Chapter 5 - Family Dinner

The Winterfell courtyard echoed with the sharp clash of steel and the grunts of exertion. A crisp northern wind carried the scent of cold iron and packed earth as Robb Stark, Jon Snow, and Theon Greyjoy sparred in the training yard, their wooden practice swords ringing against one another. The morning air was brisk, but the heat of exertion warmed their bodies as they moved through the drills Ser Rodrik Cassel had drilled into them since childhood.

Robb stepped back, sweat glistening on his brow, as Jon pressed forward. Their wooden swords struck together in a flurry of motion, both young men moving with quick, practiced precision. Theon stood nearby, leaning lazily against the fence, watching them with an easy grin, waiting for his turn.

"Come on, Stark," Theon called out, smirking. "Show us if you're truly ready to rule the North."

Robb rolled his eyes but did not break focus. With a sudden shift, he parried Jon's downward strike, countering with a swift thrust that Jon barely managed to deflect. Jon pivoted, using Robb's momentum against him, and the two found themselves locked in a fast-paced exchange, neither able to land a decisive blow. They moved in a steady rhythm, attacking, blocking, and countering in turn, neither willing to give the other an inch. Their bout remained at a standstill, evenly matched, until a voice rang out from the entrance of the yard.

"I'd like to join."

The three boys turned toward the speaker. Standing at the edge of the training yard was Lyanna Mormont.

She was young—perhaps fourteen or fifteen. Her dark black hair was pulled back into a tight braid, highlighting her piercing emerald green eyes that glinted like steel beneath her fur-lined cloak. Unlike the noble ladies of the south, she wore practical leathers, fitted for movement and combat, and a steel sword rested at her hip. She was tall for her age, lean and strong, with the same resolute expression her mother, Lady Maege Mormont, was known for.

Theon snorted, pushing himself off the fence with a cocky grin. "A lady in the yard? Shouldn't you be inside, learning embroidery with Sansa?"

Lyanna's eyes narrowed. "I am a Lady of the North. A Mormont. We do not sew while men fight." Her voice was calm but carried steel beneath it. "I came to spar, not to be insulted by some Ironborn stray."

Robb suppressed a laugh at Theon's reaction, watching his friend bristle. Jon, beside him, folded his arms and observed with interest.

"You want to spar?" Theon said, stepping forward with mock disbelief. "Very well, my lady. I won't go easy on you."

Lyanna smirked. "Good. I wouldn't want you to."

The lords' sons gathered around as Theon took up a wooden practice sword and tossed another to Lyanna. She caught it without hesitation, stepping onto the packed dirt of the yard with the confidence of a seasoned warrior.

"Don't embarrass yourself, Greyjoy," Robb murmured under his breath.

They squared off, circling each other. Theon struck first, quick and aggressive, trying to overwhelm her. Lyanna moved fluidly, dodging with ease before twisting to counter. Their swords clashed, the sharp crack of wood against wood filling the yard.

Theon had strength, but Lyanna had precision. Her movements flowed seamlessly - quick, methodical, and unstoppable. She wasn't merely responding; she was predicting his every strike. The moment Theon left an opening, she struck, knocking his sword aside with a sharp crack before stepping in and delivering a swift strike to his ribs. Theon grunted, stumbling back, trying to regain his footing, but she was already pressing forward. She parried his next desperate swing with effortless grace, feinted left, and then swept his legs from under him with a sharp pivot of her heel.

A heartbeat later, Theon was flat on his back, gasping for breath, his sword lying several feet away. Lyanna stood over him, barely out of breath, her expression impassive, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her sharp eyes.

The gathered men murmured, impressed. Even Jon arched an eyebrow at the display. "Well fought."

Theon groaned, rubbing his ribs. "Seven hells…."

Lyanna extended a hand to help him up, though her smirk showed little sympathy. "Perhaps next time, you'll take a lady of the North seriously."

Robb chuckled before stepping forward. "If you still wish to spar, Lady Mormont, I would be honored."

