A wolf with the duties of a king

Robb Stark POV

It was the fourteenth day of the fourth moon and even though I had just been crowned King in the North and the Trident just a week ago, I felt unworthy of such a role. The crown sat heavy upon my brow, a circle of bronze and iron adorned with nine black iron spikes shaped like longswords, it had been styled like the ancient crowns worn by the Starks before they had sworn fealty to Aegon the Conqueror.

It should have been a source of pride and yet it served as a constant reminder of the burden I now carried—the lives of thousands, the fate of the North and the Trident, justice for my father.

Father.

Father was dead. The thought still struck me like a physical blow each time it crossed my mind. Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Hand of the King, beheaded on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. The ravens had brought the dark news, and my bannermen had responded by drawing their swords and declaring me King in the North, as our ancestors had been before Aegon's Conquest. The King in the North! they had proclaimed, it was quite a funny thought.

Renly had declared himself king as well, aligning himself with the Reach and their abundant harvests and numerous knights. Stannis brooded on Dragonstone, no doubt plotting his own claim. And I was fighting a war against the Lannisters and their sellswords. Their raiding parties had proved to be more than a bit problematic—burning villages, slaughtering smallfolk, despoiling the Riverlands that I had sworn to protect when I took Lady Roslin as my bride at the Twins.

No, not Roslin. That was yet to come. I had agreed to marry one of Lord Walder's daughters after the war, as the price for crossing at the Twins. My mind wandered at times, too many responsibilities weighing upon it.

I dissuaded myself from such wandering thoughts. For now I had won two big battles—the Whispering Wood and the Battle of the Camps—and had captured Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer, son of Tywin, twin to the queen. Even if father was dead, as long as Jaime was in custody both Arya and Sansa would be kept alive, maybe not well kept but kept all the same. 

The map spread before me on the table was worn at the edges, marked with wooden figures representing armies both friendly and hostile. My fingers traced the route from Riverrun to King's Landing, measuring distances, calculating marches. For now, the Twins were also under my banner, meaning that the Lannisters couldn't cross the Trident. We were in a winning position, and yet I felt nervous for some reason, a foreboding I couldn't shake.

I looked again at the map, my eyes drawn to Harrenhal. The massive, half-melted castle was five days away by horse, and if they rode hard, the scouts could make it in three. Meaning they should be coming back any time now. The last group I had sent was able to tell me about the newly arrived sellswords, the Brave Companions being led by Vargo Hoat. The Goat, they called him, for his strange bleating accent and the horn-crest on his helm. They had united with the Mountain and Amory Lorch, seemingly forming other raiding parties across the Riverlands, burning and pillaging as they went.

It was dishonorable behavior, but what could one expect from servants of the Old Lion? Tywin Lannister's reputation preceded him. The Rains of Castamere was sung in taverns across the Seven Kingdoms, a chilling reminder of what happened to those who had once opposed the Lord of Casterly Rock.

Yet I had defied him, beaten his son in battle, and now held him captive in the dungeons below. The North remembers, my lord father always said. And I would make certain the Lannisters remembered well, just like the North remembered.

Greywind seemed to notice my distress, his giant head moved slowly towards my palm, seeking attention. My fingers moved through his fur, finding the spot behind his ears that he favored. The warmth of him was comforting, I had sired a kinship with this wolf, one which seemed deeper than even those I had formed with my siblings.

"You're the best, you know that," I muttered at my direwolf.

He growled in response, as if in agreement, and I could swear there was understanding in those yellow eyes. Sometimes I dreamed I was Greywind, running through forests and fields, hunting, living free of crowns and responsibilities.

The maps on the table showed our position clearly enough. There was semblance of peace at the moment, if only for a moment.

A knock on the door came as it opened. I looked up, annoyed at the interruption.

Three people stood at its entrance.

My recently acquired personal squire, Olyvar Frey. He was lean and nervous-looking, with the prominent ears and weak chin that marked many of the Frey brood. But he served well enough, and he had grown on me over the past days.

My friend, someone who I considered a brother, Theon Greyjoy stood at the squire's right. He wore a half-smile as always, his dark hair falling across his forehead in that carefully tousled way he favored. We had grown up together as boys in Winterfell, though he had come as a hostage after his father's failed rebellion. Eight years we had shared, and I trusted him as I trusted few others.

