Most of my time outside the yard, I spent in Winterfell's library — its high windows catching what little predawn light there was, beams falling in ashen streaks across sagging shelves. I prowled the aisles, my steps stirring dust into slow, drifting spirals. The air was thick with parchment and old leather, a scent that carried memories of my other life and the years I'd spent buried in texts much like these. My fingers grazed the spines: some smooth, some rough, some etched with sharp, angular runes—the Old Tongue. A thrill ran through me. I'd loved dead languages once, and these runes — the last breath of the North's oldest voice — would become my new obsession, one I would refuse to let die. Learning it would be slow work, but it could help me rebuild what the North and the first men had lost their culture, and maybe even mend old ties to the giants and the children of the forest, if my longer plans ever came to fruition.
A rattle of chains broke the silence. Maester Luwin emerged, scrolls in his arms, grey eyes catching mine. "Robb," he said, surprised in his mild tone. "What brings you here so early again?"
I turned, flashing Robb's charming smile along with my excuse. "Sleep's been a stranger to me most nights. Thought I'd use it as another reason to rise early and see what I could dig up on our family's and the North's history."
Luwin's gaze flicked to the shelf. "Those are relics, some of them in the Old Tongue. Few can even read it anymore."
My heart quickened. "Who still can?"
"Wildlings beyond the Wall, mostly. Some of the mountain clansmen and houses still hold onto it, and I believe Old Nan has a passing grasp of it and, of course, myself, though I would not say I'm fluent," he said, easing his scrolls onto the table. "It's fading. Won't be long before it's lost for good."
I traced a rune, my mind already turning. If I could wield it, wildlings might be brought to heel through words as easily as through steel — and there would be other uses besides. "Is there anyone close who could teach it?"
Luwin's brows arched. "You wish to learn it yourself?"
"Aye," I said, shrugging as though the thought had only just occurred to me, though it burned brighter than I let on. "I've felt drawn to our history lately. We were kings of the North for thousands of years before we were lords, and Winterfell's built on older bones than most remember. There might be something worth reclaiming in that. And think of the practical use — a court language for the North, the way the Targaryens once used High Valyrian. No southern spy could make sense of it. That alone would be worth the effort, in peace or in war."
Luwin's eyes widened with real interest. "A tongue for councils and letters. That's a sharp thought, Robb. Its rarity alone would keep southern ears locked out."
I pressed on. "Ravens get shot down. Letters burn. If our lords all spoke or had a passing understanding of the old tongue, it would bind us tighter — and the South already looks on us as outsiders sometimes more than the Dornish, or Iron Islands. Reviving it might turn that into a strength instead of a mark against us."
He rubbed his jaw, chains clinking softly. "It'd be slow going. Even a handful of men would need months, maybe a year, before they had any real grasp of it. But it could work — a cipher built on the old tongue's bones."
"Could you teach it?" I asked, firm but warm. "Start with me, if no one else. I'll make the time. Perhaps in time Father would join us too."
Luwin studied me, a smile ghosting across his face. "You're full of notions lately. Fosterlings, and now this." He gave a short laugh.
I let myself laugh with him, slipping easily into Robb's lightness. "Too much time to think since that kick to the head, I suppose. I want to do more, now that I know I can. Can't quite explain it — call it restlessness."
His amusement lingered as he turned back to his scrolls. My grin stayed with me as the uses of the Old Tongue kept turning over in my mind — sway the clans, shield my plans, unearth what history the North had buried. I'd need to learn it sooner rather than later. With that thought settled, I turned back to the shelves to do a bit more research.
The forge roared, heat and noise beating against my face as I stepped inside. Flames danced, throwing jagged shadows across racks of steel blades and spearheads glinting like fangs. The air was thick with smoke and hot iron, a smell that pulled at memories of old battlefields from another life. Mikken loomed over his anvil, hammer sparking against glowing metal, his soot-streaked face barely turning as I approached.
"Heir Robb," he rumbled, not pausing his work. "Checking up on me?"
"Something like that," I said, my voice cutting through the clamor. I lifted a spear from the rack, testing its balance. I'd been curious about Winterfell's smithing capacity for a while now — with the War of the Five Kings coming, I wanted our men properly outfitted, not scraping by with what they could in that rushed muster the way they had in canon. "Is it just you working the forge, or do you have hands helping you these days?"
Mikken paused, wiping his brow. "A couple of the winter town boys come in when I need them. I have a baseborn son in the winter town too, who helps out often enough, though I don't always need him."
