Chapter 3 - Daily life

The chill of the morning air seeped through the stone walls of Winterfell, but Robb Stark was already awake. The dim light of dawn filtered through the high windows of his chambers, casting long shadows across the fur-covered bed. He pushed back the heavy wolf-pelt blanket and swung his legs over the edge, feeling the cold stone floor beneath his feet.

The castle was still quiet as Robb dressed, layering a thick woolen tunic over his shirt before fastening his belt. His black direwolf, Fenrir, lay curled by the hearth, his deep green eyes half-lidded as he watched Robb move about. The pup had grown quickly in the past few weeks, no longer small enough to carry under his cloak, but still lean and wild.

Storm, his warhorse, would need to be exercised soon. He'd take her out later, but first, his morning training.

Robb left his chambers, stepping into the brisk corridor, and made his way toward the courtyard. The walk was a familiar one, past servants carrying baskets of bread from the kitchens, past guards nodding respectfully as they passed him by. Winterfell was awake now, its heart beating with the steady rhythm of daily life.

The yard was already bustling when he arrived. Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell, was waiting, dressed in his usual padded armor with a wooden training sword resting against his shoulder. Jon Snow was there as well, stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders. The cold never deterred them.

"Late again, Robb," Jon teased as Robb strode toward them.

Robb smirked. "A lord is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to."

Ser Rodrik coughed, unimpressed. "A lord who arrives late to battle finds himself dead, my lord."

With that, the training began. Swords clashed against shields, boots scuffed against the dirt. Robb moved with practiced ease, his muscles remembering the weight of the blade. He and Jon sparred often, neither holding back, their movements honed from years of practice. Jon was quick and precise, his strikes controlled, his footwork near flawless, while Robb relied on his strength and instincts, pressing forward with relentless aggression. Their wooden swords clashed, the impact echoing through the yard as they moved in a practiced dance of attack and defense. Robb dodged a swift strike aimed at his ribs and countered with a powerful downward swing, forcing Jon back a step. Jon recovered quickly, pivoting on his heel and lunging forward, but Robb parried, twisting their locked blades aside before sweeping a leg beneath Jon, knocking him to the ground.

Jon exhaled sharply, his back hitting the packed dirt. He stared up at Robb for a moment before letting out a small chuckle. "That was new."

Robb smirked, offering a hand to pull him up. "Had to keep you on your toes."

The yard was alive with the sounds of other young men training, the occasional bark of orders from Jory Cassel or one of the senior guards.

The session ended when Ser Rodrik called for a halt. Robb wiped sweat from his brow, breathing heavily. Fenrir trotted over to him, his tail flicking, his large frame already commanding attention despite his young age.

"You're getting faster," Jon admitted, sheathing his training sword.

Robb grinned. "And you're getting predictable."

Jon rolled his eyes but didn't argue. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses too well by now.

After a quick wash and a change into fresh clothes, Robb made his way to the Great Hall. Breakfast had already been laid out—fresh bread, thick slices of bacon, and warm honeyed oats. His father, Lord Eddard Stark, was already seated at the head of the table, speaking quietly with Maester Luwin.

Catelyn Stark gave him a small smile as he sat beside her, though her gaze lingered on his posture, ever the watchful mother. Bran, Rickon, and the girls were eating as well, with Arya already halfway through her meal, while Sansa ate with the careful poise Septa Mordane had drilled into her.

Before Robb could finish his plate, Maester Luwin placed a small scroll in front of him. "These are the latest reports from the holdfasts near the White Knife. Your father thought you should read them."

Robb took the parchment, unrolling it carefully. It was a report on grain stores, livestock, and minor disputes among lesser lords. A mundane duty, perhaps, but an important one. Winter was always coming, and food stores needed to be managed carefully.

He read through it with care, occasionally asking his father or Luwin for clarification. Ned watched him as he worked, offering quiet nods of approval. Being a Stark was more than swordplay and honor—it was responsibility.

*****

After breakfast, Robb took Storm out for a ride beyond the walls. The mare moved like a shadow beneath him, her powerful strides cutting through the snow-dusted trails leading into the Wolfswood. Her white-ringed hooves kicked up small clouds of frost with each step, and her breath came out in misty puffs in the crisp morning air. Fenrir followed alongside, his paws silent against the frozen earth, his black form nearly invisible among the shadows of the trees.

The ride was for no purpose other than to clear his mind. The Wolfswood was still, save for the occasional rustling of distant animals. He guided Storm to a slow trot, letting the cold air fill his lungs and watching as Fenrir occasionally paused to investigate interesting scents. These moments of solitude were precious to him - away from the responsibilities of being the heir to Winterfell, away from the constant stream of reports and duties. Here, with only Storm's steady gait beneath him and Fenrir's watchful presence, he could simply exist as himself.

By nightfall, the castle was bathed in warm torchlight. The halls were quieter now, with only the occasional servant or guard passing by as Robb walked toward the battlements. Fenrir padded beside him, silent as a shadow.

From the walls, he could see the vast expanse of the North stretching beyond Winterfell. The night was clear, the stars shining bright overhead. It was a moment of peace—a rare thing, these days.

Jon appeared beside him, resting against the rampart. "Your mind's working overtime again."

A soft chuckle escaped Robb. "It's necessary."

His brother remained quiet before speaking. "You handled yourself well today."

Robb shifted his attention from the scenery. "During the sparring?"

Jon gave a negative gesture. "During the morning meal. When you reviewed those documents."

A sigh left Robb's lips. "They're merely calculations."

"Those calculations determine whether people survive," Jon responded.

The truth of those words resonated deeply within Robb. Leadership wasn't defined by prowess with a sword—it came down to decisions. The mundane ones, the kind that never made it into the bard's tales.