The King in the North

Robb's legs burned with each step, muscles screaming in protest as he pushed forward. Sweat drenched his tunic, plastering it against his skin despite the cool northern air. Twenty-eight laps, and still Ser Rodrik showed no sign of calling an end to their torment.

Ahead of him, Dacey Mormont maintained a punishing pace, her long strides eating up the distance. Her sister and the other Bear Island warriors followed close behind, their breathing steady and controlled. The sight of their unwavering endurance made his own struggle feel all the more acute.

A strangled grunt drew his attention. To his right, the Tallhart lordling who had spoken up earlier crawled forward on hands and knees, refusing to admit defeat. His fine clothes were caked in mud, his face a mask of pain and wounded pride. Several other nobles fared no better, their soft lives in keeps and castles ill-preparing them for such exertion. Some had given up entirely, saying they wouldn't be treated like some common foot soldier. Ser Rodrik had gladly sent them on their way.

Jon kept pace beside him, though Robb could hear his brother's labored breathing matching his own. The more experienced warriors - Smalljon, Daryn, and a handful of others - had spread throughout the pack, their training showing in their endurance.

"Seven hells," Robb muttered through gritted teeth as his knee threatened to buckle. He forced himself onward, knowing every eye watched their future commander. If he fell now, what message would that send to these men and women?

But gods, how much longer could anyone last? Even the Bear Islanders' pace had slowed, though they still led the pack. Behind him, he heard the desperate gasps and shuffling feet of those barely moving, too proud to surrender while women still ran.

Ser Rodrik's voice carried across the field, sharp and unforgiving. "Keep moving! I'll tell you when to stop! Move those legs or you'll be running extra at sunset!"

Robb's legs wobbled as he crossed the final stretch, pride keeping him upright despite the desperate urge to collapse. Ahead, Dacey Mormont finally showed signs of strain, her shoulders heaving as she slowed to a walk. The sight gave him a small measure of comfort - even the fierce warriors of Bear Island had limits.

"Keep those legs moving!" Ser Rodrik's command cracked through the air. "A slow walk helps prevent cramping."

Through bleary eyes, Robb surveyed the carnage around him. Lord Cerwyn's second son retched into a bush while a Flint boy lay face-down in the mud, shoulders shaking. Near the fence, young Lord Dustin and his cousin stripped off their house pins, flinging them to the ground before storming away.

Jon stumbled beside him, face red and curls plastered to his forehead. "Better... than... the time... Father made us run... the walls," he gasped between breaths.

The common soldiers clustered in small groups, supporting each other as they walked. Though exhausted, most remained standing - their days of farm work and construction had built deeper reserves than any noble's hunting trips. A grizzled miller's son even managed a tired grin as he passed.

"Water, m'lord?" A serving boy appeared at Robb's elbow with a skin.

Robb accepted gratefully, taking small sips as he'd been taught. Around him, bodies littered the ground like casualties after a battle. Some groaned, others lay motionless save for the rapid rise and fall of their chests. Nearly a third of the noble recruits who'd started the run now decorated the field with their collapsed forms.

"Those who can't handle a simple run won't survive real battle," Smalljon rumbled as he passed, his massive frame barely showing fatigue. "Better to learn it now than when steel meets steel."

Robb wiped sweat from his brow, still catching his breath when the Mormont sisters approached. Dacey's tall frame cast a shadow over him, her violet eyes sparkling with amusement as she looked down at his exhausted state.

"Well, well. I'm pleased to see the Young Wolf isn't some delicate flower that withers at the slightest bit of effort." Dacey's lips curved into a knowing smile.

Despite his burning muscles, Robb straightened his spine and met her gaze. "If this is what you consider slight, I'd love to see what counts as real effort for you."

Dacey stepped closer, her violet eyes glinting with amusement. "I'm sure you're eager to test your limits, young wolf. Perhaps I could help you with that... later." Her words hung in the air, a silent challenge laced with promise

Heat rushed to Robb's face that had nothing to do with exertion. His mouth opened, but no words came out as he processed her bold suggestion. The training yard suddenly felt far too warm, and he found himself acutely aware of how close she stood.

Lyanna's smile faltered as she stepped between them, her hand resting lightly on Robb's arm. "The Bear Island warriors certainly showed impressive endurance today," she said, her voice cool and measured.

Robb seized the change of topic like a drowning man clutching driftwood, grateful for Lyanna's intervention. His heart still raced from Dacey's words, and he struggled to regain his composure under her continued smirk.

Near the edge of the field, a Bolton noble struggled to his feet, his substantial girth making the simple action a challenge. "This is madness," he panted to his companion. "We're meant to command armies, not crawl through mud like peasants."

"Then leave," Smalljon rumbled, his voice carrying across the field. "I'd rather fight beside a committed commoner than a weak-willed noble."

The noble's face flushed darker, but he stayed, adjusting his mud-soaked training clothes with as much dignity as he could muster.

Robb watched their exchange with a mixture of satisfaction and concern. The noble's complaints echoed those he'd heard all morning, but at least this one hadn't stormed off like the others. Perhaps there was hope yet.

Ser Rodrik's whistle pierced through his thoughts. The old knight stood at the center of the field, his white whiskers bristling as he barked orders. "Form ranks! Three lines, shoulder to shoulder!"

Robb moved to take his place, noting how the nobles clustered together while commoners gravitated to their own groups. Only the Bear Islanders, Jon, and a few others seemed willing to mix freely.

