Dragon Hidden in the Wolf's Shadow - Chapter - 65 (Patreon)

King Robert settled comfortably into the rhythm of life in Winterfell, relishing the change of pace and the cool northern air. He found joy in recounting tales of his glory days—stories of heroic battles during Robert’s Rebellion that had secured his throne and shaped the realm. The king’s boisterous laughter and grand gestures filled the great hall, his words painting vivid pictures of fierce encounters and brave comrades. To the noble lords and ladies from the South, Robert was a living legend, a demi-god among men, their cheers echoing in praise of his martial prowess.

Yet, as Robert basked in the admiration of his court, he quickly learned that the North had a different perspective. The Stark bannermen and Northern warriors, seasoned veterans of countless skirmishes against ironborn raiders and the wildlings of the frozen expanse, listened with polite smiles but raised eyebrows. To them, Robert's tales of rebellion, while impressive, felt somewhat quaint—a stark contrast to the brutal realities of their own battles.

As the night wore on, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. A grizzled veteran named Ivar, his face a map of scars and stories, leaned forward with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Your Grace,” he called, interrupting Robert mid-story. “That’s all well and good, but have you heard of the time we held the Snowfall Fort against the wildlings?”

Robert paused, intrigued. He gestured for Ivar to continue, and the hall fell silent, all eyes on the Northern warrior.

“There was a storm, a blizzard so fierce it could freeze the blood in your veins,” Ivar began, his voice steady as he wove the tale. “We were outnumbered, a small band of us, but we held our ground. I remember one wildling charging at me, a giant of a man with a great axe. I managed to dodge, and with a quick thrust of my sword, I took him down. But the wildlings are relentless; they don’t fear death like we do.”

As he spoke, the hall seemed to come alive. The Northern lords leaned in closer, captivated by the grit and reality of Ivar's experience.

“We fought until dawn,” he continued, his voice rising with excitement. “The snow ran red, and the ground was littered with bodies—ours and theirs. But we held the Fort. And when the sun rose, it revealed the true cost of our victory. There were no songs sung for us that day, only the bitter taste of survival.”

The hall erupted in applause and shouts of approval, the Northern men and women energized by the truth of battle they had just witnessed in words. King Robert, feeling the heat of competition in the air, smiled but couldn’t help but feel the sting of comparison. He raised his tankard, “Well fought, Warrior! I have fought against rebels and traitors, but I’ve never faced in a blizzard like that!”

But even as he attempted to regain control of the narrative, other voices chimed in. A woman warrior named Torvi stood up, her presence commanding. “And then there was the time I crossed swords with a wildling chieftain,” she declared. “He thought to best me because of my size, but he soon learned that a woman’s fury can be just as deadly.”

As the stories flowed, tales of the North’s battles against wildlings, ironborn, and the various dangers lurking beyond the Wall took center stage. Each warrior’s account revealed a resilience forged in the fires of hardship, stories rich with blood, sweat, and tenacity. They spoke of ambushes in the dark, defending their homes against raids, and the unyielding bond forged between comrades in the face of death.

Robert, while still the king, felt the weight of humility as he listened to the stark realities of their lives. He could feel the power in their words and understood that he was in the presence of true warriors—men and women who had fought not for glory but for survival and the protection of their people.

As the evening wore on and the tales continued, Robert’s stories began to pale in comparison, becoming just another entry in the tapestry of heroic deeds. He realized that while he may have won his throne through fierce battles and rebellion, the North had its own legends, deeply rooted in loyalty and honor.

By the time the fires began to die down, King Robert sat back in his chair, nursing his tankard, a newfound respect for the North in his heart. He was among those who had truly faced the darkness and emerged stronger. As he glanced around the hall, he couldn’t help but feel that the stories of Jon Frost and the Northern warriors were but a prelude to what awaited them beyond the Wall, in a land where danger and valor danced a delicate waltz, one that would test the mettle of even the most hardened warrior.

It didn’t take much effort for King Robert to convince Eddard Stark to accept the position of Hand of the King. Lord Stark, a man defined by his unwavering sense of duty, honor, and loyalty to his friends, saw the necessity of the request, even if it filled him with foreboding. Robert had always been more than just a king to Eddard; he was a brother-in-arms and a companion from days long past. Thus, when the king extended his hand, Eddard could hardly refuse.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Eddard replied, the weight of his decision settling heavily on his shoulders. “But before I take on this mantle, I have much to arrange here in the North.”

