Nerd In the North 5-9

Robb Stark pulled his sword from the Lannister knight’s chest and felt the familiar wrongness settle in his bones as the battle came to an end around him. The man had been bigger than him, older, more experienced—and Robb had cut through his guard like it was made of parchment. The knight’s eyes were still wide with shock, not just at dying, but at how he’d died. At the impossible speed of the blow that killed him.

Bloody hands shuddered, trembling as the sword hung at his side.

Fear would have been a simple answer to this, if an unwelcome one. Yet, it was not that at all and Robb knew it. His blood sang under his skin, rushing through him at speeds he swore he’d never felt ever in his life before this very battle, making every heartbeat thunder in his ears.

The same feeling that had begun during the charge to take back Riverrun, when Grey Wind had moved beside him like they shared the same mind, when his sword had found gaps in armor that shouldn’t have been there. When everything had felt almost…

Blessed.

Around him, his men were cheering. 

Another victory. 

Another rout. 

The Lannister forces were streaming south in full retreat, the Kingslayer along with them, leaving their dead scattered across trampled grass like red and gold flowers. 

Something else had been at work on this field today.

Grey Wind padded up beside him, the direwolf’s head now level with Robb’s chest. So much growth for little more than a year of growth, strange, yet he did not have the time to think much of it as another low breath left his lips. Blood matted the beast’s grey fur, but Robb knew without knowing that none of it was his own. When Robb looked into those golden eyes, he sometimes felt like he was looking through them, seeing the battlefield from a predator’s perspective.

Feeling the hunt in his own blood.

Father, what’s happening to us?

His thoughts shuddered, pushed aside as a groan from nearby made him turn. One of his own men—a boy no older than he was—lay propped against a splintered shield, clutching his side where Lannister steel had found its mark. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark, wet, and thick as it stained the mud beneath him.

The kind of wound that killed men slowly, painfully.

Robb started toward him, but in front of his eyes, a figure rushed ahead with speed that only a horse could match.

It was always a sight, one he had to hold his surprise back at witnessing.

Even despite his speed, Lord Veder moved with efficient grace and a constant patientce, golden light already pooling in his palms before he even knelt beside the wounded boy. The Bright Lord’s face was drawn, exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness. It was a look that Robb had seen many times before.

Magic had always been said to require a price and it was clear that the Lord Veder paid a price for his miracles, though he never complained about it.

“How many?” Robb asked as he walked up with Greywind at his side, eyes tight to the sight as the blond lord’s magic knit flesh and bone back together.

“I just got here, Robb, I’m not gonna pretend like I know,” Greg replied back to him without so much as looking up, something his bannermen would consider the height of disrespect from the new lord if they were here to see it. Robb had no mind against it, easily able to hear that the lord of the Brightfort’s voice was rough with strain. “Still could’ve been worse.”

The boy’s wound sealed with a sound like wet leather stretching. His color returned, the clear signs of pain distorting his countenance smoothing away. A miracle, pure and simple, everytime he saw it.

Even as the blond lord sagged slightly, catching himself on one hand as the magic drained out of him, his actions were no less miraculous in Robb’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it as he spoke the words out loud yet again. How many of his men would be dead without his new bannerman’s gift? How many victories would have turned to defeats?

Greg just nodded, already moving toward the next wounded man. Robb watched him go, something cold settling in his stomach. Without Greg’s healing, without his strange strength, without whatever force had made Grey Wind fight so perfectly with him, would they have won at all?

The sound reached him before he saw her—a voice raised in song that shouldn’t have been audible over the groans of wounded men and the clash of cleanup. But Dacey Mormont’s voice cut through it all, clear and wild and somehow wrong.

The tall Lady of House Mormont stood over three dead Lannisters, mace still in hand, blood speckling her face like war paint. And she was singing. Not a victory song, not a mourning dirge, but something that made Robb’s teeth ache to hear. Something that pulled at him, made him want to join his voice to hers even though he’d never heard the words before.

