The King in the North

The fire crackled in the hearth of Robb's solar, casting dancing shadows across the ancient stone walls lined with Stark tapestries. Maps covered his oak desk, their corners weighted down by carved wolf tokens. Fenrir lounged by the warmth, his massive black form a silent guardian as Robb pored over construction plans for Winter Town's expansion.

A knock echoed through the chamber. Ser Rodrik entered, his white whiskers twitching with barely contained excitement.

"My lord, the numbers for the army recruitment have arrived." Ser Rodrik's weathered hands clutched a thick stack of parchments. "We've received word of over eleven thousand who wish to join."

Robb set down his quill. "Eleven thousand?"

"Aye. Farmers, craftsmen, merchants' sons - even women, mostly from the bear island, have stepped forward. The northern lords have sent members of their household guards and soldiers." Ser Rodrik stroked his mustache. "And there's more. Half the noble houses have sent their younger sons and daughters, each hoping to claim positions of command."

"I hadn't expected such numbers." Robb rose from his chair, moving to study the great map of the North mounted on the wall. The iron-banded chest behind his desk creaked as Fenrir shifted, green eyes fixed on their visitor.

"The people believe in your vision, my lord. They see a chance to be part of something greater." Ser Rodrik laid the documents on Robb's desk. "Though training eleven thousand fresh recruits will be no small task."

"And housing them. Winter Town's expansion can't come soon enough." Robb traced the ongoing construction projects on the map with his finger.

Robb turned back to Ser Rodrik. "What of the new training grounds and barracks? Are they ready?"

"Aye, finished just yesterday." Ser Rodrik's boots scuffed against the stone floor as he joined Robb at the map. "The training grounds aren't much to look at - just cleared and flattened earth. But they'll serve well enough for drilling formations and basic combat training."

"And the barracks?"

"Simple wooden structures. Temporary shelters with straw-filled pallets and basic amenities." Ser Rodrik scratched his whiskers. "They'll keep the men warm and dry until we can build something more permanent. Though I expect we won't need space for all eleven thousand."

Robb raised an eyebrow.

"Most of the recruits are from Winter town itself. They will likely sleep in their own homes while the noble sons and daughters won't be caught dead in a barrack when there are warm inns available with comfortable beds for them." A hint of amusement crept into Ser Rodrik's gruff voice. "I'd wager we'll need space for three to four thousand at most."

Fenrir padded over to Robb's side, pressing his massive head against Robb's hip. Absently scratching behind the direwolf's ears, Robb nodded. "That should make things more manageable, at least until the permanent structures are complete."

Robb squared his shoulders, meeting Ser Rodrik's gaze. "Tomorrow, you'll begin the selection process. Three months to break them and rebuild them into something new."

"Break them, my lord?"

"Push them beyond their limits. Test their resolve. I want you to weed out anyone who's here for coin or status." Robb's fingers curled into Fenrir's dark fur. "I need soldiers who won't yield when faced with adversity."

Ser Rodrik's brow furrowed. "And the young nobles? Their families won't take kindly to harsh treatment."

"They'll face the same trials as everyone else." Robb's grey eyes hardened. "I won't have weak-willed, pampered nobles leading my men. If they break, they break. Better to know now than in battle."

"Some houses might take offense-"

"Let them. When the common soldiers see their future commanders suffering alongside them, bleeding with them, it will forge bonds stronger than any title." Robb moved back to his desk, studying the recruitment lists. "This army needs unity, Ser Rodrik. True unity, not the kind bought with gold or commanded by birthright."

Fenrir's low growl punctuated Robb's words, making Ser Rodrik's mustache twitch.

"I don't care how many quit," Robb continued. "I want only the best - those who refuse to yield no matter what you throw at them. Can you do this?"

A slow smile spread beneath Ser Rodrik's white whiskers. "Aye, my lord. I believe I can."

*****

Robb left his solar with Fenrir padding alongside him, the direwolf's presence a comforting constant. The weight of the army's future pressed on his mind, but the crisp air of the godswood beckoned, offering a moment's respite. His boots crunched against the frost-covered ground, each step releasing the earthy scent of pine needles and moss.

As he crossed the courtyard, a familiar figure approached. Lyanna Mormont, her dark hair braided back in intricate Northern style, fell into step beside him. Her armor gleamed dully in the afternoon light, the bear of her house etched into the shoulder plates.

"Mind if I join you?" Her green eyes met his, a hint of a smile on her lips, her tall frame moving with natural grace despite the weight of her sword at her hip.

Robb found himself returning the smile, drawn to her commanding presence. "Not at all. I could use the company."

They walked in companionable silence, the ancient trees of the godswood enveloping them. Fenrir ran ahead, his black form melting into the shadows, occasionally glancing back with his emerald eyes glowing in the dim light.

"My sister Dacey is arriving in Winter Town tonight," Lyanna said, breaking the quiet. Her voice carried the strength of Bear Island in its tone. "She's five years older than me, and a fierce warrior. She's joining the army too."

Robb glanced at her, intrigued by the pride in her voice. "If she's anything like you, it will be a pleasure to have her."

Lyanna laughed, the sound bright and warm against the solemn backdrop of the godswood. "Oh, she's far more stubborn than I am. But she's loyal to a fault and handy with a mace. She once took down three wildling raiders with just her mace and shield."

As they talked, Robb found his hand drifting closer to hers. His heart pounded as his fingers brushed against her palm, in a question and an invitation. The calluses on her hand spoke of countless hours of swordplay, yet her touch remained gentle. To his surprise, Lyanna interlaced her fingers with his, her grip strong and sure.

They continued walking, hands entwined, as Lyanna shared stories of Bear Island and her family. Robb found himself drawn in by her tales, by the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her home, the rugged beauty of the island matching its lady's spirit.

Eventually, they came to rest beneath a sprawling weirwood, its crimson leaves whispering above them. Fenrir, who had been running through the trees, padded over and laid his massive head in Lyanna's lap, his dark fur a stark contrast against her armor.

Lyanna's eyes widened. "He's never let me touch him before."

A grin spread across Robb's face as he observed her caressing the direwolf's coat, displaying that unwavering self-assurance that seemed to define her every action. "He's rather selective with company. When he finds someone worthy, he knows it straight away."

They sat in comfortable silence, looking up at the sky through the canopy of leaves. Robb's thumb traced circles on the back of Lyanna's hand, marveling at the calluses he found there, the strength in her fingers, each mark telling its own story of dedication and perseverance.

"I should go," Lyanna said eventually, reluctance heavy in her voice. "Dacey will be waiting. She'll want to discuss the troops she's bringing from Bear Island."

She leaned over, her lips pressing against Robb's in a slow kiss that carried the promise of steel and honey. Then she was gone, disappearing into the trees with a final squeeze of his hand, her tall figure moving with fluid grace between the ancient trunks.

Robb sat there for a long moment, his lips tingling where her lips had touched. Fenrir whined, nudging at his hand with his massive snout.

"I know, boy," Robb murmured, scratching behind the direwolf's ears. "I like her too. She's different from the others, isn't she?"

He stayed there a while longer, his mind replaying the feel of Lyanna's hand in his, the sound of her laughter, the way she carried herself with such natural authority, and the kiss. It was only when the sun began to dip below the trees, painting the weirwood's leaves in deeper shades of crimson, that he stood, brushing off his breeches.

"Come on, Fenrir. Let's go find the others."

The direwolf fell into step beside him as they made their way back to the keep, Robb's heart lighter than it had been in days, the memory of Lyanna's kiss still warming his thoughts.