Lyanna turned her sharp gaze to him. There was something in her expression, a flicker of curiosity and respect. "I'd like that."

She retrieved her practice sword, and they took their stances. Robb immediately noticed the way she carried herself—her stance was solid, balanced, not that of a novice but of a trained fighter. He smiled.

Their bout began, and from the first strike, Robb knew this would be different. Unlike Theon, he did not underestimate her. He fought her as he would Jon, carefully measuring her speed, her reactions. Lyanna was fast, relentless, and unyielding. She dodged his swings with ease, struck back with precise, controlled movements, and made him work for every inch of ground he gained.

They exchanged blows, each testing the other's limits. Robb could feel the excitement thrumming in his veins. She was good. Really good.

Lyanna grinned as their swords clashed again. "You fight well, Lord Stark."

Robb smirked. "As do you, Lady Mormont."

Their spar carried on longer than anyone expected. By the end of it, both were panting, grinning at each other like they had found a worthy opponent at last.

Robb finally stepped back and lowered his sword. "You are welcome in this yard anytime, Lyanna."

Lyanna brushed a drop of sweat from her forehead and nodded. "Good. I plan to."

Theon, still rubbing his sore ribs, muttered, "I liked it better when she wasn't here."

Jon laughed, and Robb found himself smiling. Something about Lyanna Mormont intrigued him. She wasn't like the ladies of court—she was fierce, wild, a true daughter of the North. And for the first time in a long while, Robb felt like he had met an equal.

As they left the yard, he found himself already looking forward to their next meeting.

*****

The sun was beginning its slow descent beyond the walls of Winterfell, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet. The air held the crisp chill of the North, but Robb barely noticed as he strode across the Godswood, Fenrir padding along beside him. Fenrir's size had increased dramatically in the past few weeks, nearly matching a mature hunting dog. His dark coat shone, a silhouette against the dimming sun. But despite his intimidating size, there was a certain playful energy about him, especially when he was alone with Robb.

"You're getting big," Robb mused, ruffling the thick fur behind Fenrir's ears. The wolf leaned into the touch, tail wagging slightly, but just as quickly darted away, bounding a few paces ahead before turning back with an expectant look.

Robb smirked. So that's how it is.

"All right, you want a chase, do you?" he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Fine, but if I catch you, I'm keeping all the meat scraps from supper for myself."

That was all the encouragement Fenrir needed. The direwolf spun on his heels and bolted deeper into the Godswood, a blur of black against the snow-dusted ground. Robb took off after him, his boots crunching against fallen leaves. He weaved between the towering weirwood trees, heart pounding, laughter slipping from his lips despite himself. It had been too long since he'd allowed himself to just be—not a Stark, not a future Warden of the North, but simply a boy chasing his wolf through the woods.

Fenrir was fast—faster than any hound Robb had ever seen. But Robb was no slouch. He feigned left before cutting right, catching Fenrir by surprise. With one final lunge, he tackled the direwolf, both of them tumbling into the soft underbrush. Fenrir let out a sharp yelp of surprise before barking excitedly, licking at Robb's face in revenge.

"Ah—stop, you brat!" Robb laughed, shielding himself as Fenrir enthusiastically lapped at his cheek. "You fight dirty."

The direwolf merely huffed, nuzzling into Robb's chest before flopping down beside him, stretching out lazily. His large head rested on Robb's lap, and the warmth of his body was welcome against the evening chill. Robb ran his fingers through Fenrir's thick coat, marveling at how something so fierce could also be so affectionate.

"Father says the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark for a reason," Robb murmured, his voice quiet but thoughtful. "They're strong. Loyal. And they never forget their pack."

Fenrir let out a low, contented rumble, as if he understood every word.

Robb exhaled slowly, watching the last slivers of sunlight fade behind the trees. In moments like these, the weight of his responsibilities seemed just a little lighter. No lords seeking his judgment, no battles of words or swords—just him, his wolf, and the quiet of the Godswood.