“The frost bites deep where the south won’t tread!” Dacey sang, and impossibly, other voices joined her. Men who shouldn’t have known the words, soldiers who looked as surprised as Robb felt to find themselves singing along.

“The cold winds howl through the land of the dead! The hearths burn low, but our hearts burn bright! For winter’s teeth are sharp tonight!”

The harmony was perfect, unnaturally so, as if the song was writing itself in their throats. Robb felt his own lips moving, felt the urge to add his voice to theirs, but clamped his jaw shut. This was wrong. This was…

Magic.

“Feel the bite, the jagged sting!” Dacey howled, blood splashing from her maul. “Winter’s teeth, their reckoning! Steel can’t stop what the cold will claim! The north cuts deep, remember the n-!”

“Bastard!”

Robb blinked, attention pulled away from the song by a loud shout. He turned, schooling the confusion of his face as he spotted the Smalljon standing over a Lannister man, or his corpse at the very least. The man’s face was caved in, crushed by what looked like a single blow from a heavy fist.

And above him, Smalljon was flexing the fingers on that very same fist, knuckles bloody and bruised but clearly unbroken.

“Didn’t mean t’hit him so ‘ard,” Smalljon said when he noticed Robb watching, his voice carrying wonder where Robb would have expected at least a slight bit of regret. “Felt like I could strike through a castle wall.”

Robb looked around the battlefield with new eyes. His men hadn’t just been fighting better today than they had before.

The army of the North under his command had been stronger, faster, more coordinated. And it wasn’t just the named lords and knights. Common-born soldiers had moved with grace that spoke of years of training they’d never had. Men who’d struggled with basic drills just weeks ago had fought like seasoned veterans.

The Old Gods were blessing his army. There was no other explanation. But why? And what did they want in return?

That cold feeling settled in his stomach once again as Robb realized something else. Without Greg’s healing, without the strange coordination that had seized his army during the charge, without whatever force had made Grey Wind fight so perfectly with him, would any of them still be alive?

By the time they reached Riverrun that evening, Robb had almost convinced himself that the strangeness of the battle was just his imagination. 

Until the feast.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The Great Hall of Riverrun was alive with celebration, torches flickering against ancient stone walls as his bannermen drank and laughed and told increasingly embellished tales of the day’s victory. Robb sat at the high table, picking at his food and trying to look like he was enjoying himself. His uncle Edmure had spared no expense for the feast, bringing out wine that had been aging since before Robert’s Rebellion and meat that actually tasted like something other than leather and salt.

Down the table, Uncle Edmure was deep in conversation with Ser Marq Piper. The man seemed to have little care for the fact that he was nearly captured during the siege on House Tully’s keep, far too busy gesturing wildly with a chicken leg as he recounted some part of the battle for the third time tonight. The Blackfish sat between them, eating steadily and saying little, but Robb caught the occasional grunt of approval or disapproval at his nephew’s embellishments. 

Yet even as the feasting continued, Robb’s attention kept drifting to his men. The way they moved, the way they carried themselves. There was something different about them tonight. They stood straighter, laughed louder, seemed more… alive than they had this morning. And whenever someone mentioned the battle, their eyes got a look in them that Robb didn’t quite like. A hungry look. Like they were already thinking about the next fight.

That’s not… that’s not how men should look after a battle. He had only been in so many battles, but he knew that much. 

When will Mother arrive? The thought came unbidden, as it had been doing for days now. Her last raven had come a fortnight past, saying she was traveling from the Eyrie with Ser Rodrik and a small escort. She should have been here by now. Should have been here for… for whatever this was becoming. 

Lord Veder was nowhere to be found, as expected, the Bright Lord having retired to his chambers after draining himself healing every man injured in the battle.

Even as his lords whispered in his ear that such actions were an insult to him and showed little honor, Robb appreciated the young lord more than he could ever admit aloud, especially in front of those lords.

