sound echoing through the chamber like the closing of a tomb. A shiver ran down his spine, though whether from the chill that always clung to Winterfell’s stone walls or from the weight of responsibility that settled upon his shoulders, he could not say. The room, bathed in the amber glow of the hearth, was as familiar to him as his own chambers, yet it felt alien now, as if the very furniture had rearranged itself in the absence of his Lord Father.

Robb’s gaze swept across the solar, taking in the worn tapestries depicting direwolves in mid-hunt, their fabric dulled by age but no less fierce for it. Narrow windows allowed thin shafts of pale northern sunlight to pierce the gloom, casting long fingers of gold across the stone floor and illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air. The scent of smoke and ancient wood permeated the room, a smell that spoke of countless generations of Starks who had sat where he now sat, ruling the North with iron wills and wolf’s blood in their veins.

He lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind the massive desk, its surface littered with scrolls and missives that demanded his attention. The wood creaked beneath him, and for a moment, Robb felt like a child playing at lordship, borrowing his father’s clothes that were still too large for his frame. Is this how Father felt when he first took up the mantle of Lord Stark? The thought came unbidden, and he pushed it aside with a grimace. There was no time for such musings; the North needed a lord, not a boy lost in daydreams.

At his feet, Grey Wind stirred, the direwolf’s massive form unfurling as he raised his head to regard his master with eyes that seemed to hold all the wisdom of the old gods. Robb allowed himself a small smile, reaching down to scratch behind the wolf’s ears. “At least I have you to keep me honest, eh?” he murmured as Grey Wind chuffed, the young Lord drawing comfort from the great beast’s presence.

With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his very being, Robb turned his attention to the mountain of parchment before him. Harvest reports from the Barrowlands spoke of a bountiful yield, yet warned of early and oddly intense frosts for the summer that threatened to cut the season short. A missive from Lord Manderly detailed increased shipping levies at White Harbor, a necessary evil to bolster the coffers of the North in preparation for the long winter to come. Border skirmishes with wilding raiders along the New Gift demanded attention, while petty lords squabbled over grazing rights and ancient, half-forgotten slights.

Each scroll unfurled a new challenge, a test of his mettle as the new Lord of Winterfell. Robb’s quill scratched across parchment as he penned responses, his handwriting a pale imitation of his father’s strong, sure script. What would Father do? The question haunted him with each decision, a constant reminder of the impossibly large shadow he now stood in.

As the afternoon waned, the solar grew darker, and Robb’s eyes began to strain in the fading light. He was about to call for more candles when a soft knock at the door broke his concentration. “My lord,” came Maester Luwin’s steady voice from the other side, “may I enter? There is news.”

Robb straightened, his spine cracking as he did so. How long had he been hunched over the desk? “Aye, come in,” he called, striving to keep his voice strong and even, despite the weariness that tugged at him.

The door opened with a creak, and Maester Luwin shuffled in, his grey robes blending with the silver of his hair. In his arms, he carried a fresh bundle of scrolls, and Robb felt his heart sink at the sight. More problems to solve, more decisions to make. The maester laid the scrolls before him with a deferential nod, his chain clinking softly with the movement.

“News from the Wall, my lord,” Luwin began, his tone carefully neutral, “and others from across the North.” He tapped one scroll sealed with the direwolf of House Stark. “This one is from the Lady Stark. She writes from the eastern road, on her way south.”

Robb’s fingers twitched toward the letter, his heart quickening at the mention of his mother. He broke the seal with trembling hands, unrolling the parchment to reveal his mother’s familiar script. Her words conveyed warmth and love, but beneath them, Robb could sense the strain of her journey and the weight of her own burdens. She wrote of treacherous roads and suspicious innkeepers, of the strain of travel on her body. Yet, she assured him of her safety and her determination to reach King’s Landing, to stand by his father’s side and uncover the truth behind Bran’s fall.

As he set the letter aside, a lump forming in his throat, Luwin continued his report. “Lord Commander Mormont reports increased wildling activity beyond the Wall. Nothing dire, but vigilance is advised.”

The mention of the Wall brought thoughts of Jon unbidden to Robb’s mind. His brother out there on the vast, icy expanse of the Wall, bound by an oath as old and unyielding as the North itself. To take the Black is an honor, Robb thought bitterly, and yet it feels a punishment to us both. He found himself longing for Jon’s quiet strength, his steady presence that had always been a balm to Robb’s more impetuous nature.

