Author's Note,
Hey guys, sorry it's been so long since the last chapter, and releases have been sporadic. I thought that after most of the things going on in my life ended, I would be able to write more, but I was wrong. First and foremost, I have hit a decidedly bad bit of writer's block and maybe even burnout, partially as well due to working almost every day now, so I ask you all to bear with me, I promise this story will not be dropped, chapters may just be more random because of all I mentioned. Hope y'all enjoy!
[Winterfell, Training yard, 7th moon, 298AC]
The clang of steel on steel rang out in the courtyard of Winterfell, sharp and steady as a heartbeat. Robb exhaled through his teeth as he raised his sword again, circling Ser Ellard Karstark beneath the grey skies. Dust and snow mingled on the stone floor, kicked up in little clouds with each movement. His limbs ached, sweat clung beneath the leather of his jerkin, and his knuckles stung, but still he pressed on.
Ser Ellard gave him a brief nod, approval or challenge, Robb could not tell, and then lunged. Robb stepped back, raised his blade, but he was a heartbeat too slow. The clash came, hard and unyielding. With a deft twist and a pivot, Ser Ellard sent the blade flying from Robb's hands, the dulled blade spinning through the air before clattering to the ground.
"Seven hells," Robb cursed under his breath, wiping his brow as he retrieved the blade.
From the sidelines, Osric Stark laughed, his dark eyes gleaming. "You'll have to do better than that, cousin, or you'll be stew for the next Greycloaks melee competition."
Beside him, Torrhen Karstark grinned and added, "You look fierce, I'll grant you that. Fierce like a pup trying to bite a bear's arse."
Robb shook his head with a smile, though his cheeks burned from more than just exertion. Ellard was older, 7 years his senior, and had fought in the Greyjoy Rebellion at just 4-and-10. He wore the white-and-blue cloak of the Winter Guard now, one of Alaric's chosen few, and it showed in every move.
Ser Ellard was supposed to depart with the second wave of men heading south to join Alaric and his father in King's Landing, but following his mother's departure a week ago, Ser Ellard was appointed the temporary Master-at-arms in Ser Rodrik's stead.
"I'm learning," Robb said, raising his sword once more.
"And learning well," Ser Ellard said, his voice rough but not unkind. "You've got quick feet and strong arms. But swords are not swung with arms alone, control, lad. Always control."
Grey Wind, who lay at the edge of the yard, let out a low growl. Robb glanced toward him. The great direwolf's golden eyes were locked on Ellard, lips curling in a snarl every time the older man's blade came close to Robb.
"He doesn't like me much," Ellard muttered.
"He likes most people," Robb said. "But today…"
"He's on edge," Osric said, squinting. "And you are too, Robb. You fought that last bout like a wildling with a rusted axe. Are you sure you weren't the one growling?"
They laughed, but Robb's smile faded. He remembered the sound. He had growled, or thought he had. It came from deep in his chest, strange and animal and wrong.
And yet it had felt…right.
The rest of the day passed with duties. He sat beside Alys in the Great Hall while she held court, Benjen on one side, Lord Artos on the other, a temporary advisor while Alaric was gone, scribes murmuring quietly behind them. Robb watched how she ruled, how she calmed arguments, and delegated tasks. She bore the weight well. He tried to imagine himself doing the same someday.
Yet something still gnawed at him. The moment in the yard. Grey Wind's strange tension. His own heat and fury. And the dreams.
That night, Robb lay beside Ysilla, her breath warm against his chest, his arm wrapped around her. She was asleep, peaceful, soft, and flushed from their hours together. And still, he could not sleep.
The room was quiet but for the fire. Grey Wind stirred in the corner, lifted his head. Their eyes met.
And then the world fell away.
[Within Robb's dream]
He ran through the Wolf's Wood, paws pounding against damp earth, the scent of moss and prey sharp in his nose. He was not alone.
To his left, he felt the quiet, cunning presence of Nymeria. To his right, Shaggydog, all feral snarls and twitching muscle. Behind, Summer bounded along in silent joy. Ghost, pale and watchful, moved like smoke over the roots and leaves. Even Lady was there, elegant and focused, running as if born of wind and grace.
He felt them all, not with eyes but with something deeper.
Ahead of them, two boars crashed through the undergrowth, snorting, unaware. He could taste the fear already rising in them.
