Chapter 1 - The Weight of Duty

The chill of the morning air bit through the furs wrapped around Robb Stark's shoulders as he rode beside his father, Lord Eddard Stark. Dawn had barely broken over the horizon, casting a pale light over the frost-covered landscape. The breath of men and horses alike misted in the cold air, and the quiet march of their party filled the stillness of the Wolfswood.

Robb sat tall in the saddle of his black warhorse, Storm, a proud and spirited mare that had been his father's gift on his 16th name day. She was bred for war, swift and strong, her sleek black coat gleaming in the dim light. She moved with smooth, confident strides beneath him, but Robb could feel the tightness in his grip on the reins, the tension he had been trying to ignore since they left Winterfell.

He already knew what was coming.

This was not just a lesson. This was a test.

His father had given him every luxury due a lord's heir—warm halls, fine clothes, a strong horse to call his own. Yet with each gift came a lesson in responsibility, a reminder that one day he would hold the fate of the North in his hands. Lord Eddard had never spoiled him, had made sure that even as his eldest son lived in comfort, he understood the weight of duty that came with his position. The memory of his father's stern but caring face flashed through his mind as Storm shifted beneath him, her hooves crunching softly on the fallen leaves. 

Those privileges came responsibility. And today, his father had decided that Robb would bear the weight of it. He had not been told directly, but he did not need to be. Lord Eddard Stark was a man of quiet expectation, of duty carried with silent dignity. And now, Robb would be expected to do the same.

The procession crested a small hill, and the execution site came into view—a clearing in the woods where a block of stone stood, weathered and stained from years of carrying out the King's justice.

A group of Stark soldiers pulled a man from a cart. Will, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. A deserter.

Robb swallowed hard, his stomach twisting as he caught the look in Will's eyes—fear, despair. He had pleaded for mercy once before, but his fate had already been sealed. The Night's Watch did not forgive deserters. Neither did the laws of the North.

And now, neither could Robb Stark.

They dismounted, boots crunching against the frozen ground. Storm tossed her head as he pulled the reins over her neck and tied them to a low branch. He gave her a final pat, a wordless reassurance to himself as much as to her.

His father nodded. He gestured toward the block, and placed Ice, the great Valyrian steel sword of House Stark, in Robb's hands.

The sword was heavy. He had trained with steel all his life, but this—this was different. This was no practice blade. This was an executioner's sword.

Will was forced to his knees before the stone. Chains clinked as he was held in place, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His gaze darted toward Eddard Stark, then to Robb.

But this time, when he spoke, it was not to Lord Stark.

"My lord," Will said, turning his tired, desperate eyes to Robb. "You are young, but you are not blind. I know my fate is sealed. I know the law. I do not ask for mercy, only that you listen."

Robb clenched his jaw but gave the man a single nod.

Will took a shuddering breath. "I did not flee out of cowardice. I did not run because I feared men. I saw them. The White Walkers. They were real—dead men, moving with blue eyes like ice." He swallowed hard. "We had steel, axes, fire—it did not matter. They slaughtered us like cattle."

The gathered men shifted uncomfortably. Some scoffed, some averted their gaze, but Will held Robb's eyes.

"I know you do not believe me," Will continued, softer now. "You do not have to. But when the time comes, and the dead rise, remember what I said."

Robb exhaled slowly. His father had already dismissed the words as madness, as tales meant to save a condemned man. And yet, something in Will's voice, in his eyes, held no deceit.

Robb turned toward his father. Ned Stark watched him carefully but said nothing. This was his moment. His decision. His responsibility.

Robb turned back to Will. His grip on Ice tightened. "You deserted your brothers. You broke your oath," Robb said, though his voice lacked the cold finality of his father's. "The law is the law. I must do this."

Will nodded, accepting his fate, but then Robb added, "But I will honor your last words. I will take your warning seriously. I will look into it."

A faint sigh escaped Will, and Robb noticed an unexpected smile flicker across his face, despite his impending execution. "Then maybe my message will survive beyond my passing."

Robb swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped forward.

He raised Ice.

It was heavier than he had imagined but it did not matter.

He swung.

The blade fell.

