Chapter 5: Whispers, Daggers, and a Warden's Vigil
The morning after Bran's fall dawned clear and cold, the low sun casting long, sharp shadows across Winterfell's courtyards. The official narrative of a reckless climb, a lucky slip, and an even luckier, adrenaline-fueled intervention by Robb had taken root, repeated in hushed, awed tones by servants and guards alike. Robb Stark, already respected for his diligence and acumen, was now lauded as a hero, the savior of his little brother. He accepted the praise with a carefully cultivated modest stoicism, all the while his mind, a whirlwind of calculation and vigilance, focused on the undercurrents of fear and suspicion that now permeated the ancient castle.
The Lannister twins were notably subdued. Cersei, when she appeared, wore a mask of cool composure, but her eyes, whenever they chanced to meet Robb's, held a new, wary glint. The usual disdain was still there, but it was now overlaid with something akin to fearful uncertainty. Jaime was even more transparent. His customary swagger was diminished, his smiles forced. He avoided Robb's gaze pointedly, and when he couldn't, there was a flicker of something hunted in his eyes. They knew Robb had seen them at the window. They knew Bran had survived because of an impossible feat. The power dynamic had subtly, irrevocably shifted.
King Robert Baratheon, however, was oblivious to these undercurrents. When told of Bran's accident and Robb's role, his reaction was characteristically boisterous.
"Gods be good, Ned!" he boomed, clapping Eddard Stark on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Your boy Robb's got wolf blood and then some! Quick thinking, strong lad! Saved his brother from a nasty end! We'll have a toast to young Robb tonight – the Hero of Winterfell!"
Robb endured the King's effusive praise during the morning meal, accepting it with a grave nod. "I only did what any brother would, Your Grace. The Old Gods guided my steps."
"Aye, the Old Gods, or a strong right arm!" Robert roared with laughter, oblivious to the tightening of Cersei's lips or the way Jaime suddenly found his wine goblet intensely fascinating.
The one Lannister whose reaction truly intrigued Robb was Tyrion. The Imp sought him out later that morning in the Winterfell library, where Robb was ostensibly reviewing grain shipment ledgers. The sun was climbing, and Robb could feel the familiar, invigorating warmth of Sunshine beginning to suffuse his being. He kept his back mostly to the light filtering through the high windows, hoping to minimize any visible aura.
"Lord Robb," Tyrion began, ambling over with his distinctive gait, a book tucked under his arm. "A rather dramatic day, yesterday. Young Bran is fortunate indeed to have such a… capable older brother." His eyes, mismatched but incredibly sharp, held a knowing, questioning light.
"Fortune smiled on us all, Master Tyrion," Robb replied, his tone even. "Bran is resting comfortably. Maester Luwin expects no lasting harm."
"Remarkable," Tyrion mused, settling onto a nearby bench. "To fall from such a height and escape with mere bruises. And for you to be so perfectly positioned, to react with such… alacrity. One might almost call it providential."
Robb met Tyrion's gaze. "The North is a land of harsh realities, Master Tyrion. It breeds a certain… readiness. As I said, the Old Gods were kind."
Tyrion smiled faintly. "Ah, yes. The Old Gods. They do seem to take a particular interest in House Stark. My sister and brother were quite shaken by the near tragedy, I understand. Ser Jaime, in particular, seemed rather… pale. Almost as if he'd seen a ghost."
This was a probe, Robb knew. Tyrion was fishing.
"Witnessing any child's brush with death would unnerve even the bravest knight, I imagine," Robb said smoothly. "Especially one as young as Bran."
"Indeed," Tyrion conceded. "Still, the tale of your intervention grows with each telling. Soon, bards will sing of Robb Stark wrestling a griffin to save his brother from its talons."
A ghost of a smile touched Robb's lips. "I suspect the truth is somewhat more mundane, Master Tyrion, however much the singers might wish otherwise. A desperate moment, a surge of strength born of fear for my kin. Nothing more."
"Humility as well as heroism," Tyrion chuckled. "You are a rare combination, Lord Robb. My father would appreciate your… pragmatism." He paused. "He would also be very interested in anyone who could perform such feats. Power, in any form, fascinates him."
A veiled warning? Or an offer? With Tyrion, it was hard to tell.
"My only concern is the well-being of my family and the North, Master Tyrion," Robb said, his voice firm, subtly ending the probing. "All else is secondary."
Tyrion gave a slight nod, his keen eyes lingering on Robb for a moment longer before he opened his book. "A commendable sentiment, Lord Robb. One that many in the South would do well to emulate."
The conversation left Robb with a renewed sense of caution. Tyrion was intelligent, observant, and likely wouldn't let the matter drop entirely in his own mind. He would be a dangerous enemy, but potentially, a useful, if unconventional, ally under the right circumstances. That, however, was a consideration for a distant future.
