Chapter 11 - Waiting for the Result

The days following the trial run were restless for Robb Stark. Instead of waiting idly for word from White Harbor, he returned to Winterfell and took to the Wolfswood alongside Jon Snow, Lyanna Mormont, and a contingent of Winterfell guards. Reports of lingering bandits had reached his ears, and he was determined to rid the region of any remaining threats.

What began as a single skirmish turned into a campaign. Each day brought new encounters, some brief and decisive, others drawn-out as bandits grew desperate. The early fights were clumsy, with Robb and his companions still adjusting to the brutality of real combat. The sounds of steel clashing against steel and the cries of dying men became familiar. Blood stained their cloaks, and exhaustion crept into their limbs, but each engagement made them stronger. Their movements became more efficient, their instincts sharper. They learned when to strike, when to feint, when to trust their wolves to do what steel could not.

Ghost and Fenrir proved invaluable, their presence alone scattering the more cowardly raiders before a sword was even drawn. The direwolves fought as fiercely as their masters, tearing through opposition with ruthless efficiency. Jon, always precise, became even deadlier with each fight, his measured style adapting to the unpredictability of true battle. Lyanna, smaller but no less fierce, proved herself time and time again, taking down foes twice her size with relentless aggression. She fought with a ferocity that belied her years, earning the respect of even the hardened Winterfell guards who had initially doubted her.

The ten guards accompanying them also began to improve, forging themselves into a disciplined unit through each battle. At first, they fought as individuals, each man focused on his own survival, but as the days passed, their coordination improved. They moved in sync, covering each other's weaknesses, anticipating each other's actions. Among them, two men stood out—Cley Cerwyn and Daryn Hornwood. 

Cley Cerwyn, the young heir of House Cerwyn, possessed a keen mind for strategy and a steady hand in battle. Though not the largest among them, his ability to read the flow of combat made him invaluable. He naturally took to directing the others in the heat of battle, calling out adjustments and rallying men to hold their ground when fights turned chaotic. His cool demeanor under pressure earned the respect of his fellow guards, who looked to him for guidance when blades clashed and the scent of blood filled the air. 

Daryn Hornwood, rugged and fierce, was a warrior through and through. Unlike Cley, his strength lay in his unwavering bravery and raw combat skill. Taller and broader than most, he fought with a relentless energy that inspired those around him. When the moment came to strike, it was Daryn who led the charge, cutting a path through the enemy with sheer force. His unyielding nature gave confidence to the men at his back, and his name became one they muttered with admiration in the cold nights between battles. Their leadership helped turn the group into an effective fighting force, one that could match and outmaneuver the bandits, no matter the odds. 

The campaign stretched longer than anticipated, with bandits proving more elusive than expected. Some had fled deeper into the Wolfswood, forcing Robb and his men to track them over treacherous terrain. But no matter how far they ran, no matter where they tried to hide, Fenrir and Ghost would find them. The direwolves hunted tirelessly, their noses keen to the scent of fear, their eyes piercing through the darkened woods with an uncanny intelligence. Time and again, they would lead Robb and his men to hidden camps, exposing the bandits before they could regroup or disappear into the wilds. 

They camped under the vast, star-filled sky, the cold creeping into their bones as they shared quiet conversations over small fires. There were moments of levity amidst the bloodshed—Jon and Lyanna bickering over tactics, Robb sparring with his men under the pretense of training but also to push himself further. Even in the grim work of battle, there was a sense of camaraderie growing between them.

In these moments of respite, Robb found himself drawn to Lyanna's presence. They would often sit together, shoulders brushing as they talked late into the night. He admired her strength, her unwavering resolve in the face of adversity. She was unlike any woman he had ever known, a true warrior in every sense of the word. As the days passed, their bond deepened, forged in the crucible of combat and tempered by shared experience.

There were stolen glances, lingering touches that spoke volumes without words. A brush of hands as they passed each other a whetstone, a shared smile over a flickering flame. In the chaos of battle, they fought back-to-back, their movements perfectly synchronized as if they were two halves of a whole. When the fighting was done, they would tend to each other's wounds, gentle hands belying the fierceness with which they wielded their swords.

Robb knew that what was growing between them was more than mere camaraderie. It was a connection that ran deep, a understanding that went beyond the battlefield. In Lyanna, he found not just a fierce ally, but a kindred spirit. Someone who understood the weight of duty, the price of leadership. Someone who saw him not just as the heir to Winterfell, but as a man, flawed and human.

As they lay under the stars, their wolves curled at their feet, Robb allowed himself to imagine a future where they stood side by side, not just as warriors, but as something more. It was a fleeting dream, one he knew might never come to pass in the uncertain world they lived in. But in these quiet moments, with Lyanna by his side, it felt more real than anything he had ever known.