And finally my mother, Catelyn Stark, her reddish auburn hair slightly unkempt, a rare occurrence for her always-proper appearance. The war had taken its toll on her as well. She was worried about Sansa and Arya the most, so much that you could already see it was impacting her health. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and she had lost weight since we had left Winterfell, her cheeks hollower, her hands more angular.

"Olyvar, thank you for bringing them," I said, noticing how the squire straightened at the sound of his name. "You may take your leave now."

He nodded, his head leaning forward in a slight bow. "Your Grace," he murmured before withdrawing. He was a good kid, dutiful if somewhat eager to please.

By the old gods, what was I saying? We were all kids in this war. I was fifteen, and even though I had tried to grow out a beard to make myself look older, the auburn fuzz along my jaw did little to hide my youth. The truth was that I was just a boy.

Yet I was also a king, and as such, I had to act as one and make decisions as one. My lord father had always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Well, I had sentenced thousands of men to potential death by taking up arms against the Iron Throne. The least I could do was lead them well.

"Mother, Theon," I began as they took their seats and I took mine, speaking with the gravitas I had learnt from this campaign. "While we have won the first two battles, the truth is that the Lannister forces outnumber us three to one. We need allies and fast."

I ran a hand through my hair, a habit my mother had always scolded me for when I was a boy. Now she said nothing.

"For that, I'll have each of you go form relations where you can," I continued. "Theon, you'll go to the Iron Islands and try to gain the support of your father. If you are able to do so, attack Lannisport. That way, Tywin will have to divide his forces between defending his homeland and pressing his advantage in the Riverlands."

Theon's smile widened slightly, a hungry look in his eyes. He had been away from the Iron Islands for years, a hostage to ensure his father's good behavior. Now I was sending him home, trusting him with a mission crucial to our cause. I knew how much that meant to him, to be trusted, to be valued as more than just a ward or a hostage.

I turned to look at my mother, her face composed but her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "Mother, you will go to negotiate with Renly. He has the support of the Reach, which means he has the biggest army in Westeros. They are also in the Stormlands, which means they'll be able to attack from the south and the west. We don't know what Stannis is doing, but he could also make a claim for the Iron Throne, so be ready for that."

They both nodded at my words, staying silent for a few moments, which made me speak up again. The sound of my voice in the quiet chamber seemed louder than it should.

"Well, go on then," I urged, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt. "The sooner you leave, the better. We have the Kingslayer in custody, but that doesn't mean the Lannisters won't make big moves against us."

Of course, that was a lie, and everyone in the chamber knew it. Everyone in Westeros knew of Tywin's love for his son, even though he wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard. The Old Lion never stopped believing that Jaime would fulfill his role as heir and succeed him as Lord of Casterly Rock, laws of the Kingsguard be damned. Having Jaime as our prisoner was the strongest card we had to play, and I meant to play it well.

Theon simply nodded at me before taking his leave, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. That was good. Theon was one of the few men I could trust, a brother in all but blood.

My mother, however, didn't move from her seat. Her blue eyes, Tully eyes like mine, searched my face with the concern that only a mother could muster. "Are you okay, Robb?" she asked softly, like she did whenever I had the most minute cough in Winterfell. By the Old Gods how I wished those times had stayed.

"I'm fine, Mother."

The lie came easily to my lips.

"You just look tired," she persisted, reaching across to touch my hand briefly. "Try to get some rest."

With those parting words, my mother left the room, leaving me alone with Greywind. The direwolf had settled by the hearth, his massive form stretched out before the flames, golden-yellow eyes watching me.

"So what do you think, boy?" I asked the direwolf when we were alone. "Do I look tired?"

He growled, the sound low in his throat.

"Yeah, I'll go sleep early today," I conceded, as if he had spoken words I could understand. "I have a war council meeting tomorrow morning, and I don't want to deal with it without a few good hours of sleep."

I stood from my chair and opened the door to my room, Greywind moving out of it quickly enough. He had other duties to attend to, like guarding the Kingslayer. Yes, I had men guarding the prisoners, but what better guard could there be than a direwolf? Not even Jaime Lannister would try to escape with Greywind's hot breath on his face and those massive jaws ready to close on his throat.

I fell asleep soon after and that night I dreamed of seeing the world in Greywind's eyes, I was there guarding the Kingslayer through the night.

It was a simple dream.

It was a good dream.

A/N: This not having classes really makes it easy to write lol