ROBB III

The courtyard was a flurry of grim activity. A dozen household guards, bundled in thick furs and leather, checked the saddles of their garrons, their breath pluming in the cold morning air. Vayon Poole stood directing them, his face stern and impatient.

To one side, huddled under the watchful eyes of two guards, were the dregs of the recent troubles—the thief Rickard and two of the smugglers from the Cracked Snowflake conspiracy, all of them shackled and bound for the Wall. It was a typical Northern scene, the hard justice of his father sending broken men to the end of the world.

What was not typical was the figure standing near the gate, alone. Jon.

Robb watched his brother from the steps of the Great Keep, a heavy, cold feeling settling in his stomach. The news had struck him like a physical blow two nights ago. Jon had gone to their father and requested permission to journey to the Wall with the contingent. Not to take the black, he had insisted, but to visit their Uncle Benjen, to see the Wall for himself, to "consider his options."

Father had agreed. Robb couldn't understand it. He had argued with his father in the solar, his voice rising with a frustration he rarely showed. "You would just let him go? To a place like that?"

His father's face had been a mask of stone. "It is his choice to make, Robb. He is a man grown, or near enough. He must find his own path." The words were reasonable, but they felt like a dismissal, an acceptance of a reality Robb refused to acknowledge.

It felt sudden, a decision made in the shadows without any of the long, heartfelt talks they used to have. When Robb had confronted Jon himself, his brother had been distant, his violet eyes guarded. "It is something I must do, Robb," was all he would say.

Now, the moment of departure was here. Jon was dressed for the road, wearing thick black leathers and a heavy fur cloak, looking for all the world like a man of the Night's Watch already. He looked older, Robb thought, harder. The past year of relentless training had stripped away the last of his boyhood softness, leaving behind something sharp and honed, like the edge of a freshly whetted blade.

Robb walked across the courtyard, the snow crunching under his boots. He saw Arya watching from a high window in the keep, a small, forlorn figure. She had wept when Jon had told her, and Jon had held her for a long time, murmuring promises to write. But Robb knew his sister. She saw this as a betrayal, another person leaving her.

"So, you're truly going," Robb said, his voice rougher than he intended as he reached his brother.

"For a time," Jon replied, his gaze fixed on the northern gate, as if it were a magnet pulling him away. "I need to see it. To speak with Uncle Benjen."

"And what if you like it there?" Robb asked, a hint of desperation creeping into his tone. "What if you decide to stay? To take the black? Is that what this has all been about? All the training, all the hours in the library? To prepare you to throw your life away at the Wall?"

Jon finally turned to look at him, and for a moment, Robb saw a flicker of the old Jon, a deep, profound sadness in his eyes that seemed ancient. "The Watch is an honorable life."

"It's a life of exile!" Robb countered, his voice rising. "Surrounded by thieves and murderers, freezing at the end of the world. Your place is here, at Winterfell. With me. We were meant to… this was meant to be our home. Together."

"Is it, Robb?" Jon asked, his voice quiet, but with an edge that cut deep. "Am I not just a guest here? A reminder of things best forgotten?"

The words hung in the air between them, cold and sharp. Robb had no answer for that, not a true one. He knew how his mother treated Jon, the polite, icy wall she maintained. He knew the whispers Jon endured. He had always tried to be a shield for his brother, but he was beginning to realize his shield had been full of holes. He had let Theon's easy jests fill the silence, had let his own duties as heir pull him away, assuming Jon would always just be there.

"You are my brother," Robb said finally, the words a simple, unshakeable truth, the only anchor he had in this conversation. "That is all that matters."

A small, sad smile touched Jon's lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I know." He stepped forward and pulled Robb into a fierce, brotherly embrace. For a moment, it was like old times, two boys against the world, hiding from Septa Mordane or planning a raid on the kitchens. But when they pulled apart, Robb felt a strange finality in Jon's grip, as if he were holding on to a memory he was about to leave behind forever.

"I will see you when you return," Robb said, trying to make it a statement, not a question.

Jon looked at him, his violet eyes seeming to see right through him, to a place of sorrow Robb could not follow. "Farewell, Robb," he said. The words were simple, but they felt heavy, like a stone dropping into a deep, dark well. He didn't say "I'll see you soon." He said "Farewell."

Vayon Poole called his name, and Jon turned without another word. He adjusted the pack on his shoulders, a small, final gesture, before swinging himself into the saddle of his horse and falling in line with the guards. He did not look back.

Robb stood in the courtyard long after the gates had closed, long after the sound of the horses had faded into the winter quiet. Theon came to stand beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"He'll be back," Theon said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "The Wall is no place for him. He'll see that and come running home. He's just chasing ghosts, trying to find a place he belongs."

But Robb wasn't so sure. He had the unnerving, unshakable feeling that he had just said goodbye to his brother for the last time. He couldn't explain it, couldn't put a name to the cold dread that was creeping into his heart.

He remembered a time, years ago, when they had gotten lost in the wolfswood during a snowstorm. He had been terrified, but Jon had been calm, his focus absolute, and he had led them home. Robb had felt safe then, knowing his brother was by his side. Now, watching the empty gate, he felt a different kind of lost, a deeper kind of cold. He only knew that the Jon Snow who had just ridden out of the gates was not the same boy he had grown up with, and he feared, with a certainty that terrified him, that he would never see him again.