****

The ride back to Winterfell was quieter than the journey out. The air was still heavy with the weight of what had transpired. Robb could still feel the steel in his hands, still see the way Will had looked at him in those final moments. He had done what was expected of him, but he could not shake the feeling that something had shifted within him.

Storm moved steadily beneath him, her hooves crunching softly against the frozen earth. He let the motion ground him, his fingers absently running over the leather reins as he kept pace with his father. Lord Stark rode ahead in silence, as he often did after such grim duties. His expression was unreadable, but Robb knew his father well enough—there was no satisfaction in what had been done. Only duty.

Jon Snow rode alongside Robb, his face still and quiet, as if lost in thought. Theon Greyjoy, in contrast, seemed unaffected, riding with an easy confidence, occasionally glancing back at the younger boys trailing behind them.

The woods stretched on around them, the bare branches rattling in the cold wind. The sun had risen further now, casting long shadows through the trees.

Suddenly, Jory Cassel raised a hand, signaling for the party to halt. Robb pulled back gently on his reins, his mount responding instantly to the command. He noticed how the guard captain's sharp eyes scanned the tree line ahead, his posture tense and alert. Years of watching his father's guard captain had taught Robb to read these subtle signs of potential danger.

Robb pulled at Storm's reins, his eyes scanning ahead. At first, he saw nothing, but then—movement in the snow.

A carcass. A massive shape lying half-covered in frost, its form unmistakable.

A direwolf.

The men dismounted, approaching carefully. The beast was larger than any normal wolf, nearly the size of a small horse, its fur thick and matted with blood. Flies had already begun to gather.

Jon was the first to step forward. "It's a direwolf," he murmured, his dark eyes studying the creature with quiet reverence. "A full-grown one."

"A rare sight this far south of the Wall," Rodrik Cassel muttered, frowning.

Robb crouched beside the creature, running a hand through its thick, silvery-grey fur. The she-wolf was a magnificent beast, even in death, but something was strange. The way her body lay, the unnatural stillness—

Then Jon moved past him and froze.

"There's something else," Jon said.

Robb followed his gaze and then he saw them.

Pups.

Five small bundles of fur, nestled against their mother's unmoving side. They were barely more than newborns, their tiny bodies shivering from the cold.

"They must have just been born," Theon observed. "They'll die without their mother."

Robb reached down, gently picking up one of the pups. It was large, bigger than the rest with fur that was completely black, as dark as the midnight sky. When Robb lifted him, he felt something stir in his chest. This one was different. Strong. Fierce. A fighter.

Theon glanced at him and smirked. "A black horse and now a black wolf? What are you trying to do, Stark? Start a collection?"

Robb let out a small chuckle but didn't reply. His focus was on the pup. This one was meant to be his.

Jon turned to their father. "You have five trueborn children," he said. "Three sons, two daughters. And now there are five pups."

Robb looked at his father expectantly.

"These were meant to be ours," He continued.

Lord Stark studied the pups with his usual quiet contemplation. He was a man who did not believe in signs or omens, but even he could not deny the strangeness of it. He exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air.

"Take them," he said at last. "Train them yourselves. If you are to keep them, they must not be treated as pets."

Robb exchanged a glance with Jon, feeling a rare spark of excitement in the midst of the cold morning. He cradled the black pup in his hands, feeling the warmth of its small body. A direwolf and a Stark. This was how it was meant to be.

As the boys gathered the pups, Theon turned to leave—but then, a soft yelp stopped them.

Jon had stopped, staring at the snow just a few steps away. There, half-buried beneath the frost, was one more pup—smaller than the others, its fur as white as the snow itself.

"The runt of the litter," Theon scoffed. "That one won't last a fortnight."

Jon ignored him and picked up the small creature, holding it close to his chest. The pup let out a tiny, defiant growl.

Robb watched him for a moment before smiling. "Now all of our father's children have wolves."

Jon's eyes flicked up to meet Robb's. For a brief moment, something passed between them—unspoken, but understood.

Jon nodded and cradled the white pup closer. "Ghost," he murmured.

Robb looked down at the black pup in his arms, "Fenrir" he said to himself and the pup.

Yes. This was a sign. A gift from the old gods.