The pack moved as one.
Robb leapt, his fangs catching the neck of the first beast. Blood sprayed across his muzzle, hot and bitter, and he tore. Around him, the others joined the frenzy. No words passed between them, only instinct. Hunger. Unity.
And victory.
Robb jolted awake, heart pounding. His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat damp on his brow. Ysilla stirred beside him, murmured his name, but he could not answer.
His mouth tasted of iron.
He looked to the corner of the room where his companion usually slept, and yet… he was gone.
"By the gods, what is happening…" he murmured, confused and even a little scared.
[The next morning]
Later that morning, in one of the smaller solar chambers of Winterfell, Robb found himself surrounded by his siblings and cousins.
Jon sat with Ghost pressed against his leg, eyes dark with thought. Bran leaned against a wall, petting Summer's thick fur. Arya sat cross-legged by the window, Nymeria curled beside her. Even Rickon, still barely 4, clutched at Shaggydog's ear.
Benjen's daughter, Lyarra, rested her chin on the low table, listening with wide eyes, her wolf Rose by her side. Her older brother, Rickard, sharpened a practice dagger nearby, frowning, sitting beside Winter. Little Cregan chewed on a block of wood, though his direwolf pup, Fang, kept nudging it away.
"We're not just dreaming," Arya said firmly. "I was hunting. I could smell the boar. I could feel the ground under my paws."
"It felt…right," Bran added. "More real than anything else."
Rickard nodded slowly. "I've been seeing through Winter's eyes for weeks now. Not every night. But sometimes I wake up with leaves in my bed. Or claw marks on the floor. My mother thinks it's the rats again."
"Alaric said there were things in the North older than the First Men," Jon murmured. "Magic. Blood. Bonding. He knew."
"He always knows," Lyarra said, almost wistfully.
Robb looked at each of them in turn. His siblings. His kin.
"So what do we do?" he asked.
"Learn," Jon replied. "We ask the old gods, or the weirwoods, or the dreams themselves. Whatever this is, it's part of us. It's ours."
Robb wasn't sure if he believed it fully. But when Grey Wind pressed his massive head into his shoulder again, he didn't pull away.
The silence between them deepened after Jon's words, broken only by the shifting crackle of the hearth.
Robb leaned back against the stone wall, feeling the old chill of Winterfell creep through his spine, despite the fire. Across from him, Arya had begun chewing her lip again, fingers idly stroking Nymeria's scruff. Rickon was chasing Shaggydog in a lazy circle around the hearthstones while Cregan giggled from the corner. It might have been a peaceful scene in another life.
But the unease hung between them like fog on the barrows.
He looked to Jon, who met his gaze with something almost grim. "You're saying we're…wargs?"
Jon shrugged. "Call it what you like. Skinchangers. Beast-bonded. We know this, we're not alone in our own minds anymore."
Robb exhaled slowly. "I thought only the wildlings had that power."
"Stories," said Rickard. "But where do stories come from?"
"And the North forgets slowly," added Lyarra, lifting her head. "But we do forget."
Robb ran a hand through his damp curls. "So now what? We dream with wolves, chase prey in our sleep, and wake up tasting blood? Are we supposed to embrace that?"
"Yes," Jon said, without hesitation.
There was something terrifying in his certainty, but also comforting. Robb nodded, slowly.
Before they could say more, a knock came at the door. It creaked open, and Ser Wylam Slate poked his scarred head in. "My lord. The men are ready. You asked for a morning ride."
Robb had forgotten. But the thought of wind and snow across his cheeks suddenly seemed like exactly what he needed.
[Later]
The godswood was alive with cold breath and silence when Robb mounted his horse at the base of the ancient trees. Grey Wind trotted beside him, his ears twitching at every crunch of frost beneath hoof or paw.
A dozen men rode with him, most from the Greycloaks, including Ellard, Osric, and Torrhen. The rest of the "wolf pack" opted to stay back and train or mess about. They took the path north along the snow-laced trails of the ridge near the Wolf's Wood, the sky overcast and iron-colored.
Ysilla had tried to talk him into staying warm this morning, whispering in his ear before he left the bed, "Come back to me chilled and I'll warm you up properly." He smiled at the memory, though it faded as the woods thickened around them.
He needed this ride.