King Robert nodded, understanding the weight of Eddard's responsibilities. “I will wait,” he said, a sincerity in his tone. “You have my trust, Ned. You know the North better than any other man.”

With a resolve born of duty, Eddard set about his tasks. He penned a raven to his eldest son, Robb, summoning him back to Winterfell. He knew Robb had trained diligently for his future, and he was ready to step into the role of Lord Stark. Eddard trusted Robb to uphold the values of their house and maintain the strength of the North.

"Robb, I need you to return home. There are matters of great importance that require your leadership," he wrote, his words clear and firm.

After sealing the letter, Eddard turned his thoughts to Bran. The young boy was still too inexperienced to rule on his own, and Eddard knew that Bran would need guidance. He decided to send his wife and daughters to the lands of young Brandon Stark. Both girls had shown remarkable resilience and intelligence, and he believed they could help their brother navigate the challenges of leadership.

As he drafted another letter, Eddard included several warriors from Winterfell to ensure his family's safety. The roads could be perilous, and the last thing he wanted was for his daughters to encounter danger on their journey.

Once the letters were dispatched, he felt a sense of urgency. He needed to prepare Winterfell for the changes ahead. As he walked through the castle halls, Eddard could almost feel the weight of the North pressing down on him, demanding his attention and leadership.

In two weeks time the familiar sound of galloping hooves echoed through the courtyard, and Eddard looked up to see Robb riding hard toward Winterfell. Snow kicked up behind him as he dismounted swiftly, a look of determination etched across his young face.

“Father!” Robb called, rushing forward, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. “I received your letter! What is it that you need of me?”

Eddard embraced his son, the warmth of their bond easing some of the tension in his chest. “I need you to take your place as Lord Stark of Winterfell as I am going to Kingslanding to be the Hand of the King. The North is changing, and we must be ready.”

Robb's expression shifted from excitement to seriousness. “I understand, Father. What is my duty?”

“Bran is too young to rule the Riverlands alone,” Eddard explained. “I have decided to send Catlyn,Sansa and Arya to assist him. Your responsibility will be to ensure Winterfell stands strong and that our people know their lord is with them.”

Robb nodded, absorbing his father’s words. “I will not let you down, Father. I will do what is necessary for our family and our home.”

“Good,” Eddard replied, pride swelling in his heart. “You have trained well, and I trust you to uphold the honor of House Stark.”

As they walked through Winterfell together, Eddard felt a renewed sense of purpose. He had raised his son to be strong, and now it was time for Robb to step into the light. The North would face challenges ahead, but with Robb at his side and the Stark children prepared for their roles, Eddard felt the foundation of their house growing ever more solid.

As preparations continued for the inevitable transition of power within House Stark, Eddard felt the weight of responsibility resting heavily on his shoulders. He knew the challenges ahead would not be easy, particularly with the political machinations awaiting him in King’s Landing. One thought remained constant in his mind: the protection of his family and their legacy.

Eddard called for Robb to join him in the dimly lit training yard behind Winterfell. The air was crisp and cold, a reminder that winter was never far away in the North. As Robb approached, his youthful energy was palpable, a stark contrast to the gravity of the moment.

“Father?” Robb asked, sensing the seriousness of his father’s demeanor.

“Come,” Eddard said, motioning for him to follow. He led Robb to the large oak chest that held the family heirlooms, a treasure trove of Stark history and tradition. Eddard knelt, opening the chest to reveal the ancestral sword, Ice, its blade glinting even in the low light.

“Robb,” Eddard began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I want you to take Ice. You will need it more than I do now.”

Robb's eyes widened in surprise as he looked at the massive sword, its Valyrian steel blade a symbol of House Stark's strength. “But Father, I am not the Lord of Winterfell yet. You should keep it.”

Eddard shook his head, feeling the familiar ache of responsibility weigh on him. “You are ready, Robb. Ice belongs to our family, and it is time for you to carry it. Besides,” he added, his tone becoming more serious, “there are dangers lurking in King’s Landing that I fear may come for this sword.”

Robb straightened, his youthful exuberance fading into a resolute understanding. “You mean the courtiers and lords?”

“Yes,” Eddard replied, recalling his conversations with Jon. “When Jon first went to the capital, he entrusted me with his swords, warning that the allure of Valyrian steel can corrupt even the most honorable of men. I fear there are those in King’s Landing who would kill for a blade like Ice, especially now that the realm is growing restless.”

