NOVEL NEXT Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Arriving Fosterlings
The sharp clash of steel rang through Robb's open window, slicing through the stillness of dawn. He stirred awake, eyes blinking against the faint grey light filtering into his chamber. The chill of the North hung in the air, but it barely touched him—a sensation he was still adjusting to. In his past life, the cold would've gnawed at his bones, but here, in this second chance, it felt like a distant whisper. A smirk tugged at his lips as he sat up. Early mornings had always been his habit, then and now, and the sound of swords wasn't just a wake-up call—it was proof that the guards he'd taken under his wing were taking his training seriously. For two weeks, he'd pushed them to rise with the sun, and if they were at it again this early, it meant his efforts were paying off.
Robb swung his legs over the bed, the stone floor cool beneath his bare feet, though it didn't bother him. He dressed quickly—leather tunic, breeches, and a thin Stark cloak draped over his shoulders. The cloak was more for appearances than warmth; he didn't want anyone guessing just how little the cold affected him now. As he fastened his belt, his mind turned to the guards. Tom and Bennard stood out among them, their eagerness and loyalty setting them apart. Both were towering lads, around six-foot-five or six-foot-six—he couldn't quite tell—and built like oxes, with strength honed by years of northern grit. Their family's ties to the Starks ran deep: their father had died serving Ned during the Greyjoy Rebellion, their mother now served as one of Catelyn's maids, and Tom's younger brother occasionally helped Mikken in the forge, though he'd never been formally apprenticed. That brother had joined the guards too, following Tom's lead, but Bennard craved action over craft. Robb was glad to have them both. They weren't just strong—they were loyal, and he had plans for them.
He wasn't a maester or a scholar, not in this life or the last, but he'd been a soldier. He knew how to forge men into something sharper, tougher. In his past life, he'd run drills that would've broken weaker spirits: fitness tests, agility courses, suicide runs, push-ups, pull-ups—the kind of grind that turned boys into warriors. He'd adapted those methods for Winterfell's guards, and though they'd groaned at first, the results were undeniable. After just two weeks, Tom and Bennard moved with more precision in their spars, their stamina outpacing the others. It was almost funny, Robb thought as he tugged on his boots—here in a world where most men were already lean from scarce food and endless labor, a few modern exercises could give them an edge. He'd laughed about it once, telling them it was all so "a horse won't best me again." They'd chuckled too, though they didn't know the half of what that kick had awoken in him.
Dressed and ready, Robb made his way to the Great Hall, the scent of fresh bread and sizzling bacon wafting through the air. The hall was quiet at this hour, only a few figures stirring. Ned Stark sat at the head of the long table, his grey eyes scanning a pile of letters. Maester Luwin hovered nearby, muttering about raven schedules, while Theon Greyjoy slouched in a chair, poking at his plate with a disinterested air. Robb slid into his usual spot beside Luwin, grabbing a hunk of bread and a strip of bacon. He folded the bread around the meat, crafting a rough sandwich, and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully as he watched his father.
Ned's gaze lifted, meeting Robb's with that steady, unreadable look of his. Before Robb could speak—or even swallow—Ned broke the silence. "I've had letters from the lords this past week. Their children will arrive this afternoon. For safety, the Mormonts and Umbers sent their fosterlings together, meeting the Manderlys at Castle Cerwyn before coming here. I'd like you to greet them when they arrive."
Robb swallowed his mouthful, nodding. "That's great. I'll be sure to meet them, Father." His voice was steady, but inside, his mind buzzed with anticipation. He'd seen Smalljon Umber in the show—broad, fierce, and loyal to a fault, just like his father. But that loyalty wasn't guaranteed; Robb would have to earn it, and as the future Lord of Winterfell, he couldn't afford to show a shred of weakness. Then there was Dacey Mormont—wild and sharp, a perfect match for Arya's spirit. He pictured her sparring with his sister, the two of them laughing as they traded blows. And Jon… Robb's thoughts snagged on his half-brother. He wouldn't let Jon flee to the Wall this time. He needed him here—maybe as a shield, a bargaining chip, or something greater. Perhaps Dacey could be the key, binding Jon and Arya together into a trio too tight to break apart.
His plans spiraled further as he chewed. If he could learn the Old Tongue as he intended, he might reach out to the mountain clans, maybe even arrange a meeting beyond the Wall with the Thenns. And the giants—gods, the giants. If he could win their loyalty, speaking their tongue, they'd be more than allies; they'd be walking scorpions, smashing through enemy lines. He could already see it: Lannister soldiers scattering as a giant roared, or the Freys trembling before granting him passage across the Twins. It was a wild dream, years off yet, but it fueled him. For now, he'd focus on binding the northern houses through these fosterlings and forging his guards into an elite unit. That would have to do.