I scanned the racks, counting weapons much as I'd already done in the armory. Enough here to arm a group against bandits or the odd wildling raid — not nearly enough for a real war. It reminded me, distantly, of old levy laws from my other life: peasant armies showing up with whatever weapons and armor they could scrape together when the call went out. I suspected Westeros worked much the same way, if my memory of the show could be trusted over the books here. "Your family's hammered for the Starks for generations, I understand. I was reading through some of the old histories — apparently, the smiths of Winterfell used to work with obsidian now and then. dragonglass, some call it, or fire stone. Ever worked with it yourself?"
I already suspected the answer was no — the show had never mentioned Winterfell keeping any store of the stuff, though it seemed a strange oversight to me. The castle took its name from the battle that ended the Long Night the first time; you'd think someone would have thought to stockpile obsidian after that. But it had been thousands of years, and I could hardly blame anyone for letting the practice lapse. In canon, the library burned, and Mikken himself died at Ironborn hands before any of it mattered. Better to ask now, while I have the excuse of my studies with Luwin to cover the question.
The hammer stilled as Mikken looked up. "Aye, my family's been here since Winterfell was founded. Some say my ancestors helped lay the first stones, stoked the first fires. As for obsidian — I didn't work with it much, though I saw my father use it a bit when I was young. Good for arrowheads, maybe some showpieces, nothing more. We used to find it around here fairly often. Might still have some stored away, though I wouldn't wager on it. Why — you want me to make you something?"
"No, just reading old records," I said. "Though if you do come across some, or hear of a stash or show pieces from a trader in Wintertown, I might have you make a dagger and some earrings — a gift for my sisters and brothers."
"Can do. Costs nothing to ask around," he said.
"I'm glad to hear it. And if you could keep it between us, especially from my sisters — I'd like it to be a surprise." I left the forge with a smile, setting thoughts of dragonglass and future armories aside for now. Plenty of time to chase that once the war was behind me and Dragonstone's stores were within reach.
The Godswood stretched wide and silent ahead of me, a cathedral of roots and snow. I knelt before the heart tree, taking in its pale branches against the darkening sky, its carved face weeping red. Pine and cold earth filled the air. Faith had never come easily to me, and from what I could tell, it hadn't come easily to Robb either, but something brought me here, and the old gods seemed a way better sort than the other gods of Essos or Westeros, more like a Norse religion.
I sank to my knees before the tree, damp soil soaking through my breeches, and closed my eyes. I'd meditated often enough in my old life to know how to still my mind, and I used that now, reaching for whatever it was every Stark before me was supposed to carry. I didn't know what I was searching for exactly — only that I'd know it when I found it.
After what felt like hours, though it was likely closer to thirty minutes, I felt something: an energy, a connection, like a well filled nearly to the brim, water hanging right at the edge of spilling over. Fears that weren't my own rose up in me, and I pushed past them, reaching further, and the feeling broke over me all at once. It was unlike anything I'd known before — something close to a higher state of awareness.
For a moment, I felt tied to the earth itself. I stood quickly, restless with it. If this is even a fraction of what the old wargs could do, it's incredible. I steadied my breath and let my awareness stretch out into the trees around me, careful to keep my distance from the heart tree itself — I had no wish to go tangling with whatever might be watching through it.
Minutes blurred by as I held that quiet focus, until I felt — more than heard — a rustle of movement, and then a jolt. I smelled fur, felt snow under paws, and saw a big reddish-brown shape moving through the trees. My pulse quickened. Grey Wind? No, not born yet, and this creature was too large and of a different color. His mother, maybe? No, she was white. I reached further, and the thread snapped clean, leaving me gasping.
I didn't know what I'd glimpsed. But I meant to find out.
I opened my eyes, meeting the weirwood's carved gaze. "I'll be back," I said quietly, half a promise to it, half to myself. "However long it takes to master this."
I brushed the dirt from my cloak and made my way toward the grove's edge, where a servant waited. I squared my shoulders, settling into the posture of an heir of Robb Stark, future lord of the North. Let them see a man who prayed, who took the old ways seriously. Let that image take root, just as everything else I was planting.
Lying down for the night, I could have sworn I heard a wolf's howl somewhere distant, faint beneath the closer hoot of an owl and something that sounded almost like a horn. I didn't know what any of it meant yet — the sounds, the half-formed visions. But I would ready myself for what the North demanded of me, and rise to meet it, or die trying.