HISTORY REPEATED

Author's Note: This is a non-profit fanfiction based on A Song of Ice and Fire. It is part of a larger story world I plan to adapt into an original novel. All names, places, and affiliations may change in the future.

ROBB

The first thing that reached Robb's consciousness was the gentle rocking motion, unfamiliar and disorienting. His eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted down with lead. When he finally forced them open, darkness greeted him—not the absolute darkness of night, but the shadowy dimness of an enclosed space with little light.

He was in a ship's cabin. The realization came with a surge of confusion that quickly transformed into alarm. The last clear memory he had was walking through White Harbor with Jory Cassel, the cobblestones beneath his boots, the salt-laden air filling his lungs as they bid farewell to the Yitish princess.

Now, the same salt scent permeated the air, but it was different—stronger, purer. Open ocean, not harbor. The wooden beams creaked around him in rhythm with the ship's movement, each sound a reminder of his predicament. Strangely, the cabin itself carried none of the typical ship odors he expected—no mustiness, no hint of mildew or unwashed bodies. Instead, there was a subtle fragrance of something floral and foreign.

He tried to sit up and found himself on a feather bed—far too luxurious for a common ship. His head pounded in protest, and his mouth felt as dry as Dornish sand. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach as the truth became undeniable.

Kidnapped. I've been taken.

His father's words echoed in his mind: "When you're a lord, your pride must never stand before the welfare of your people." Now, as heir to Winterfell, his absence would throw the North into chaos. The thought of his family—his mother's worry, his father's grim determination, Sansa's tears, Arya's fury, Jon's quiet concern—twisted inside him like a knife.

When his captor finally revealed herself the next day, his suspicions were confirmed. The Yitish woman, Lihua, brought him food but remained silent despite his demands, pleas, and eventually threats. Her expressionless face betrayed nothing as she placed trays of foreign delicacies before him—steamed dumplings, aromatic rice, and spiced meats he couldn't identify. The food was undeniably exquisite, but each bite tasted of shame.

His prison, though comfortable, was still a prison. The fine Yitish garments they provided felt like a mockery against his skin, the silk and embroidery so different from the wool and leather of the North. He refused them initially, but practicality eventually won over pride when the chill of the sea air penetrated his thinning Stark clothes.

Days blurred together, marked only by meals and the changing light through the small window. He tried counting to maintain some sense of control—fourteen sunrises, twenty-eight meals, one full moon cycle by his estimation. Each night he dreamed of Winterfell's stone walls, of direwolves running through the godswood, of snow falling on his upturned face. Each morning he awoke to the maddening rhythm of waves against the hull.

The rage built slowly inside him, a banked fire growing hotter with each passing day. When Princess Ruyan finally appeared before him, the fire erupted into an inferno. For the first time in his thirteen years, Robb Stark felt a fury that frightened even himself—not the boyish anger of the training yard, but something darker and more primal. He was heir to Winterfell, son of the Warden of the North, yet here he stood, powerless as any smallfolk child. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, his nails cutting half-moons into his palms, his body trembling with the effort of maintaining his composure as his father had taught him a lord must.

A stallion. That's all I am to these people. A stud to strengthen their bloodline. The thought made his cheeks burn with shame. At thirteen, he had only recently begun to understand the full meaning of what happened between men and women, had only started noticing the serving girls in a different way. Yet here he was, valued only for the Stark seed he could provide.

His father had taught him honor, had shown him the importance of treating women with respect, but in that moment, those lessons seemed distant and naive. The world beyond the North was proving itself exactly as his father had warned—treacherous, dishonorable, dangerous.

The princess's apparent shock gave him pause. "You kidnapped the heir to Winterfell!" she exclaimed to her aides, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel despite her controlled expression.

"You told us you will succeed in your mission by any means necessary," Lihua responded, unmoved.

"But not this?!" Ruyan gestured toward him, her composure momentarily fractured.

Doubt crept in, unwelcome and uncomfortable. Was it possible she truly hadn't ordered this? The momentary uncertainty only fueled his anger further.

"Lord Robb, forgive me but I had nothing to do with this," she continued, her voice softening. "My aides acted without my consent. The last thing I want to do is to repeat what happened to your aunt Lyanna."

The mention of his aunt—kidnapped, violated, dead before her time—sent a fresh surge of fury through him. His laugh was harsh, brimming with disbelief. "I want to return home," he demanded, his voice surprisingly steady despite the storm within. "Do that and I may forgive your transgression."

When she explained they were already halfway to YiTi, the final thread of hope he'd been clinging to snapped. His stomach lurched, and not from the ship's movement. Halfway to YiTi. The distance was almost incomprehensible. The North—his home, his birthright, his responsibility—was now half a world away.

"Then send me on a ship bound north on the next stop," he insisted, desperation beginning to edge into his voice. "You'll give me what I need for the journey back home."

Her silence felt damning. When she explained there would be no convenient ports, no easy return, something shifted inside him. The anger remained, but beneath it stirred something else—a cold, calculating pragmatism that felt strangely like his father's influence.

I am a Stark of Winterfell, he reminded himself. I will survive this. I will return.

As Ruyan spoke of showing him what he had refused, of possibilities for the North, he listened with new intent. Not with hope or trust, but with the growing realization that knowledge—even forced upon him—could become power. If he must endure this journey to return home, he would gather every advantage, every piece of information that might strengthen the North upon his return.

"You will be taught things you need before we arrive in Yin," the princess concluded, and Robb met her gaze steadily, his blue eyes hard as winter.

Teach me, he thought grimly. And when I am home again, with the full might of the North behind me, you'll learn what it means to take a wolf from his pack.