Blood and Winter (GOT/ASOIAF)

The clash of wood rang through the training yard.

Robb gritted his teeth as his sword met Hallis Mollen's in a swift, sharp parry. His arms burned with exertion, his breath coming in short bursts as he adjusted his footing in the packed dirt. The cold morning air bit at his skin, but sweat clung to his back beneath his tunic and mail.

Hallis pressed forward, relentless. His strikes were measured, precise—nothing wasted, nothing erratic. He fought like a man who had spent decades drilling the same movements until they were as natural as breathing. Robb, by comparison, fought like a boy trying to become a man.

That was the problem.

Wood met wood again. Splinters danced between them, but Robb's arms were growing heavy, and Hallis must have sensed it. With a quick feint, he shifted, driving his blade toward Robb's exposed side.

Too slow.

Robb moved to counter, but his reaction was a fraction late. Hallis's wooden practice sword slammed into his ribs, knocking him off balance. Before he could recover, a sharp blow against the back of his knee sent him sprawling onto the dirt.

The air rushed from his lungs.

Robb groaned, rolling onto his back, blinking up at the grey sky. His chest rose and fell heavily as he gripped his practice sword, frustration curling in his stomach.

Hallis loomed over him, offering a hand out toward him. "You're quick, my lord, but you rely on your strength too much. A strong sword arm alone won't win a battle."

Robb exhaled, forcing himself up as he took Hallis's hand reluctantly, brushing dirt from his tunic. "Aye." His voice was flat.

Hallis eyed him for a long moment, then sighed. "Your footwork is good, but you hesitate too often. Your mind is elsewhere."

Robb nodded absently, half-listening as Hallis continued, offering corrections, pointers—things that would normally earn his full attention. But not today.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

The war.

Winterfell had changed.

It was subtle in some ways, but unmistakable in others. The yard, once filled with boys laughing as they sparred, was now dominated by the heavy-footed movements of grown men drilling for war. Servants moved with urgent purpose, the air thick with the scent of oiled leather, sharpened steel, and the dampness of approaching winter. There was no more idleness. No more leisure. Every movement, every task, was preparation.

Soon, the lords of the North would arrive. Some had already sent word, affirming their allegiance. Others would come in person, seeking council before marching south. Winterfell would be filled with banners, with men, with voices calling for war.

It did not feel real.

Not yet.

But it would.

He had made his choice. He had set this into motion. There was no turning back now.

Hallis was still speaking, his words distant, blurred beneath the weight of Robb's own thoughts.

"You hesitate too often."

He knew.

"Your mind is elsewhere."

He knew.

But he would learn.

He would fight.

He would win.

Because he had no other choice.

-X-

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the quiet murmurs of men at supper, the occasional clink of tankards and the scraping of wooden spoons against trenchers filling the vast space. Fires crackled in the hearths, casting flickering shadows across the grey stone walls, but to Robb, the warmth did little to settle the chill in his bones.

He ate without thought, the taste of bread and roasted meat barely registering. His mind was elsewhere.

On the visions.

They had not left his mind.

Even now, as he sat at the high table, he could still see flashes of them when he closed his eyes. The crowned stag shedding its skin to reveal the lion's snarling maw. The crowned wolf walking into blue towers, only to leave without its head. The kraken pulling a wounded wolf into the sea. A stag of flowers consumed by shadows and turning into fire.

They had to mean something and if they meant something, he had to understand them.

He exhaled slowly, pushing aside his trencher and resting his elbows on the table, fingers lacing together as he thought.

Some of the meanings were clear enough.

The lion was House Lannister. The stag was House Baratheon. The wolf was his House, House Stark. The kraken… that had to be House Greyjoy. That much was obvious. The blue towers had taken him a moment, but when he thought on it, only one House had such a sigil, House Frey.

"The crowned wolf entered the blue towers and left without its head…" Robb frowned, rubbing a thumb against the edge of his palm.

It meant his death.

That was the only conclusion that made sense. The crowned wolf was him. If he went to House Frey, he would not leave with his head.

'So the Freys will be my enemies.' The thought settled heavily in his gut, but he forced himself to accept it. He had never spoken to Walder Frey, only heard of him in passing. His father had never thought highly of the man, but treachery? Would the Freys betray him? He wanted to believe the Old Gods had given him a warning… but he also couldn't afford to see enemies where there were none.

For now, he would be cautious.

His fingers tapped against the wood.

The kraken dragging a wounded wolf into the sea had been more difficult to decipher. If he was the wolf, then did it mean House Greyjoy would attack House Stark? The idea was not impossible. Balon Greyjoy had rebelled once before, and Robb had never trusted the Ironborn. He had no reason to. They were raiders, pirates, men who respected only strength and the reaving of others.