Luwin’s report shifted to more local concerns, each one another weight added to Robb’s already burdened shoulders. “There are reports of bandits on the Kingsroad, my lord,” the maester said, his voice grave. “And Lord Wailwood requests additional men to fend off raiders in his lands.”

Robb’s jaw clenched at the news. Bandits and raiders were a constant threat, like wolves circling a wounded deer, always probing for weakness. And now they think the North weak, with Father gone and a green boy holding Winterfell. The thought made his blood boil, and he had to force himself to unclench his fists.

“Send word to Lord Wailwood,” Robb said as he barely restrained the urge to grit his teeth, his voice low and tight with barely contained anger. “Tell him he shall have his men. And double the patrols along the Kingsroad. I’ll not have it said that the King’s peace cannot be kept in the North.”

Luwin nodded, making a note on a scrap of parchment. “There is more, my lord,” he said, hesitation coloring his voice. “A letter from Lord Greymont in the Lonely Hills. He speaks of… unsettling rumors.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose. “What manner of rumors?”

“Slavers, my lord,” Luwin said, his distaste evident. “Prowling the shores, looking to snatch the unwary.”

A cold fury settled in Robb’s gut at the word. Slavery was anathema in the North, a vile practice that no true son of Winterfell could tolerate. His father’s voice echoed in his memory: “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” Robb’s hand unconsciously moved to the pommel of his own blade, fingers tightening around the cool metal as he felt like swinging it through as many of those men he could get his hands on.

“Dispatch scouts,” he growled, his voice harder than he intended. “I want eyes on every inch of our coastline. And send word to White Harbor. Lord Manderly is to increase patrols along the shipping lanes. Any ship suspected of carrying slaves is to be boarded and searched. If slaves are found…” He trailed off, the unspoken sentence hanging in the air between them.

Luwin bowed his head. “It shall be done, my lord.”

There was one last scroll, and Luwin seemed to hesitate before mentioning it. “Lastly, a curious report from House Steelmarch, a masterly house under Karhold. They speak of… sightings.”

Robb frowned. “Sightings of what?”

“A great black dog, my lord,” Luwin said, his tone suggesting he found the matter somewhat beneath their notice. “With eyes like spilt blood, they say. Among other things, creeping figures in the night, too big or too wrongly shaped to be man, woman, or child and certainly no simple beast. Superstition, likely, but…”

“But?” Robb prompted, sensing there was more.

Luwin sighed, the man clearly bothered. “He has spoken with other houses in the Karhold and along the Last River. There are whispers of men gone missing, my lord. And… darker things.”

A chill ran down Robb’s spine that had nothing to do with the perpetual cold of Winterfell. He thought of Old Nan’s tales, of the monsters that lurked in the dark of winter. The summer has lasted too long, he thought. 

With a long, heavy sigh, Robb leaned back in his chair, the letters spread before him like a map of mounting troubles. Monsters, slavers, bandits—each a shadow cast over his land, his people. The weight of it all pressed down upon him, threatening to crush him beneath its immensity.

What would Father do? The question hung in the air, unanswerable but constant, a specter that haunted his every decision.

Robb’s gaze fell upon Grey Wind, the direwolf’s golden eyes meeting his own. In that moment, he felt something shift within him, a resolve hardening like steel fresh from the forge. He turned back to Luwin, his expression set in lines of grim determination.

Yet… The thought formed slowly, a realization that had been building since the moment his father rode south. I am Lord Stark. Not Eddard Stark.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

RAMSAY

The next Lord of House Bolton stood in the clearing, his pale eyes flicking over the bustling camp with a predator’s gaze. The forest near Karhold loomed around them, dark and deep, its secrets hidden beneath a canopy of ancient trees. He adjusted his sable cloak, the fabric whispering against his velvet doublet. His boots, crafted from the finest calfskin, seemed out of place amidst the wild tangle of roots and fallen leaves.

Another day, another hunt, he mused, his lips curling into a wet, wormy smile that never quite reached his eyes. The past fortnight had been… interesting. Yes, that was the word for it. 

Interesting and amusing, in ways he hadn’t expected when they’d set out from the Dreadfort.