The Lord Veder asked for little, expected nothing, and yet did what needed doing, far more than Robb would ask of him even, and bore the cost himself.

All magic bore a cost. Simply by looking at the Lord Veder’s face as he healed others, Robb could see plainly that cost came from him.  If more lords were like him… but that was a dangerous thought.

Maybe… maybe I should ask him about Grandfather. Robb paused in his seat, keeping himself still lest he allow emotion to show across his face. If his healing could help Lord Hoster… Edmure’s been trying to hide it, but I can see the worry in his eyes. The way he keeps glancing toward the tower where…

Stop. Don’t think about that now. Can’t think about that now.

“Feel the bite, the jagged sting! Winter’s teeth, their reckoning! Steel can’t stop what the cold will claim! The north cuts deep, remember the name!”

From across the hall came Dacey’s voice again, rich and clear, weaving through the same war song that had started on the battlefield. But it wasn’t just her voice anymore. Other voices had joined in, men who definitely hadn’t been there when she’d first sung it. Men who shouldn’t have known the words.

How do they know the words? How do they all know the words?

“They think us brittle, they think us weak! But winter’s lessons are hard to speak! The snow will bury their broken steel! Their howls are silent when winter’s real!”

The wine tasted like copper in his mouth suddenly. Robb set down his cup, watching as men around the hall began to sway slightly in rhythm, their faces taking on that same hungry look he’d noticed before. As if the song was doing something to them, changing them in ways he couldn’t quite… no, don’t think about it, don’t—

Even the Blackfish had stopped eating, his weathered face turning toward Dacey with an expression Robb couldn’t quite read. “A shadow falls where the frost takes hold! No fire can shield them from the cold! The north endures, unbroken, unbent! Winter’s teeth are our testament!”

When she finished, the hall erupted in cheers that nearly made the great hall of the keep tremble. Dacey smiled but Robb still caught the moment of uncertainty that flickered across her face, clear on her face as she turned his way. She felt it too, and Robb knew it. The way the songs seemed to write themselves, seemed to reach into men’s hearts and twist something there.

Magic. It’s magic and we all know it.

His father had told him stories, old stories from before the Conquest, about the prices magic demanded. Blood and sacrifice and sometimes things far worse. What price are we going to pay for this? What price am I going to—

The Greatjon Umber rose from his seat with the deliberate slowness of a man who’d been drinking steadily for hours but hadn’t yet reached his limit. He was a giant of a man, broader even than his son, with a voice that could shake walls when he chose to use it. Tonight, he looked like he was planning to use every bit of that voice.

“A toast!” the Greatjon bellowed, and the hall fell silent with the instant obedience that the Greatjon commanded through sheer force of personality. “To victory!”

The response was immediate and enthusiastic, loud and raucorous as he expected as both cups and horns were raised high, wine sloshing onto rush-covered floors. But the Greatjon wasn’t finished. He remained standing, his ale cup held high, eyes fixed on Robb with an intensity that made the young lord’s stomach clench.

Robb caught the Blackfish’s eye across the table. His great-uncle’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in his gaze—a warning, maybe, or recognition of what was about to happen. Edmure had gone quiet too, his uncle’s face suddenly curious more than anything as he turned 

“But I ask ye,” the Greatjon continued, the Umber lord’s voice carrying to every corner of Riverrun’s great hall, “who d’we toast? What victory d’we celebrate?”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as Robb felt his blood begin to rush again, nearly at the same pace as it had on the battlefield. Mother should be here for this.

“D’we toast that bastard born of brother-fucking who sits on a throne of dragonscum and blood?” The Greatjon’s voice dropped to a growl, the man’s fist clenched as he stood tall. “D’we toast his whore mother, whose cunt spat him out? D’we toast the old lions who think Northern blood runs cheap?”

Robb could taste iron in his mouth, could feel his pulse in his throat. 