"No," Ser Rodrik's voice cracked like a whip. "I want you properly mixed. Break those clusters apart! Noble or common, you're all soldiers now."

Smalljon grabbed Wendel's shoulder, practically dragging the protesting noble into line beside a farmer's son. Others shuffled reluctantly, breaking their comfortable groupings under Ser Rodrik's stern gaze.

Robb found himself between a grizzled miller and a merchant's son from White Harbor. He kept his spine straight despite his burning muscles, determined to show no weakness. If these men were to follow him one day, they needed to see him as one of them, not some lordling playing at war.

"Today," Ser Rodrik paced before them, "we learn the basics of shield work. Some of you may think you know how to handle a shield because you've knocked around in a few tourneys." His eyes fixed pointedly on several nobles. "You don't. A shield isn't just for blocking - it's a weapon, a wall, your life in battle. And by the time I'm done with you, you'll either use it properly or you'll quit."

Robb's shoulders screamed in protest as he held the heavy oak shield at height. Sweat trickled down his spine, and his fingers cramped around the worn leather grip. The weight, familiar from years of training, still tested his limits after the punishing run.

To his right, the miller's arms shook violently, but the man's weathered face showed grim determination. The merchant's son on his left had already adjusted his grip three times, his soft hands unused to such strain.

Through the pain, Robb kept his shield steady, knowing every recruit watched him for signs of weakness. He'd chosen to train alongside them - now he had to prove himself worthy of leading them.

Ser Rodrik stalked between the ranks, his sharp eyes catching every wobble and grimace. "Higher, Cerwyn! Your shield won't stop a blade at your waist!"

A shield clattered to the ground somewhere in the back ranks. "Tallhart!" Ser Rodrik's voice cut through the morning air. "Start running, boy. The rest of you - keep those shields up!"

Robb's arms trembled harder. The wood seemed to grow heavier with each passing heartbeat. Beside him, the miller grunted softly but held firm. Even Jon, visible two ranks ahead, showed signs of strain.

Only the Bear Islanders appeared unmoved by the exercise, their shields as steady as castle walls. Dacey caught his eye and winked, her own shield perfectly positioned despite the endless minutes that had passed.

"These shields protect more than just you," Ser Rodrik called out. "In battle, they guard the man beside you. Lower your shield, and you might as well drive a sword through your shield-brother's back!"

Another shield dropped, followed by a third. More recruits peeled away to join Tallhart's punishment run. But Robb kept his position, teeth clenched against the burning in his muscles. A commander couldn't expect his men to endure what he couldn't.

Torrhen Karstark, dropped his shield but immediately picked it up again, teeth gritted in determination. "I won't quit," he growled when his arms began shaking. "I won't shame my house by running away."

They cycled through exercises designed to push them to their limits. Squats while holding shields overhead. Sprints in full armor. Wrestling in the mud. Each new drill stripped away another layer of pride from the noble-born recruits.

Torrhen Karstark, despite his earlier struggles, threw himself into each exercise with grim determination. When he slipped during the sprints, he pushed himself up and continued, ignoring the mud that covered him from head to toe. Other nobles took notice, some finding inspiration in his persistence.

By midday, the training field had become a great equalizer. Fine leather boots provided no advantage in the mud. Expensive armor offered no relief from aching muscles. House names meant nothing when everyone wore the same mud and sweat.

Three more had quit by then, but others showed surprising resilience.

Robb stood, panting heavily as the last echoes of Ser Rodrik's commands faded into the crisp air. The training yard lay strewn with exhausted bodies, some still breathing heavily while others sat in mud, catching their breath. Each recruit wore the signs of their toil—mud-streaked faces, heavy armor that clung to them like a second skin, and trembling limbs that refused to obey.

Ser Rodrik faced the group, his presence commanding despite his age. "You've endured much today," he began, voice steady and firm. "Every drop of sweat, every ache in your muscles is a step toward becoming better soldiers. It's better to struggle now and overcome than to lose your life later in battle."

He paced before them, eyes scanning each recruit. "If you give me your best, I will turn you into the finest soldiers in all of Westeros." His words resonated through the crowd, igniting flickers of resolve in weary gazes.

Robb felt a swell of pride watching his peers—some noble-born and others commoners—finding strength amidst their exhaustion. The weight of leadership pressed upon him, yet he felt buoyed by their determination. As Ser Rodrik concluded with a final rallying cry, Robb found himself breathing easier despite the lingering fatigue.

Once dismissed, he joined Jon at the edge of the yard. "You ready?" Jon asked, brushing mud from his tunic.

"Always," Robb replied, though his muscles protested with each step. His day was far from over; paperwork awaited him back at Winterfell—contracts to review and plans for ongoing projects to oversee.

As they departed toward the stables, Robb noticed Lyanna standing nearby with Dacey Mormont. Lyanna's gaze followed him as he walked away.

"Why is he going that way?" Dacey asked curiously. "Doesn't he want to relax like the other nobles?"

Lyanna smiled softly, warmth blooming in her chest as she watched Robb's retreating figure. "He's likely heading to the wall construction site." Her voice held a hint of admiration. "He may be tired, but that won't stop him from helping our people."

Dacey raised an eyebrow but couldn't suppress a grin at Lyanna's tone.

Lyanna watched Robb walk away, her heart swelling with a mixture of pride and longing. He was exhausted, yes, but even in his weariness, he sought to serve his people. It was this dedication, this unwavering commitment to duty and compassion, that made her like him all the more.