Chapter 15 - Winter's Kitchen

The old granary loomed before them, its weathered walls still sturdy despite years of neglect. Robb walked the perimeter with Master Builder Errold, while Theon kicked at loose stones nearby, looking thoroughly bored with the whole enterprise.

"The foundation's sound," Errold said, running his hand along the ancient stonework. "But we'll need to replace most of the roof and add proper ventilation for the cooking fires."

"And how long will that take?" Robb asked, already calculating costs in his head.

"A fortnight, maybe less if we have enough hands." Errold glanced meaningfully at Theon, who pretended not to notice.

"I didn't come to Winterfell to be a builder," Theon drawled, but there was less bite in his words than usual. Ever since the success of the ice trade, he'd seemed almost proud of his foster brother's achievements and his own contributions to it, though he'd never admit it out loud.

"No, you came to provide commentary on everyone else's work," came a sharp voice from behind them. Lyanna Mormont approached, her dark hair windswept from riding. She'd been overseeing the training of guards this morning.

Robb felt his chest tighten at her arrival, though he kept his expression neutral. "Lady Mormont. I didn't expect you until noon."

"The training went faster than anticipated." Her eyes met his briefly before scanning the building. "Your community kitchen?"

"Soon to be," Robb nodded. "Though there's much work to be done."

Throughout the morning, workers began arriving – carpenters, stonemasons, and laborers from Winter Town. Jon joined them shortly after, rolling up his sleeves to help clear debris from inside the granary. Theon, after several pointed looks from both Robb and Lyanna, eventually joined in, though he complained dramatically about splinters.

"We should do something about the orphans specifically," Bran said, walking into the granary with Rickon trailing behind him. Despite his condition, he'd insisted on being part of the planning.

"What do you mean?" Robb asked, turning towards his brother.

"Maybe a separate time just for children," Bran suggested. "So they don't have to compete with adults for space."

Rickon nodded enthusiastically. "And I could help! I'm good with other children."

"You are a child," Lyanna teased, ruffling his hair.

"Am not! I'm almost seven!"

Sansa stepped in before an argument could break out. "Actually, Bran has a good point. Children might feel more comfortable coming if they see other children here. We could have the older ones help with simple tasks, give them purpose."

Sansa had arrived with several septas, carrying lists of families in need. "We've identified thirty households that require immediate assistance," she reported, her usual grace tempered by genuine concern. "Many are too proud to ask for help directly."

"That's why we're not calling it charity," Robb reminded her. "Everyone who comes here will have the chance to contribute something, even if it's just time or labor."

Arya darted in, muddy as usual, with news from her excursions in Winter Town. "There's an old man living behind the smithy," she reported breathlessly. "He's been sharing his food with three orphan children, but now they're all going hungry."

Lyanna's expression softened at this. "Bear Island takes care of its orphans. Perhaps the North could learn from that example."

"Perhaps we could learn from many examples," Robb agreed, their eyes meeting again.

The work continued through the day. Lady Catelyn arrived to oversee the organization of the kitchen space, while Lord Stark made occasional appearances to observe the progress. The building slowly transformed – new windows were cut for light and ventilation, work tables were installed, and great cooking hearths were built along one wall.

Not everyone was pleased with the development. Several tavern owners and food vendors came to complain that the kitchen would hurt their business.

"Who'll buy my stew when they can get it free?" demanded one particularly vocal cookshop owner.

Robb stood firm. "Those who can afford your stew will still buy it. We're here for those who cannot. Would you rather have them steal to survive?"

The man had no answer to that.

As dusk approached, Lyanna found Robb checking the newly installed roof beams. "You're doing a good thing here," she said quietly.

"I'm trying to." He turned to face her, aware of how close they were in the dimming light. "Thank you for your support today."

"The North remembers, Robb" she replied, her voice soft but intense. "And it will remember this – that when you first came into wealth, you thought not of luxury but of feeding your people."

Before he could respond, Theon's voice called from below. "If you two are done inspecting the rafters, the last shipment of cookware has arrived!"

The moment broken, they descended to help with the deliveries. The kitchen was taking shape – large pots hung near the hearths, storage rooms were stocked with preserved foods, and tables were arranged for both food preparation and dining.

*****

A week later, the community kitchen was ready. Dawn hadn't yet broken when the first workers arrived to light the fires and begin preparing the day's meals. Robb stood in the doorway, watching as steam began to rise from the cooking pots.

Eddric, the boy who had once stolen bread, was among the first to arrive, eager to help. He'd grown stronger in the weeks since his near-punishment, and now moved with purpose as he helped lay out bowls and spoons.

The morning's steady flow of people was interrupted by the arrival of three children – a boy of about twelve leading two younger siblings, a girl of perhaps eight and a boy of six. The older boy's face was set with determination as he approached the serving table where Sansa was helping distribute food.

"We'd like to pay," he announced, his voice wavering slightly as he held out a small pouch. "I've been doing odd jobs, saving up."

Sansa glanced at Robb, who had noticed the exchange and moved closer. The children were thin, their clothes worn but carefully mended.

"That's very admirable of you," Robb said gently. "But perhaps we could make a different arrangement."

"No!" The boy's voice cracked. "We're not beggars. Our father was a brave soldier, before... before." He swallowed hard. "We take care of ourselves."

Arya, who had been listening nearby, approached with her usual directness. "Do you know how to read?"

The boy looked startled by the question. "A little. Father taught us some."

"Well, we need someone to help organize the children's hour," she said. "Bran had this idea, you see, but he can't be here all the time. We need someone who can help keep order, maybe teach some letters to the little ones while they wait."

The boy's younger sister tugged at his sleeve. "You're good at teaching, big brother. You taught me my letters."

Robb watched as the boy – Derrick – struggled with his pride. "So it would be a job?" he asked finally.

"A very important one," Sansa added smoothly. "We'd need you here every day, helping with the younger children. Your siblings could help too."

Jon, who had been observing quietly, stepped forward. "I could teach you more letters, if you'd like. Help you get better at reading. That way you could teach others."

Derrick's shoulders relaxed slightly. "And... we'd still get to eat?"

"As part of your wages," Robb confirmed. "Just like all our workers."

The boy looked at his siblings, who were watching him hopefully. Finally, he tucked the coin pouch back into his shirt. "We'll work hard," he promised.

"I know you will," Robb said.

Later, as the Stark siblings watched the three children eating at one of the tables, Rickon tugged at Robb's sleeve. "Can I help with the children's hour too?"

"Of course you can, little wolf," Robb smiled. "We all have our parts to play."

"That's what Father always says," Bran noted. "About how the pack survives."

"The pack survives," Arya echoed, "and grows stronger."

Sansa nodded, watching as Derrick carefully helped his little brother with his spoon. "Sometimes the pack just needs a little help remembering they're not alone."

By midday, over a hundred people had been fed. Robb watched as an elderly man finished his stew, then insisted on helping clean tables despite his shaking hands. He saw a mother weeping quietly as her children ate their first proper meal in days. He observed the pride in people's faces as they contributed what they could – whether labor, a copper coin, or simply a sincere thank you.

"Your father and i are proud of what you have done here," his mother said, joining him in his observations. "This is what it means to be a Stark."

Robb merely dipped his chin in acknowledgment, a wave of feeling tightening his heart.

In the kitchen, the fires burned bright, the pots bubbled with fresh stew, and the people of Winter Town found not just food, but dignity and hope. It was a small thing, perhaps, in the grand scheme of the realm's politics and powers. But for the people it served, it meant everything.

And for Robb Stark, watching his people come together, seeing strength in unity and pride in mutual aid, it felt like the most important victory yet.