His gaze settled on Luton, and Ramsay’s smile widened. The fool was still shaking like a leaf in a storm, his eyes darting about as if expecting some river monster to leap from the undergrowth and drag him off. Ramsay chuckled, a low, mirthless sound that set his men on edge.

Ye’d think he’d never seen a corpse before, Ramsay thought, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he recalled the creature they’d encountered at The Last River. It had been a sight to behold, all slimy green skin and rotting flesh. The stench of it… now that had been something special. Like death and shit and something else, something unnatural.

He remembered how Luton had screamed when the thing grabbed him, its fingers – if ye could call ’em that – digging into his leg as it tried to pull him under. For a moment, Ramsay had been content to watch, enjoying the spectacle of his man fighting for his life. But then the screaming had grown tiresome, and well… a dead Luton was no use to him.

So he’d put an end to it, swift and clean. The creature’s head had come off easy enough, though the sound it made… like no living thing Ramsay had ever heard. It had sent a shiver down his spine, a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to and didn’t much care for.

Maybe I should’ve kept it, he thought, regret tingeing his musings. Might’ve made a fine plaything.

But that hadn’t been the end of it. 

Oh no, Karhold’s forests seemed determined to show them all manner of queer beasts. That little demon-thing that had sprung up in front of Blood… 

Now that had been something to see. Barely came up to his knee, but with claws that could’ve gutted a man easy as breathing.

Ramsay’s hand went to his boot, where he’d stowed one of the creature’s finger-long nails as a trophy. He could still feel the satisfying crunch as he’d stomped the life out of the little beast, punishment for daring to spook his horse.

Ramsay Snow, Slayer of Demons, he thought with a sneer. Blessed by the Seven and all that horse shit.

His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his men, each absorbed in their own tasks. Yellow Dick was spitting and cursing as he sharpened his blade, the sound grating against Ramsay’s ears. Skinner sat apart, his fingers moving nimbly as he played some game with a set of dice, his eyes darting up now and then to watch the others. Always watching, that one. Too clever by half, sometimes.

Damon Dance-for-Me was polishing his whip, the leather gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The fair-haired man caught Ramsay’s eye and grinned, a smile almost as unsettling as Ramsay’s own. Sour Alyn stood guard, his rotten teeth bared in a permanent grimace as he glared at the surrounding trees. 

And Grunt… 

Well, Grunt just stood there, silent as always. Sometimes Ramsay wondered what thoughts rattled around in that empty head of his with no tongue to voice them.

But it was Ben Bones who truly caught Ramsay’s attention. The old kennelmaster was tending to the hounds, his weathered hands gentle as he checked each dog for burrs or cuts. He spoke to them in low, soothing tones, showing more care and affection than Ramsay had ever seen him direct at a human being.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Ramsay muttered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Treating thOSE dogs better than his own kin, I’d wager.”

He watched as Ben Bones knelt beside one of the bitches, carefully examining a paw she’d been favoring. The gentleness in the old man’s eyes was almost… tender. It was enough to turn Ramsay’s stomach.

Pathetic, he thought, his lips curling in disgust. Wasting all that care on dumb beasts.

And yet… there was something amusing about it all. The way Ben Bones could be so gentle with the hounds, yet stand by without a word as Ramsay flayed a man alive. The contrast was… delicious.

A grin spread across Ramsay’s face, his pale eyes glittering with cruel mirth. In fact, it was.

His pale gaze swept across the clearing, taking in the sorry lot he called his men. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and fear, a scent that made his nostrils flare with pleasure. He could taste it on his tongue, metallic and sweet, like blood fresh from a wound.

Yellow Dick was off to one side, his high-pitched cackle cutting through the air like a rusted blade. The man was telling some crude jest about a whore and a mule, his face flushed with ale and idiocy. Ramsay watched as the others shifted away, trying to escape the cloud of stink that seemed to follow Yellow Dick wherever he went.

Bloody fool, Ramsay thought, his lips curling in disgust. Might be worth skinning him just to shut him up.

But no, Yellow Dick had his uses. The man was cruel in a way that even Ramsay could appreciate, though he lacked the finesse to make it truly artful. Still, there was something to be said for brute force now and again.

His attention was drawn by the sharp crack of a whip. Damon Dance-for-Me was at it again, practicing his craft on some poor sod who’d caught his eye. The boyish-faced man was all smiles as he flicked the whip, each strike coming closer and closer to the young soldier’s face. Ramsay could see the fear in the boy’s eyes, the way he flinched with each snap of leather.