Soon, the Wolfswood was cleansed of threats. The last of the bandits either lay dead or had surrendered, choosing the Wall over certain execution. Robb oversaw their fates personally, his voice firm as he issued the choice: take the black or perish. There was no mercy left for those who had terrorized the people of the North. Their bodies were left where they fell, a warning to any who would dare follow in their footsteps.

As they rode back to Winterfell, their armor dented and cloaks torn, there was no doubt—they were no longer boys and girls playing at war. Each fight had hardened them, reforged them into warriors who understood the weight of every battle, every decision. The North was safer, for now, but Robb knew the challenges ahead would only grow larger. And he would be ready.

The walls of Winterfell were a welcome sight when they finally returned, though there was no grand reception. As they passed through Winter Town, the people took notice. Eyes turned to them—some filled with admiration, others with gratitude. The folk of the North knew what Robb had done, knew that he had fought for them, for their safety. Some called his name in respect, others offered nods of approval. They remembered him as the boy who had once run through these streets, laughing and drinking with Jon and Theon, careless and free. But that boy had become a man, a leader who carried the weight of his people's burdens upon his shoulders. The pride in their gazes was unmistakable, for Robb Stark had proven himself not just as a lord's son, but as the protector of the North.

They dismounted, exhausted but satisfied, knowing they had done their duty. Robb looked at his companions—Jon, whose usual solemn expression now carried a quiet confidence; Lyanna, still gripping her sword, her eyes alight with the fire of battle. They were stronger than they had been before, more prepared for the future that loomed ahead.

As he stepped into the Great Hall, the warmth of the hearth washing over him, Robb allowed himself a brief respite. But only for a moment. The world did not stop turning, and his responsibilities would not wait. There was still much to be done, and he intended to see it through.

*****

Robb allowed himself a brief respite upon returning to Winterfell, but he knew there was still much to be done. With the trial run ship not due back for some time, he decided to take a moment to catch his breath and focus on other matters. He made his way to the training yard, where he found Jon, Lyanna, Cley, and Daryn already engaged in their daily practice under Ser Rodrik's watchful eye.

Robb joined them, picking up a training sword and shield. He fell into the familiar rhythm of sparring, trading blows with Jon and then Lyanna. Despite the exhaustion from the recent campaign, he found himself invigorated by the physical exertion, the clang of steel against steel a welcome change from the grim work of battle.

As they trained, Robb took a moment to pull Ser Rodrik aside. "Cley and Daryn performed admirably during the raids," he said, his voice filled with genuine respect. "Their bravery and skill were invaluable. They've grown into fine warriors."

Ser Rodrik nodded, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "Aye, they have," he agreed, his eyes following the young men as they sparred. "Cley's leadership and Daryn's ferocity were noted by all. They'll make their houses proud."

Robb observed Cley parrying Jon's strike, his defensive technique measured and skillful. Across the yard, Daryn launched a relentless series of strikes against Lyanna, his approach fierce yet controlled. They had transformed from untested youths into seasoned fighters, and Robb experienced a surge of satisfaction watching their development.

"See that they continue to be challenged," Robb instructed Ser Rodrik. "They have potential, and I want to see it fully realized."

"Of course, my lord," Ser Rodrik replied, inclining his head. "They'll not lack for training, I assure you."

Satisfied, Robb returned to the yard, picking up his sword once more. There was a comfort in this, in the simplicity of training, of honing one's skills. It was a reminder that even in the midst of larger concerns, there was always room for improvement, for growth.

As he crossed swords with Lyanna, meeting her fierce gaze over their locked blades, Robb felt a renewed sense of purpose. The North faced many challenges, but with warriors like these at his side, he knew they would face them head-on, united and unyielding.

That evening, he spent time with his family, sharing a meal at the high table. Arya was quick to pester him about his adventures, demanding to know if he had taken down the bandits himself. Sansa, ever the proper lady, expressed relief that he had returned unharmed but couldn't hide the slight smile of pride as she listened. Bran listened intently, his fascination evident, while Rickon, too young to grasp the full weight of Robb's campaign, simply leaned against his older brother, enjoying his presence.

Catelyn's watchful gaze lingered on him longer than usual, a mixture of concern and admiration in her eyes. She could see the changes in her son—the boy who had once played at war had become a commander of men, and the knowledge brought her both pride and unease.

After supper, Robb joined Jon, Arya, and Bran in the courtyard, where Arya insisted on showing him how much better she had become with her wooden sword. He indulged her, allowing her to strike at him playfully while he dodged with exaggerated movements, earning giggles from Bran and even a smirk from Jon. The lightheartedness was a welcome change from the harshness of the battlefield.

As the night stretched on, they gathered near the fire in the Great Hall, reminiscing about their childhood antics. Theon was sorely missed in that moment, and though none spoke his name, it hung unspoken between them. Still, the warmth of home and family filled Robb's heart, reminding him why he fought—to protect this, to ensure they would always have moments like this.