As the day wore on and the sun climbed towards its zenith, Robb found the familiar surge of Escanor's pride more manageable. His desperate act to save Bran, the confrontation – however silent – with the Lannister twins, and the subsequent need to control the narrative had forged a new level of internal discipline. He was learning to channel the overwhelming power, to let Tony Volante's cold intellect ride the wave of solar energy rather than be submerged by it. He made sure to keep himself occupied with Warden's duties, reviewing defenses with Ser Rodrik, discussing logistics with Vayon Poole, his mind preternaturally sharp, his decisions swift and decisive. He felt the eyes of many on him, the whispers following him, but he projected an aura of calm command.
His primary concern remained Bran. He personally oversaw the posting of two of his most trusted household guards – the same Hullen and Donnel who had witnessed his feat at the tower, now bound by their oath and an almost fanatical loyalty – outside Bran's chamber. Maester Luwin was the only one permitted access besides Catelyn, Ned, and Robb himself.
He spent time with Bran, who was indeed bruised and sore, but his spirit was returning. The boy's memory of the event in the tower was fragmented but vivid enough.
"They were… angry I saw them, Robb," Bran whispered, his eyes wide. "The Kingslayer… he looked at me… and then I was falling."
"I know, Bran," Robb said soothingly. "And they know that I know. You are safe now. But you must not speak of what you saw to anyone else. Not yet. Can you be brave and keep this secret for me, for House Stark?"
Bran, looking up at his heroic older brother, nodded solemnly. "I can, Robb."
Robb had also taken the opportunity for subtle Snatch practice. During a tedious meeting with some minor Northern lords who had come with the King's retinue, he'd focused on one particularly verbose old man and discreetly Snatched a small measure of his "wind," feeling a slight invigorating rush as the lord suddenly found himself struggling for his next sentence, coughing apologetically. It was a petty act, but a useful test of finesse. He also found he could Snatch the warmth from the hearth across his solar, drawing it to himself, leaving the fire a little dimmer, his own core a little warmer, even as Sunshine's power was already present. The ability was versatile, its potential for subtle manipulation immense.
The catspaw. That was the next move on the chessboard Robb anticipated. The Valyrian steel dagger, the attempt to silence Bran permanently. In the original timeline, it had been Catelyn and Summer, Bran's direwolf, who had saved him. Robb had no intention of letting it get that far, nor of leaving Catelyn to face such danger alone.
He subtly reinforced the night watch near the wing where Bran's chambers were located. He also spent time with Summer, who was now permitted into Bran's room. The direwolf, preternaturally intelligent, already seemed to sense the lingering threat, its golden eyes often fixed on the door, a low growl rumbling in its chest whenever unfamiliar footsteps approached. Robb, with his enhanced senses, felt a strange kinship with the creature. He could almost feel its protective instincts, its primal loyalty.
Three nights after Bran's fall, it happened.
Robb had been in his solar, the sun long set, the power of Sunshine reduced to a mere ember, though his baseline strength and senses remained far above normal. He was reviewing architectural plans for reinforcing the Moat Cailin – a long-term project Tony Volante had deemed essential for Northern defense. A sudden, sharp bark from the direction of Bran's chambers sliced through the quiet of the night. Summer.
Followed by a woman's terrified scream. Catelyn.
Robb was moving before the scream had even fully registered. Rhitta was hidden, inaccessible for an immediate fight, but he didn't need it. He snatched his Valyrian steel sword – Ice's smaller, more practical cousin he'd had commissioned – from its scabbard as he burst from his solar, covering the distance to Bran's room with a speed that would have astonished anyone who saw him.
He skidded to a halt at the doorway. The scene was chaotic. A fire, recently set, was sputtering in a corner, casting wild, dancing shadows. Catelyn was on the floor, wrestling with a shadowy figure, a wiry man clad in dark, non-descript clothing. The man had a dagger raised, its blade glinting malevolently in the firelight – Valyrian steel, just as Robb remembered. Bran was awake in his bed, his eyes wide with terror. And Summer, a blur of grey fur and snarling fangs, was savaging the assassin's leg, trying to drag him away from Catelyn.
Hullen and Donnel, the guards, were just now reacting, having been lured away momentarily by a clever, but ultimately futile, diversionary fire set at the end of the corridor. Robb had anticipated that tactic.
"Mother!" Robb roared, a sound more wolf than man.
The assassin, distracted by Summer and Robb's sudden appearance, turned, his eyes wide and desperate. He slashed out at Catelyn, trying to disengage.
Robb didn't hesitate. He lunged. His movements, even without the full might of Sunshine, were incredibly swift and precise. He deflected the assassin's dagger with his own sword, the clang of steel unnaturally loud. He didn't aim to kill, not yet. He needed this man alive, if possible.
His left hand shot out, impossibly fast, and clamped onto the assassin's dagger wrist with bruising force. He Snatched. Not strength, not speed, but the man's will to fight, his aggression. He felt a cold, dark sliver of it flow into him, fuelling his own icy rage, while the assassin visibly faltered, his eyes glazing over for a split second, his attack losing all conviction.