A cold nose nudged at his hand, drawing him from his thoughts. Robb smiled, scratching behind Fenrir's ears one last time before pushing himself up.

"Come on, then. Let's get back before Mother has half the castle searching for me."

Fenrir gave a small, playful bark before bounding ahead once more, pausing only to look back as if to say, Try to keep up this time.

Robb shook his head with a grin, sprinting after him into the evening twilight.

By the time Robb and Fenrir made their way back to the castle, the last remnants of daylight had faded, leaving only the glow of torches to light the stone corridors. The Great Hall was warm and lively, the scent of roasted venison and fresh-baked bread filling the air. A large fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the long wooden table where the Stark family was gathered.

Robb slid into his usual seat beside Jon Snow, shaking out the last bits of dirt from his sleeves. Fenrir flopped down beside his chair, panting from their earlier run but keeping an alert eye on the hall. Across the table, the other direwolf pups were making their presence known—Nymeria and Summer playfully nipping at each other's ears, Lady sitting primly at Sansa's feet, and Shaggydog attempting (and failing) to stay still as Rickon fed him scraps under the table. Ghost, as always, was the quietest, lying near Jon's chair with an eerie stillness.

Lady Catelyn pursed her lips at the wolves' antics but said nothing. The direwolves had already become part of their family, whether she liked it or not.

"You're late," Arya said, her mouth half-full of bread. "Did Fenrir get lost again?"

Robb smirked, tearing off a piece of venison and flicking it down to Fenrir, who caught it midair. "Hardly. He ran circles around me in the Godswood."

"He's fast," Bran chimed in, eyes bright with excitement. "Faster than any dog I've ever seen."

"Because he's not a dog," Jon said, scratching behind Ghost's ear. "He's a direwolf. They're stronger, smarter."

"Smarter?" Theon snorted from his seat further down the table. "Tell that to Shaggydog, he just stole Rickon's bread."

Rickon let out a squeal of protest as Shaggydog darted away with the stolen piece of bread still clenched in his jaws. He ran headfirst into Nymeria and Summer, and suddenly all three pups were tumbling across the floor in a playful scuffle.

"I'd say he's plenty smart," Robb chuckled. "He knows a free meal when he sees one."

Rickon pouted, but before he could complain, Maester Luwin coughed gently from his seat. "Perhaps a bit more decorum at the table, my lords?"

"Let them play," Eddard Stark said, his deep voice calm but firm. "They are still young, as are the children."

Catelyn gave her husband a look but said nothing, sighing as she turned back to her own meal.

Sansa, as always, was the most composed, delicately cutting her meat into neat portions. "Lady doesn't behave like that," she said with a pointed look at Arya.

"That's because Lady is boring," Arya shot back. "Nymeria would never sit still like that."

"She's not boring, she's well-mannered," Sansa retorted, huffing.

"Well-mannered doesn't help when you're fighting off a pack of wildlings," Theon quipped.

"Neither does looking like a squid," Arya shot back, grinning.

Theon scowled, but before he could reply, Ned cleared his throat. "Enough bickering. Eat." His voice wasn't stern, but it was enough to remind them all that they were still seated at the lord's table.

A comfortable quiet settled over the hall as they dug into their meal, the only sounds coming from the crackling fire and the occasional scuffle of direwolves beneath the table.

Robb glanced around at his family, a smile tugging at his lips. Sansa was still bickering with Arya over their wolves' behavior, while Bran laughed as Rickon tried (and failed) to wrestle his stolen bread back from Shaggydog. Jon and Theon were engaged in a quiet debate about swordsmanship, and across the table, his father was listening patiently as Maester Luwin spoke of holdfast matters.

It was loud, it was chaotic, and it was home.

Fenrir nudged at his knee, huffing when Robb took too long to toss him another piece of meat. With a chuckle, Robb obliged, scratching behind the wolf's ears as he wolfed it down.

"Greedy brat," Robb murmured fondly.

Fenrir wagged his tail in response, perfectly content.

And so was Robb.