Chapter 6: The Warden's Mantle and the Whispers of War
The departure of the royal entourage, and with it his father, sisters, and Jon, left Winterfell feeling both larger and emptier. The silence in the courtyards, once filled with the clamor of Southron knights and the bustle of a king's visit, was palpable. For Robb Stark, however, it was the silence of opportunity, the quiet before the storm he knew was gathering on the horizon. The mantle of Warden of the North settled upon his shoulders, not as a burden, but as a well-fitted suit of armor he had unknowingly been preparing for his entire second life.
His first act as acting Warden was to summon the key members of Winterfell's household – Vayon Poole, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Farlen the Master of Kennels, and Mikken the smith – to the Great Hall. Not his father's solar, but the seat of ancient Stark authority. The sun was climbing in the morning sky, its rays spearing through the high arched windows, bathing the hall in a cool, clear light. Robb felt the familiar, invigorating thrum of Sunshine begin its daily ascent within him, sharpening his senses, clarifying his thoughts.
He stood before the massive weirwood throne where generations of Starks had presided, though he did not sit. "My father, Lord Eddard Stark, travels south to serve our King as Hand," Robb began, his voice clear and resonant, easily filling the hall without him needing to raise it. "He has entrusted the Wardenship of the North to me in his absence. Winterfell will remain the heart of the North, and from here, we will ensure its strength, its prosperity, and its security."
He outlined his initial expectations: meticulous accounting of stores from Poole, continued education and counsel from Luwin, intensified training of the household guard and new recruits under Ser Rodrik, ensuring the hounds were fit and ready from Farlen ("A keen nose can uncover more than a dull blade," he'd remarked), and a demand for quality and innovation from Mikken. "The North faces uncertain times," he concluded. "We will be prepared. We will be vigilant. And we will be strong."
There was a new edge to Robb, a gravitas that belied his youth. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, who had known him longest, exchanged subtle, thoughtful glances. The precocious boy had become a formidable young man almost overnight, the "heroic" rescue of Bran seemingly forging him into something harder, more focused.
Ravens took flight that day, carrying Robb's sealed pronouncements to all the major Northern houses: the Boltons of the Dreadfort, the Karstarks of Karhold, the Umbers of Last Hearth, the Manderlys of White Harbor, the Glovers of Deepwood Motte, and more. The messages were concise: affirming his role as acting Warden, requesting updated reports on their levies and stores, and reminding them of their oaths to House Stark. It was a subtle assertion of authority, a testing of the waters.
The days that followed settled into a new rhythm, one dictated by Robb's tireless energy and meticulous planning. He was everywhere, overseeing every aspect of Winterfell's operations and, by extension, the North's. His modern knowledge, filtered through the ruthless pragmatism of Tony Volante, was now unleashed with greater freedom.
He pushed for the expansion of the experimental greenhouses, introducing concepts of tiered planting and rudimentary hydroponics (using nutrient-rich water in gravel beds, a concept he painstakingly explained to a skeptical but intrigued Maester Luwin and the head gardeners). He worked with Mikken and other smiths, sketching designs for more efficient plows, improved water wheels for milling grain, and even a better design for a grain thresher he half-remembered from a historical documentary. He didn't just give orders; he was often in the fields, at the forges, in the armory, his sleeves rolled up, discussing, demonstrating, encouraging.
The military reforms were his most immediate priority. He drilled the Winterfell guard relentlessly, Ser Rodrik by his side, though the old master-at-arms often found himself struggling to keep pace with Robb's innovative, and sometimes brutal, training regimens. Robb introduced new formations, emphasized unit cohesion, logistics, and disciplined fire (for archers). He established a rota for all able-bodied men in Wintertown to undergo basic militia training. "A prepared North is a secure North," he'd declared. "Every man a spear, every woman a shield for her home if need be." This was a radical departure from traditional feudal levies, but the memory of the Long Night and the whispers of war from the South lent his words urgency.
His powers were an integral, if secret, part of his governance. As Sunshine's power grew towards noon, so did his mental acuity. He would often retreat to his solar during these peak hours, ostensibly for strategic planning or "meditation" as he sometimes termed it. In reality, he was wrestling with and channeling the immense Escanorian pride, forcing it to serve his intellect. He could absorb complex reports in minutes, his mind processing information with supernatural speed and clarity, drafting plans, dictating letters, and making decisions with an almost prophetic insight.
Snatch became an invaluable, subtle tool. During tedious negotiations with a stubborn provisioner, he might discreetly "Snatch" a bit of the man's obstinacy, feeling it as a faint, mulish resistance that then flowed into him, only to be immediately suppressed by his own will, leaving the provisioner suddenly more amenable. When observing Ser Rodrik instruct a new recruit on a complex sword technique, he would focus and "Snatch" a sliver of the old knight's muscle memory, the feel of the movement, accelerating his own understanding of martial arts far beyond even his rigorous physical training. He even experimented by lightly "Snatching" the fatigue from a watchman on a long night's vigil, feeling the man perk up as a wave of tiredness washed over Robb, only to be burned away by his own resilient constitution and the dregs of Sunshine's power. He was careful, always subtle, never taking enough to cause harm or draw undue attention.