In that instant of hesitation, Robb twisted the man's wrist. A sickening crack echoed in the room. The Valyrian dagger clattered to the floor. The assassin howled, a thin, reedy sound. Summer, meanwhile, had torn a significant chunk from the man's calf.
Hullen and Donnel, now recovered, stormed into the room, their swords drawn.
"Secure him!" Robb commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. He kicked the Valyrian dagger away from the downed man. "Mother, are you alright?"
Catelyn was pale, her hands bleeding where she'd grabbed the blade, but her eyes blazed with a mother's fury. "I'm… I'm alive. Summer… he saved us."
"That he did," Robb said, giving the direwolf a grateful look. Summer was now standing over the whimpering assassin, a low, menacing growl rumbling in his chest.
The commotion had roused half the castle. Ned Stark arrived moments later, his face a mask of cold fury, followed by Ser Rodrik and more guards.
"What in the seven hells happened here?" Ned demanded, taking in the scene – the smoldering fire, the bound assassin, Catelyn's bleeding hands, Robb standing protectively before Bran.
"A second attempt on Bran's life, Father," Robb said, his voice grim. "This… creature… tried to murder him in his bed. And silence my mother when she intervened."
The capture of the catspaw, alive, and the retrieval of the Valyrian steel dagger, sent shockwaves through the royal party. The assassin himself was a nobody, a low-life sellsword with no apparent connections, who stubbornly refused to speak, even under threat of torture – though Robb suspected his Snatched will had something to do with his vacant compliance.
The dagger, however, was another matter. Littlefinger, when "consulted" (a suggestion Robb subtly pushed through Maester Luwin), would later identify it as belonging to Tyrion Lannister. Robb knew this was a lie, a deliberate misdirection by Baelish. But it served a purpose. It would fan the flames of Catelyn's suspicion against the Lannisters, driving her actions.
King Robert was outraged. "An attempt on a child's life? In your castle, Ned? Under my protection? I'll have the bastard's head on a spike before morning!"
"First, we find out who sent him, Robert," Ned said, his voice dangerously quiet.
But the assassin, as Robb knew, would yield no names. His mind was already too muddled, and his employers too careful.
The failed assassination attempt accelerated the end of the royal visit. The atmosphere in Winterfell, already strained, became downright poisonous. Cersei and Jaime were even more withdrawn, acutely aware that suspicion, however misdirected, would fall on their family. Tyrion watched everything with a thoughtful, troubled expression, clearly aware that the dagger would be traced, falsely or not, back to him.
Robb used these final days to solidify his plans. He had a long, private conversation with his father, reiterating his warnings, offering surprisingly astute political advice gleaned from Tony Volante's understanding of power dynamics, and promising to hold the North secure.
"You have a good head on your shoulders, Robb," Ned said, looking at his son with a newfound depth of respect. "Wiser than I was at your age. Perhaps wiser than I am now. The North will be in strong hands."
"It will be, Father," Robb promised. "Focus on your own safety. Trust few. And know that we are with you."
The day of departure arrived, cold and grey. Goodbyes were fraught with emotion. Sansa was tearful but excited about going to King's Landing. Arya clung to Jon, then to Robb, extracting a promise from Robb to look after her sword, Needle, which Jon had gifted her. Jon Snow, stoic but with a hint of sadness in his eyes, clasped Robb's arm firmly.
"Watch yourself at the Wall, brother," Robb said quietly. "And send word if you need anything."
"And you, Robb," Jon replied. "Winterfell is yours now, in truth."
Catelyn, her hands bandaged, her resolve hardened by the attack on Bran, was also going south, though not with the King's party. She intended to secretly travel to King's Landing to warn Ned about the dagger and the Lannister plot, a decision Robb quietly endorsed, knowing it was a catalyst for future events he could now better prepare for.
As the last of the royal banners disappeared down the Kingsroad, Robb Stark stood on the battlements of Winterfell, the wind whipping his cloak around him. The sun was low, but he felt its distant promise. He was Warden of the North. His father was heading into a viper's nest. His mother was on a dangerous mission. His brothers and sisters were scattered or vulnerable. And ancient evils were stirring in the true North.
A grim smile touched his lips. It was a daunting inheritance. But Antonio "Tony" Volante had faced worse odds with far fewer assets. Now, as Robb Stark, he had the loyalty of the North, the future knowledge of a transmigrator, and the burgeoning powers of two of the Seven Deadly Sins.
He looked down at his hands. He could feel the phantom weight of Rhitta, the tingle of Sunshine's power waiting for the dawn, the subtle pull of Snatch.
"Alright," he murmured to the wind, the voice of the Capo echoing in the Stark heir. "Let the games truly begin."
The North was his. And he would not let it fall.