ROBB II

[A/N] - If you're wondering: Jon's not going to the Wall. Not in this story. I know it feels like everything's pushing him there—but this time, it's not his journey. Not here.

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The air was crisp and clean, biting at Robb's cheeks and filling his lungs with the scent of pine and distant snow. He spurred his horse, a powerful grey gelding, into a canter, laughing as Theon Greyjoy raced to keep pace beside him. They had spent the morning riding the boundaries of the wolfswood, a welcome escape from the stuffy confines of Maester Luwin's lessons on lineage and taxation.

"You see that, Stark?" Theon called out, his voice sharp with excitement. He pointed towards a small clearing where a flock of grouse were pecking at the frosted ground. "I'll wager you a silver stag I can take two before they scatter."

"A fool's wager," Robb grinned, pulling his own horse to a halt. "They'll be gone the moment you nock an arrow."

"Not if you're quick enough," Theon shot back, already swinging down from his saddle, his bow in hand. He moved with the fluid grace of a born hunter, a predator in his element. Robb watched, an easy smile on his face. This was what he enjoyed. This easy camaraderie, the simple joy of a challenge between friends. Theon was all sharp edges and salty boasts, but his presence was a relief, a bracing sea breeze that blew away the heavy, silent fogs that seemed to be gathering around his brother.

Theon loosed two arrows in a breathtakingly fast sequence. The first took a bird in the chest, while the second caught another as it tried to take flight. The rest of the flock exploded into the air with a frantic beating of wings.

"Two!" Theon crowed, turning to Robb with a triumphant, wolfish grin. "Pay up, my lord."

Robb laughed, shaking his head as he dismounted. "You've been practicing."

"A man must have his skills," Theon said, retrieving his kills. "Unlike some, who seem to prefer the company of dusty books these days."

The comment was casual, but it landed like a stone in Robb's gut. He knew exactly who Theon was talking about. Jon.

The ride back to the castle was quieter. Theon's easy jests couldn't quite dispel the shadow his words had cast. It had been months now since Jon's recovery, and a subtle distance had begun to form between the brothers. It wasn't a chasm, not yet, but it was a strain. They still ate together, still talked, but Jon's life had gained a new, closed-off space. He rose before the sun, spent hours in the yard practicing a strange, precise form of swordplay, and then vanished into the library for the rest of the day.

Robb had tried, in the beginning. He had invited Jon to ride, to hunt, to spar. But the invitations were often met with the same polite, distant refusal. "I have things to practice, Robb." "Maester Luwin is expecting me." It wasn't a rejection of him, Robb knew that, but it felt like a rejection of the life they had always shared, and it stung more than he cared to admit.

As they rode through the gates, the familiar clang of steel drew their attention to the training yard. It was Jon. He wasn't sparring. He stood alone in the center of the yard, a longbow in his hand. A servant was swinging a small, sand-filled sack on a long rope in wide, unpredictable arcs.

Jon was tracking its movement, his body a study in stillness. Then, in a blur of motion, he drew and loosed three arrows, one after the other. Thwip. Thwip. Thwip. All three arrows found their mark, sinking into the small, swinging target.

Theon let out a low whistle. "Seven hells. Not even my father's best archers could make that shot."

Robb felt a complex, warring mixture of pride and unease. The skill was undeniable, breathtaking even. But it was also… unnatural. It was the kind of skill that wasn't just learned; it was obsessively, relentlessly forged.

"Jon!" Robb called out, swinging down from his horse and striding towards him. "That was incredible. Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Jon turned, his violet eyes seeming to focus on Robb as if from a great distance. "Just practice," he said, his voice quiet.

"Well, you've practiced enough for one day," Robb said, forcing a cheerful tone. "Theon and I are riding out again tomorrow, to the hot springs. You should come. It would be like old times."

For a moment, Robb saw a flicker of something in Jon's eyes—a hint of the old warmth, a flash of longing. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same guarded focus. "I can't. I have lessons with the Maester."

"You're always with the Maester," Robb pressed, his frustration beginning to show. "What could be so important that you can't spend a single day with your brother?"

"It's just… something I need to learn," Jon said, his gaze dropping to the ground. It was a wall, polite but impenetrable.

Robb felt the familiar sting of rejection, sharper this time. He just nodded, his throat tight. "As you wish."

He turned and walked away, Theon falling into step beside him. "Don't take it to heart," Theon said, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "He's always been the broody type. It's the bastard's lot, I suppose. Always looking over his shoulder."

"He's my brother, Theon," Robb said, his voice tight.

"Of course, of course," Theon said smoothly. "But all that practice… a man with no lands has a lot of time to sharpen his sword. Makes you wonder what he thinks he'll use it for one day."

Robb didn't answer. He knew Theon was just prodding, as was his way, but the words were like burrs, sticking in his mind. He dismissed them. Jon would never be a threat. He was his brother. But the seed of unease had been planted.

Later that afternoon, Robb stood at his father's side in the Great Hall. Lord Cerwyn, one of their principal bannermen, had come to present a grievance against a neighboring lord. Robb stood straight and tall, listening intently, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

He watched his father, Lord Eddard, as he listened with a grave, patient authority, his questions sharp and insightful. This was Robb's world, his future. The world of oaths and allegiances, of justice and command. It was a world of open responsibility, of leading men from the front.

His duties done, he found himself walking the battlements as the sun began to set, the sky streaked with orange and purple. He looked across the courtyard towards Jon's room. The window was dark and empty. Robb knew Jon wasn't inside. He was likely still in the library, or perhaps in the Godswood, lost in his own thoughts. But Robb couldn't shake the feeling that there were other places Jon went now, secret places within the castle walls that he knew nothing about.

He was the heir, destined to rule all that he could see. But Jon… Jon was walking a different path. They were still brothers, but for the first time in his life, Robb felt like there were parts of Jon he would never be allowed to know.