Rhitta remained his most powerful secret. After much thought, he'd found a suitable hiding place. Deep within the crypts of Winterfell, in an old, forgotten alcove behind the tomb of a long-dead Stark king, he'd painstakingly carved out a hidden chamber, reinforcing it with stone and iron he "requisitioned." With his Sunshine-enhanced strength, the labor that would have taken weeks for a team of men took him mere days of secretive night work. There, the Sacred Axe rested, wrapped in oilcloth and furs, its faint golden aura contained. Occasionally, when the sun was high and Winterfell was quiet, he would visit the crypts, hefting the axe, feeling its immense power resonate with his own, a silent promise of the devastation he could unleash if truly provoked. The temptation to wield it openly, to let the world see the true might of the Lion's Sin, was a constant, heady allure he had to fight.
Theon Greyjoy was a complicated factor. The ironborn ward remained in Winterfell, a hostage and a companion. Robb, armed with the knowledge of Theon's future betrayal, treated him with a careful mixture of camaraderie and watchful observation. He assigned Theon tasks that played to his strengths – scouting, hunting, even assisting with training the archers, where Theon excelled.
"You have a keen eye, Theon," Robb said one afternoon, after Theon had put three arrows in the bullseye at a hundred paces. "A skill the North values." He also subtly tasked some of his most trusted rangers to keep an eye on Theon, to note his moods, his company, any unusual correspondence. He was laying the groundwork, either to turn Theon from his future path, or to neutralize him when the time came. For now, Theon seemed content, enjoying Robb's trust and the increased responsibility, blissfully unaware of the sword of Damocles hanging over his head.
Bran was recovering well, his physical wounds healing with the resilience of youth. Maester Luwin declared him fit, though he still advised against strenuous activity. The boy was quieter now, more thoughtful, and sometimes Robb would find him staring into the distance, a strange, lost look in his eyes. He hadn't spoken more of what he'd seen in the tower, but Robb knew the memory was there. Summer was his constant shadow, fiercely protective. Rickon, still a boisterous child, often demanded Robb's attention, pulling him back to simpler moments of brotherly affection, a grounding counterpoint to the weighty matters of state and secret powers.
Letters from the South began to arrive, carried by raven and weary rider. Ned's missives were filled with a growing frustration at the corruption and intrigue of King's Landing. He wrote of Robert's profligacy, the Crown's massive debts (largely to House Lannister), and the subtle machinations of courtiers like Littlefinger and Varys. "This city is a nest of adders, Robb," one letter read. "Honor is a foreign currency here, and truth is a commodity to be bought and sold. You were right to counsel caution."
Sansa's letters were filled with the breathless excitement of a girl enthralled by the glamour of the court, tales of tournaments, handsome knights, and the beauty of Queen Cersei, though even she sometimes hinted at an underlying coldness. Arya's were short, scrawled, and full of complaints about needlework, dancing lessons, and her longing for the freedom of Winterfell. She also wrote, with fierce pride, of her "dancing master," Syrio Forel, and the sword Needle, which Jon had gifted her.
Robb replied to each with care, offering his father counsel framed as logical deductions from the information Ned provided, urging him to trust his instincts and the Northern guards. He sent words of encouragement to Sansa, and to Arya, he advised her to learn all she could from her "dancing master," for "all skills have their uses, little sister."
He also received a terse note from Jon at Castle Black, via Benjen Stark who had passed through Winterfell on his way back to the Wall after escorting the King part of the way. Jon wrote of the harsh realities of the Night's Watch, the dwindling numbers, the crumbling castles, and the unsettling reports from beyond the Wall – of wildlings gathering in unprecedented numbers and whispers of something far older and colder stirring.
"The Watch is not what it once was, Robb," Jon wrote. "But some here still hold to their vows. The world has forgotten us, but the danger has not forgotten the world."
Robb felt a chill. He tasked Maester Luwin with researching ancient texts on the Long Night, on the Others, on any forgotten lore that might aid them. He also quietly diverted a portion of Winterfell's increased grain and cured meat production to be sent as "gifts" to the Night's Watch, along with a consignment of steel from Mikken's improved forges.
Then came the news that truly set the tinderbox alight. A raven arrived, not from King's Landing directly, but relayed through Riverrun, Catelyn's ancestral home. It bore Catelyn's seal.