“Or,” the Greatjon’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, forcing damn near everyone to lean forward, “d’we toast the one who led us here? The one who stands with us, bleeds with us, wins with us?”

His eyes never left Robb’s face. “The one the Old Gods have blessed with victory after victory? The one who commands wolves and speaks with the voice of winter itself?”

Robb’s breath caught in his throat. 

“The fat king is dead,” the Greatjon continued, his voice gaining strength with each word, rolling through the hall like an avalanche. “His heir is a bastard born of incest and cruelty. The Iron Throne holds no king we can follow.” He paused, letting that sink in, and Robb could hear his own heartbeat in the silence. “But the North remembers. The North remembers when we had our own kings. When the blood of Winter ran true in the veins of those who led us.”

His father had served honorably, faithfully, and they’d taken his head for it. What loyalty did Robb owe to the crown that had killed the best man he’d ever known? 

“I’ll hear no more talk of Southern kings and Lannister blood unless it’s spilled,” the Greatjon declared, his voice now ringing off the stone walls like hammer blows, and Robb felt each word like a physical impact. “There’s only one true king in this hall! There’s only one man here with the blood of the First Men running pure in his veins!”

Robb kept his teeth grit as the Greatjon continued to speak.

“Robb Stark is a man grown, and more than that—he’s our king!”

King. Not Lord of Winterfell, not Warden of the North, but King. King in the North, as his ancestors had been before Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons had forced them to kneel.

Around the hall, men were beginning to stir. Some nodding, some frowning, all of them looking at Robb with new eyes. Calculating eyes. Because this wasn’t just about him anymore. This was about all of them. If they named him king, they were all rebels. All traitors in the eyes of the Iron Throne.

The Blackfish was watching him carefully, those sharp eyes missing nothing. Edmure had gone white as fresh snow, but he wasn’t speaking against it. None of them were.

I can’t… how can I… Father would know what to do. Father always knew what to do.

“The Old Gods have marked ye, Robb Stark,” the Greatjon said, his voice dropping to something that seemed to reach into Robb’s chest and squeeze, making it hard to breathe. “Ye fight with the strength of winter itself. Ye lead like the Kings of Winter did before the Conquest. Before we bent the knee to dragons.”

He knelt, massive frame folding with surprising grace, and the sight of the Greatjon—proud, stubborn, unbending Greatjon—on his knees sent a shock through Robb’s system that made his vision blur for a moment.

“I call ye King of Winter. King in the North. Will ye have us?”

To deny was pointless. These men, Northern and Southern alike, had given him their loyalty, their trust, their lives. They’d followed him into battle, watched him make decisions that could have cost them their lives and their kin, and yet, they’d trusted him anyway.

And what else was left for him by choice? To kneel in front of the throne that had murdered his father? Follow the monster that called himself king? Allow them to treat Northern blood — Stark blood — as something so easily spilled? 

…I must. He knew that truth deep in his heart. His father had done as much for his brother, father and sister. Robb would consider himself no Stark if he could not do the same for his own father and sisters.

“I would be your king,” Robb said, his voice coming out rougher than he’d intended, carrying clearly through the sudden silence “But know this… if you name me King, we shall be rebels in truth, for ourselves and not just for justice. Outlaws against the other five Kingdoms, us against the entirety of Westeros.”

Because once you say it…

The Greatjon’s face lit up, the man grinning wide enough to show teeth that had seen more than their share of fights. “Aye, and bloody right too! Let ’em come! Let the whole bloody South come! We’ll show the bastards what happens when they murder our lord and think we’ll just roll over and take it like whipped dogs!”

“The King in the North!” the Greatjon roared, voice shaking dust from the rafters, making the torches flicker. “The King of Winter!”

The hall exploded. Not just cheers, but roars that seemed to come from some primal place deep in men’s chests, something older than words. “KING IN THE NORTH! KING IN THE NORTH!”