Robb finished his meal and pushed to his feet, catching Theon's eye. "Walk with me," he said, his tone light but firm. Theon hesitated, then shrugged and followed, trailing Robb out into the courtyard. The clang of swords grew louder as they neared the training yard. Robb hadn't spent much time with Theon lately, and he could sense the younger man's unease simmering beneath his usual bravado. It was time to bridge that gap.
"I'm sorry I've been distant," Robb said as they walked, keeping his voice low. "That kick from the horse knocked more than just wind out of me. Been trying to sort my head—and these new fighting skills the Old Gods saw fit to gift me." He flashed a grin, hoping to ease the mood.
Theon smirked, though his eyes stayed wary. "Aye, you've been a menace in the yard. Men are starting to think you're half-wolf."
Robb chuckled, but before Theon could say more, he pressed on. "You been reading those books I mentioned? The ones about your father and your grandfather's rule over the Iron Islands?"
Theon's smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of anger and confusion. Robb knew Balon Greyjoy hadn't written to his son in years, and the silence cut deep. He wasn't above using that wound to his advantage. If he could steer Theon toward admiring his grandfather Quellon—proud, cunning, and strong—maybe he could plant the seeds for an alliance between the North and the Iron Islands. Convincing the Ironborn to raid the Reach or the Westerlands instead of the North could shift the entire war. And then there was Casterly Rock—Robb remembered the secret passage from the show. If he could take it…
Theon didn't answer, his jaw tight. Robb let the silence linger, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Kraken of the North. Let's see if this wolf can best you again."
Theon's eyes narrowed at the nickname, but a grin tugged at his lips. "You're on."
They crossed the yard to the training area, where Tom and Bennard were sparring with a handful of other guards. Robb grabbed two practice swords from the rack, tossing one to Theon. "First to three," he said, settling into a stance.
Theon caught the sword, his posture sharpening. "Getting cocky, Stark."
"We'll see," Robb shot back, grinning.
They circled each other, the air thick with tension. Theon struck first, a quick jab that Robb parried with ease, stepping aside and countering with a slash at Theon's ribs. Theon blocked it, but the force pushed him back. Robb pressed forward, feinting high before striking low. Theon deflected it just in time, his breathing already quickening.
"Slow today," Robb teased, though his focus never wavered.
Theon's jaw clenched, and he lunged, his strikes growing sharper. Robb met them blow for blow, his movements smooth and relentless. The guards paused their own drills to watch, their murmurs rising as the spar intensified. Theon's frustration mounted, his form slipping, and Robb seized the opening—disarming him with a flick of his wrist. The sword clattered to the ground, and Robb tapped Theon's chest with his blade. "One."
Theon scowled, snatching up his weapon. "Luck."
They reset, and Theon came at him harder this time, his attacks more calculated. Robb danced around them, his speed and strength wearing Theon down. A swift strike to Theon's side earned Robb his second point. "Two," he said, stepping back.
Theon's face was red now, his breaths ragged. "You've been at this too much."
"Or you've been slacking," Robb quipped.
Theon charged, his swings wild with desperation. Robb sidestepped, letting Theon's momentum carry him forward, then swept his legs out from under him with a low kick. Theon hit the dirt, and Robb pressed the tip of his sword to his neck. "Three."
The guards cheered, and Robb lowered his weapon, offering Theon a hand. "Good fight."
Theon took it, pulling himself up with a grunt. "You're a bastard."
"Only half as much as Jon," Robb said with a laugh, clapping him on the back.
Theon snorted, but the edge in his posture softened. It wasn't a full mend, but it was progress. Robb needed Theon's loyalty—not just as a friend, but as a piece in the larger game. If he could tie Theon to the North, make him feel like a brother while nudging him toward his Ironborn roots, it might pay off down the line.
The morning stretched on, and Robb ran the guards through their drills—push-ups, sprints, and sparring rounds. They were improving, their movements crisper, their endurance growing. But he knew they weren't ready yet—not for the chaos he saw coming. That would take time.
By midday, Robb's muscles hummed with a pleasant ache, and he wiped sweat from his brow as he headed back to the keep. The fosterlings would arrive soon, and he needed to be ready. Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Wynafryd Manderly—each carried the weight of their house, and Robb intended to win them over. But as he climbed the steps to his chamber, his thoughts drifted to Jon again. He hadn't seen him all morning—likely brooding somewhere, torn between duty and belonging. Robb couldn't let him slip away. Maybe Dacey could anchor him, give him a reason to stay.
He reached his window and paused, gazing out at the courtyard. The gates stood open, and in the distance, a caravan rolled closer—banners of green, white, and black snapping in the wind. The fosterlings had arrived.
Robb squared his shoulders, drawing a deep breath. It was time to step into his role, to welcome these future allies. But as he turned away, a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision—a lone crow perched on the sill, watching him with dark, unblinking eyes. He froze, a faint tug stirring in his chest. Then it was gone, the bird taking flight. Robb shook his head. The game was afoot, and he had no time for omens or old Targaryen men wrapped in tree roots—not yet.