Robb reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gripped the hilt of the sword. “But I am not going to war, Father. Surely, it would be safer with you.”

Eddard placed a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. “You are not going to war, but you will be facing challenges of your own. You will be the Lord of Winterfell soon, and you must be prepared to defend our home and our family. You cannot do that without Ice.”

Robb nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment. “I promise to protect it and use it wisely, Father.”

“Good,” Eddard said, standing and stepping back to take in his son holding the great sword. “Ice has been wielded by many Starks before you. It is a symbol of our house’s honor and strength. Treat it with the respect it deserves.”

As Robb practiced drawing the sword, Eddard felt a mix of pride and sadness. He knew the burden of leadership awaited Robb, but he also knew his son was capable. The North would not fall while the Stark legacy lived on through him.

“Remember, Robb,” Eddard cautioned, “the sword is not just a weapon; it is a reminder of who we are and what we stand for. In times of peace, it is a symbol of protection. In times of war, it is a tool for justice. You must embody those ideals as you grow into your role.”

Robb nodded, the weight of Ice now resting heavily in his hand. “I will make you proud, Father.”

“I have no doubt,” Eddard replied, a small smile breaking through the seriousness of the moment. “Now, let us go inside. There is much to discuss with your mother and the others.”

The morning sun rose over Winterfell, casting a golden glow across the ancient stone walls and the surrounding frost-kissed lands. The air was filled with the sounds of activity as servants hurried to finalize preparations for the departure of Lady Catelyn Stark and her daughters along with King's party. Tents were being packed, horses saddled, and the excitement of the journey ahead filled the courtyard.

Robb Stark stood at the heart of the commotion, a mix of anticipation and trepidation swirling within him. As he watched his mother and sisters prepare to leave for Brandon's Castle, he felt a pang of worry. Sansa, Arya, and their mother would be venturing into unfamiliar territory, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the North would feel emptier without them.

“Arya! Sansa! Come here!” he called, hoping to catch them before they got lost in the flurry of activity. Arya, her wild spirit ever present, dashed over, while Sansa followed at a more measured pace, her face set with determination.

“Robb!” Arya exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Can you believe we’re finally going? I can’t wait to see Bran's land!”

“Me too,” Sansa added, though her excitement was tinged with apprehension. “But I’ll miss Winterfell. What if I forget everything?”

Robb knelt to meet Arya’s gaze, a reassuring smile on his face. “You won’t forget anything. Just think of all the stories you’ll have to tell when you come back. And you’ll be helping Bran, which is important.”

“Yeah, and I can teach him how to climb!” Arya exclaimed, bouncing on her feet.

“Just don’t get him in trouble,” Sansa warned, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Remember how Mother feels about climbing.”

“Please, Sansa. I can climb better than you can dance!” Arya retorted, sticking out her tongue playfully.

“Both of you behave while you’re gone,” Robb said, standing up and shaking his head with a laugh. “And promise you’ll write to me?”

“Of course!” Sansa replied, her tone more serious now. “I’ll let you know everything that happens at Brandon’s Castle. You know I want to hear about everything in the capital too.”

Robb nodded, appreciating her earnestness. Just then, he noticed their mother, Lady Catelyn, approaching with a firm expression. “Girls, we need to finish packing. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can reach Riverlands.”

“Yes, Mother,” they replied in unison, though Arya shot Robb one last conspiratorial grin as they turned to go.

A horn sounded through the courtyard, signaling that it was time to depart. Eddard Stark emerged from the castle, his presence commanding respect and authority. He walked with purpose toward his horse, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his demeanor.

“Robb!” Eddard called, motioning for his son to join him. Robb hurried over, his heart racing at the sight of his father dressed in armor, a symbol of strength and protection.

“Father,” Robb said, standing tall beside him.

Eddard placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember everything I’ve taught you. The North is safe with you at its helm. You will do great things, my son.”

“I will make you proud, Father,” Robb vowed, meeting his father’s gaze with determination.

With a final wave, Eddard mounted his horse, turning to face the gathered party. The sound of hooves began to fill the air as the procession moved forward. Robb stood beside his guards, watching as his mother and sisters prepared to ride away, flanked by loyal Stark guards.

As they moved down the long road leading out of Winterfell, Robb felt a mixture of longing and pride. He was staying behind, a burden he had not anticipated but one he was determined to uphold. Winterfell was his to protect, and while his family ventured into the unknown, he would honor the Stark name in the North.