Now that’s more like it, Ramsay mused, wetting his lips. There was an art to Damon’s cruelty, a grace that Ramsay could appreciate. He watched as a bead of sweat rolled down the soldier’s temple, imagining the salty taste of terror on his tongue.

Nearby, Sour Alyn was tending to his blade, the scrape of stone on steel a steady rhythm in the chaos of the camp. His face was twisted in concentration, or maybe it was just his usual scowl. It was hard to tell with Alyn; the man’s temper was as foul as his breath, but his loyalty was unquestionable. Ramsay valued that, even if he found the man’s lack of imagination… disappointing.

Loyal as a dog, that one, Ramsay thought. And about as clever.

His eyes drifted to the edge of the clearing, where Skinner lurked in the shadows. Now there was a man who knew his craft. Ramsay had seen him work, had watched as he peeled the skin from a man’s body with the care of a lover. It was almost beautiful, in its way. Their eyes met for a moment, and Ramsay felt a chill run down his spine. Skinner was useful, aye, but dangerous too. Too clever by half, that one.

Need to watch him, Ramsay reminded himself. Might be he knows too much.

But all thoughts of his men faded as his gaze settled on the true prize of the day. Tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing, bound with heavy iron chains, was Runt. The massive black dog was anything but small, standing at the height of a small man at the shoulder, its muscles rippling beneath its midnight coat. But it was the eyes that caught Ramsay’s attention, blood-red and burning with an intelligence that no beast should possess.

Ramsay felt a thrill run through him as he approached Ben Bones, the old kennelmaster. He could see the fear in the man’s eyes, the way his hands shook as he tended to the other hounds. It was… delicious.

“How are the hounds?” Ramsay asked, his voice smooth as silk. He enjoyed the way Ben flinched at the sound, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

“Aye, m’lord, they’re well,” Ben replied, his voice quavering. “Never seen ’em so calm.”

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. The old man’s gaze kept flickering towards Runt, fear written plain across his weathered face. Interesting, Ramsay thought. Very interesting indeed.

“And the new one?” Ramsay pressed, letting a hint of steel creep into his voice. “How does he fare?”

Ben swallowed hard, the little thing in his wrinkly neck bouncing like a cork in choppy waters. “That one…” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’s no ordinary hound, m’lord. Not wild, he is. But ‘e knows too much.” The last words were spoken so softly that Ramsay had to lean in to hear them. “Listens only to you, m’lord.”

A smirk played across Ramsay’s lips as he turned away from the trembling kennelmaster. He could feel the old man’s eyes on him as he strode towards Runt, could practically taste the fear rolling off him in waves. It was exquisite.

As he neared the chained beast, Ramsay felt a thrill of excitement course through him. He remembered the chase, the wild hunt through the forest that had led to Runt’s capture. It had been pure chance, really. He’d seen the great black shape racing through the trees and had given chase on a whim, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

It had been no easy task to bring Runt down. The beast was faster than any hound Ramsay had ever seen, its powerful legs eating up the ground with each stride. But Ramsay was nothing if not determined. He’d pushed his mount to the limit, urging Blood on with whip and spur until they’d finally caught up.

Even then, it had been a near thing. Ramsay had barely managed to throw the iron chain around Runt’s neck, the metal links biting into the beast’s flesh. For a moment, he’d thought the dog would break free, its strength seeming to surpass anything natural. But then, something strange had happened. 

Runt had… yielded.

Almost like he wanted to be caught, Ramsay mused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the great black dog. There was something unnatural about the beast, something that set Ramsay’s teeth on edge even as it fascinated him.

As he approached, Runt’s blood-red eyes locked onto him with an intensity that was almost human. Ramsay felt a shiver run down his spine, a mix of fear and excitement that he rarely experienced. He reached out, placing a hand on the beast’s muzzle, feeling the warmth of its breath against his skin.

There was a moment of tension, a silent battle of wills between man and beast. And then, slowly, Runt lowered its massive head in submission. Ramsay felt a rush of triumph, of power, that was almost intoxicating. His smirk shifted into a dark, expectant grin as he leaned in close, his lips almost brushing the dog’s ear.

“Who’s a good boy?”