Chapter 4 - The Lord’s Judgment

Winterfell's Great Hall was alive with the murmurs of gathered men. The stone walls, warmed by the great hearth, cast flickering light over the long oaken table where the lords of the North sat in solemn assembly. Once a month, Lord Eddard Stark held court, where matters great and small were laid before him for judgment.

Robb Stark sat to his father's right, watching and listening intently. His mother, Lady Catelyn, sat at the other end of the hall with Sansa and Arya, while Bran and Rickon were deemed too young for such matters. This was Robb's place—to learn, to understand, and one day, to rule.

The lords had come from all corners of the North: Lord Manderly of White Harbor, his great girth making him look almost too large for his chair; Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort, pale and composed, his words always measured; Greatjon Umber, who spoke loudly and drank even louder; and Lady Maege Mormont, whose gruff voice carried the wisdom of a warrior. Ser Helman Tallhart, Galbart Glover, and Howland Reed had also sent representatives, each with their own grievances and reports.

The discussions ranged from trade agreements with White Harbor, ensuring the Riverlands' grain continued to flow, to reports of bandits troubling the roads near the Neck. Lord Bolton, in his quiet and unsettling manner, suggested harsher punishments to deal with the issue. Greatjon, ever boisterous, countered with the idea of hunting them down like game.

"Steel solves all problems," the Greatjon boomed, slamming a fist against the table.

Lord Manderly, dabbing at his mouth with a cloth, shook his head. "Steel won't feed starving smallfolk. More needs to be done to secure food for winter."

Maester Luwin interjected, listing the current stores and estimating the grain supply's longevity should the coming winter be a harsh one. The numbers were not good, enough to sustain Winterfell for now but dangerously close to falling short should the cold months drag on. Even with rationing, difficult choices would have to be made. Some suggested increasing tithes on the smaller lords, while others argued that the burden should be shared equally across the North. The debate grew heated, with voices rising in frustration, but Eddard Stark's firm words brought the hall back to order. "We will ration early and plan accordingly. The North does not abandon its people."

Lady Mormont spoke of ironborn raiders troubling Bear Island's coasts, warning that if left unchecked, they might grow bold enough to strike the mainland. Lord Glover, his lands also close to the sea, agreed that the threat of the ironborn should not be ignored. Lord Bolton, in contrast, suggested that the matter was minor compared to the larger concerns of food shortages and lawlessness in the North.

One by one, each matter was addressed—grain shortages, bandit raids, border disputes—all given their due weight before Lord Stark passed his judgment, ensuring the North remained stable despite the challenges ahead.

Robb took in every detail, learning not just the words spoken but the weight behind them. This was ruling—not just swinging a sword, but balancing the needs of thousands.

The day stretched on, and as matters dwindled, one last case remained. A boy, no older than ten, was brought before them by two guards. He was small and thin, with a mop of tangled brown hair and dirt smudging his face. He looked terrified, his gaze flickering between the gathered lords and Lord Stark himself.

Maester Luwin stepped forward with a parchment in hand. "This boy, Eddric, was caught stealing bread from Master Garel's bakery two nights past."

Lord Eddard regarded the boy with a calm, unreadable expression. "You know the law," he said. "Stealing is punished by loss of a hand."

The boy whimpered, shaking his head rapidly. "M-my lord. My mother, she—" He swallowed, voice trembling. "She's sick, and my sister... she was starving. We had nothing."

A murmur swept through the hall. Some of the lords scoffed at the excuse, while others exchanged looks of pity.

Lord Bolton's cold voice cut through the air. "A crime was still committed," he said. "If no punishment is given, what stops the next hungry boy from doing the same? Someone must be held accountable."

Greatjon Umber leaned back, crossing his arms. "A child losing a hand over a loaf of bread seems excessive. A few lashes would be punishment enough."

Lord Manderly sighed heavily. "The boy stole out of desperation. Perhaps the real failure here is that a child had to resort to theft at all."

Lady Mormont nodded. "The boy is weak now, but if handled correctly, he may yet grow into a man of value."

Robb felt a tightness in his chest. The law was the law, but the boy's voice, his trembling frame—it reminded him too much of how the smallfolk suffered in silence.

His father turned to him. "Robb."

Robb blinked, sitting straighter. "Yes, Father?"

Ned Stark held his gaze. "What punishment should be given?"

The room fell into silence. The lords turned their eyes to Robb, each with their own expectations.

Robb inhaled slowly, looking at the boy once more. His fear was real, but so was his crime. Justice had to be served—but justice was not always cruelty.

"I will not take his hand," Robb declared, his voice steady, though his heart pounded. "The boy stole out of desperation, not malice."

There were murmurs among the lords. Some nodded approvingly, others frowned.

Robb took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "If there are children going hungry under my rule, then as a lord, it is my failing." His voice was steady, carrying through the hall. "The baker will be compensated for his loss with my coin, and I will see that steps are taken to ensure no child in the North goes hungry again."

The hall was momentarily silent, then murmurs spread among the gathered lords. Lord Bolton's eyes remained cold, though he gave a slight, nod. Greatjon Umber let out a loud laugh, slapping his hand against the table, clearly pleased with Robb's sense of justice. Lord Manderly, stroking his beard, murmured to himself, considering the broader implications of Robb's words. Lady Mormont nodded approvingly, her sharp gaze studying the young Stark closely, as if reassessing his potential as a future ruler.

Lady Catelyn let out a quiet breath, her eyes filled with both pride and concern. Sansa nodded slightly, though she still looked uneasy at the gravity of it all. Arya grinned, pleased that Robb had chosen mercy over cruelty.

Ned Stark said nothing at first, but the faintest glimmer of approval shone in his eyes as he gave his son a nod—a quiet acknowledgment that Robb had made the right choice. It was a lesson learned, a test passed.

Robb continued, addressing the boy directly. "You will work in the kitchens until your debt is repaid. If your mother is sick, we will see that she is tended to."

The boy's eyes widened. "Truly, my lord?"

Robb nodded. "But if you steal again, you will not find such mercy."

He turned to his father then, waiting for judgment on his own decision.

Ned Stark watched him for a long moment, then gave a small nod. "So be it."

And with that, the matter was settled.

The boy would work, his mother would be cared for, and Robb Stark had taken his first step toward true leadership.