Needled pines stood tall and ancient around them. The air was clean, sharp. Grey Wind moved effortlessly over the frozen earth, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, his tail flicking like a whip of shadow.
As they trotted deeper into the wood, Robb's thoughts drifted again to the dream. He could still feel the strength of his legs… paws, not feet, and the crunch of bones in his mouth. Taste. Smell. Thought without words.
He gripped the reins tighter.
"Quiet out here," Osric said from beside him.
"Too quiet," muttered Torrhen. "Not even birdsong."
"Winter draws near," Ellard said. "The beasts know it better than we do."
Robb didn't respond. Grey Wind had halted ahead, sniffing the air. The hackles on his back had begun to rise.
"What is it, boy?" Robb urged his horse forward, dismounting.
The direwolf let out a low, guttural sound and padded toward a break in the brush.
When Robb followed, he found it, a small clearing, churned mud and broken branches, stained with blood. A boar carcass lay in the center, ribs cracked open, flesh gnawed to ragged scraps. The scent of iron was sharp in his nose.
"Another hunter's kill?" asked Ellard, frowning.
Robb shook his head slowly. "No. This wasn't butchered. It was devoured."
"Wolves?" Torrhen asked.
Robb stepped forward, kneeling by the carcass. He touched the tracks in the soil, bigger than a normal wolf's.
"It must have been the direwolves out on a hunt last night," a greycloak threw out his guess, causing Robb to pause and almost remember the clearing, sweat rolling down his brow.
[Later in the evening]
That evening, Robb stood in the Great Hall, hands on the high seat beside Alys's. She had allowed him to sit today's petitions alone while she rested, her face pale, skin clammy with the sickness of early pregnancy.
Although he was allowed to take petitions in her stead, Benjen still stood to his side, one of the two regents Alaric left, the other of course being Alys, so if his uncle felt he made a wrong ruling, he was there to veto it.
He had never envied her tasks, but today it suited him. He needed a distraction.
But as the last petitioner left and the scribes began collecting their records, Robb remained still, thoughts churning.
Grey Wind had returned with blood on his muzzle. The scent matched the boar.
Jon's words echoed again. This is ours.
Was he losing control of himself? Was he dreaming of killing, and then doing it?
He'd barely heard half of what the smallfolk had said today. A tax dispute. A collapsed stable. A sick hound. All of it filtered through his ears like snowmelt.
He needed to speak to someone. To Alaric, or even his father, but neither was here.
Instead, he found himself pacing in the first keep, a cold round drum tower, but Ysilla had made a habit of lighting candles there.
She was waiting when he entered.
"Robb," she said softly, watching him from the bench. "You've been quiet today."
He joined her. "I think something is wrong with me."
She didn't laugh or brush him off. She only nodded. "Tell me."
And so he did. The dream. The pack. The kill. The boar. His fear. His shame.
Ysilla listened, fingers interwoven with his. When he finished, she was silent a moment longer.
"You're your father's son," she said finally. "But you're also Alaric's blood. And Alaric has always walked the edge of old things. Maybe this bond is not something to be feared, but to be understood."
"And if I can't?"
She looked up at him, eyes dark as ink. "Then I'll follow you into the wild all the same."
Robb felt tears prick the corners of his eyes, but blinked them away. He was a Stark, the blood of kings runs through his veins. He did not weep.
But he was grateful.
[Later that night]
That night, he returned to the godswood. Alone, but for Grey Wind.
Snow whispered across the ground in lazy flurries. The heart tree watched him with its bleeding eyes, still and solemn.
He knelt before it, placing his hand on the roots. Grey Wind sat beside him, breathing slow and deep.
"Old gods," Robb said aloud. "If you're still listening to your sons, listen to me now. I don't know what's happening to us, but I want to understand. I want to learn. If I'm meant to be more than a lord, more than a man, then show me. Teach me. Let me not lose myself."
The wind rustled the weirwood's branches. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled, and was answered.
Robb stood, breath fogging in the cold. He turned and began to walk back, Grey Wind at his side.
The next day, he would speak to Jon again. He would write to Alaric. He would begin learning, not from fear, but from will.
The boy he had been was fading. In his place, something older, stronger, and more dangerous stirred.
The wolf and the man.
One flesh. One soul.
And winter was coming.