Yet his thoughts drifted to Theon.

His sworn brother. His constant shadow. His loyal friend.

Would Theon betray him?

The answer came immediately. 'No.' Robb could not believe it.

Theon was arrogant, reckless, prone to boasting—but he was not disloyal. They had grown up together, fought together, bled together. The kraken had to mean Balon, not Theon. Which meant House Greyjoy would move against the Starks.

'Another enemy.' His jaw tightened.

The crowned stag shedding its skin to reveal a lion had been one of the clearer signs. Joffrey Baratheon, though Joffrey was not really a Baratheon. He was a Lannister in truth, not just in temperament but in blood. The vision confirmed what Robb had already assumed—the Lannisters were his true enemy.

The final image, however…

The stag of flowers, burning into flame…

Robb frowned, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.

That one confused him.

A stag of flowers? That could only mean House Baratheon again, but mixed with House Tyrell, whose sigil was a golden rose. The stag burned, consumed by shadows that turned into flames—then another stag, this one wreathed in fire, stood in its place.

Did that mean Renly Baratheon?

Was it a warning about Stannis Baratheon?

Would one of them fall, only for the other to rise in their place?

Robb did not know.

That troubled him.

Everything else, he had a reasonable guess for. But the stag of flowers and flames remained a mystery.

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Was he right about any of this?

Or was he wrong?

He had no way of knowing.

But he could not afford to keep questioning himself.

The lords of the North would be arriving soon. They would look to him, their Lord of Winterfell, for guidance, for strength, for a plan.

He had to give them one.

Robb opened his eyes and straightened his back.

The war was coming.

He had to be ready.

-X-

The candlelight flickered against the aged parchment, casting shifting shadows over the maps and documents spread across the wooden desk. Robb sat in his father's chair, his elbows resting on the worn oak, his eyes scanning the inked lines of Westeros with meticulous focus.

The North. The Riverlands. The Crownlands. The Westerlands.

These were his main concerns—the territories that would shape the course of his war.

But that was not enough.

Robb's gaze flickered to the maps detailing the Vale, the Reach, the Iron Islands, and Dorne. He could not afford to be blind to the other players in the game, no matter how distant they seemed.

Still, there was too much.

Too many details.

Too much to learn in so little time.

His fingers traced over the rivers that cut through the Riverlands, over the high mountain passes of the Vale, the coastline of the Westerlands, the deep forests and open plains that could serve as battlefields, ambush points, or strongholds.

He needed to know everything.

How many men could be raised?

What resources were available?

Where were the most defensible positions?

What was the climate like, and how would it affect travel and supply lines?

Robb knew he wouldn't remember everything at once—there was simply too much. But if he could understand the North, Riverlands, and Westerlands to start, he would already have an advantage.

Especially the North.

Knowing which Houses were capable of raising large forces and which actually did would tell him much about their loyalty.

If a House could raise 2,000 men in short order and did, that was a sign of loyalty.

If a House of equal strength raised only half that number, that was a problem.

A House that delayed in answering the call was a problem.

A House that offered excuses was a problem.

It was a cold, pragmatic way of thinking—one his father might have disapproved of—but Robb knew he could not afford idealism.

Not anymore.

Not when one miscalculation could cost him the war before it even began.

A sharp knock at the door broke his concentration.

"Enter," Robb said without looking up.

The door creaked open, and the familiar shuffling steps of Maester Luwin entered the room. "You summoned me, my lord?"

Robb did not hesitate. He reached for the stack of letters neatly arranged beside the maps, placing them in front of the maester. Alongside them, a single sheet of paper, freshly inked. "These are to be sent immediately," Robb said. "One to Lord Flint of Flint's Fingers, one to Lord Manderly, and one to Lord Reed. Their instructions are inside."

Luwin took the letters, his aged fingers smoothing over the wax seals. He did not ask what was written—Robb knew the maester was too seasoned for that. Instead, Luwin picked up the single sheet of parchment and studied it briefly. "This one is to the Mountain Clans and Skagos?"

Robb nodded.

Luwin hesitated. "The Skagosi have never involved themselves in the matters of the North, my lord. They are almost autonomous, despite belonging to your father's domain. It is unlikely they will answer your call."

Robb met the old man's gaze, his expression unwavering. "Send them anyway."

A pause. Then Luwin inclined his head. "As you command, my lord."

Robb watched as the maester gathered the letters and turned to leave. Once the door closed behind him, Robb exhaled and leaned back in his chair.

This was only the beginning.

The first true step in the war that was to come.