Robb read it in his solar, the morning sun bathing the room in light, Sunshine's power coursing through him. His mother, in her grief and fury over the attempts on Bran's life, and spurred on by Lysa Arryn's paranoia and Littlefinger's insidious lies about the Valyrian dagger, had done exactly as he'd foreseen: she had encountered Tyrion Lannister at the Crossroads Inn and, with the aid of her father's bannermen, had taken the Imp prisoner, intending to bring him to the Eyrie for "justice."
Robb crushed the parchment in his fist. Foolish, brave, predictable Mother, he thought, a mixture of exasperation and grim understanding coursing through him. He knew this act, however well-intentioned, would unleash the wrath of Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion would not stand for his son, any son, being abducted by a Tully woman. War was no longer a distant possibility; it was now an imminent certainty.
"Maester Luwin!" Robb's voice, amplified by the dawning realization of impending conflict and the power of the sun, boomed through the solar.
Luwin hurried in, his chain of office clinking. "My lord?"
"Send ravens. To all our loyal bannermen. They are to gather their levies and prepare to march. Not to march, yet. But to be ready at a moment's notice. Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont… all of them. They are to send their heirs or trusted seconds-in-command to Winterfell immediately for council. War is coming to Westeros, Maester. And the North must be the rock against which the storm breaks."
Luwin's eyes widened, but he nodded, his expression grim. "At once, my lord. May I ask… what news?"
"My mother has taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner," Robb stated flatly. "Tywin Lannister will not stand for it. He will demand satisfaction. He will likely get it from my father's lands in the Riverlands first. We must be prepared to defend our kin and our borders."
The old maester paled. "The Lady Catelyn… oh, dear gods." He bowed. "I will see to it, Lord Robb. May the Old Gods guide your hand."
As Luwin scurried off to the rookery, Robb stood, staring at a map of Westeros that covered one entire wall of his solar. His finger traced the border between the Westerlands and the Riverlands. That was where Tywin would strike first. He then traced the Kingsroad south from the Neck. If his father was endangered, or if the King called his banners, the Northmen would need to march.
He felt a cold calm settle over him, the mind of Tony Volante assessing the strategic landscape, the heart of Robb Stark steeling itself for the trials to come, and the power of Escanor lending him an unshakeable conviction.
The next few days were a blur of activity. Messengers galloped out of Winterfell, carrying Robb's summons. Provisions were checked and re-checked. Armor and weapons were inspected, repaired, and stockpiled. Winterfell itself began to take on the air of a garrisoned fortress. Theon, sensing the shift, grew more restless, his questions about the sudden preparations met with Robb's calm but firm deflections. "Prudence, Theon. Always prudence."
One by one, the representatives of the Northern houses began to arrive. First was Smalljon Umber, son of the Greatjon, a bear of a young man almost as large as his father, boisterous and eager. Then came Harrion Karstark, more somber and thoughtful than his fierce father Rickard. Wendel Manderly, jovial and fat, arrived representing his father Wyman, his cheerful demeanor belying a shrewd mind. Dacey Mormont, tall and fierce in her mail, came from Bear Island, her loyalty to House Stark shining in her eyes. Even Alys Karstark arrived with her brother, a quiet but observant young woman.
Conspicuously absent, at first, was any representative from the Dreadfort. Robb made a mental note. Roose Bolton was a man to watch, his loyalty always questionable.
As the sun set on the day Dacey Mormont arrived, Robb stood in the Great Hall, before the assembled heirs and representatives of his principal bannermen. The hall was filled with the murmur of their voices, the clink of mail, the scent of woodsmoke and nervous energy. He waited for silence, the last rays of the setting sun catching the silver direwolf embroidered on his black surcoat.
The power of Sunshine had waned with the light, but a residue of its authority clung to him. He was no longer just Eddard Stark's son; he was their Warden, their leader in the coming storm.
"Lords and Ladies of the North," he began, his voice cutting through the expectant hush. "You were summoned because our lands, our people, and our ancient ways face a grave peril. News has reached me that my mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, has taken Tyrion Lannister captive."
A collective gasp went through the hall, followed by a cacophony of excited, angry, and confused murmurs.
Smalljon Umber slammed a mailed fist on the table. "Good for her! The Imp gets what he deserves! Them Lannister lions need declawing!"
Robb raised a hand for silence. "While her reasons may be understood by those who know the provocations against House Stark, this act will undoubtedly bring the wrath of Lord Tywin Lannister down upon us. He is not a man to suffer such an insult lightly. War, I fear, is inevitable."
His words hung heavy in the air. The North had been at peace for years. Now, their young Warden was speaking of war.
He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze steady, unwavering. "Tomorrow, we hold council. We will discuss our strategy, our readiness. We will decide how the North responds. But know this: when the call comes, the North must answer as one. Winter is coming… and with it, the fury of the Pack."
His last words, delivered with a chilling certainty, sent a shiver down many a spine. The young wolf of Winterfell was baring his teeth.