The King in the North

Robb sat at the long table in the Great Hall, savoring the rich venison stew while Arya regaled them with tales of her latest sword practice. The familiar warmth of family dinner surrounded him - Bran describing his newest climbing route, Sansa discussing embroidery patterns with their mother, and Jon quietly eating beside him while their direwolves dozed near the hearth.

"Mother," Rickon's small voice piped up during a lull in conversation. "Is Robb going to have a baby?"

The wine Robb had been drinking sprayed across the table. Beside him, Jon choked on his bread. The hall fell into complete silence except for Arya's poorly suppressed snickering and the crackle of the hearth fire.

Catelyn's spoon clattered against her bowl. "What makes you think that, sweetling?"

Rickon's face lit up with innocent excitement. "I saw Robb and Lady Lyanna kissing in the godswood! That's how babies are made, right? By kissing?"

Sansa's face turned as red as her hair. Bran's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Arya lost her battle with composure and doubled over laughing, nearly falling from her chair.

"I... that's not..." Robb stammered, his face burning hotter than the hall's hearth. He caught his father hiding a smile behind his goblet, grey eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Oh, is that not how it works?" Rickon's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Then how do-"

"That's quite enough of that discussion," Catelyn cut in swiftly, though Robb could see the corners of her mouth twitching. "Finish your dinner, Rickon."

"But I want to know about Robb and Lady Lyanna!" Rickon protested, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. "She's nice. She showed me how to hold a sword properly!"

"Seven hells," Robb muttered, slinking lower in his chair as Jon patted his shoulder sympathetically, still coughing from his earlier choking fit. Fenrir raised his head from his spot by the fire, giving Robb what seemed like an amused look.

"Language," Catelyn chided automatically, though her eyes danced with barely contained amusement.

"So, dear brother," Arya leaned forward with a wicked grin, "when's the wedding? Can I be your sword bearer?"

Robb shot her a withering look. "There is no wedding."

"Not yet," Jon murmured into his cup, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Sansa's eyes sparkled with interest. "Lady Lyanna is quite accomplished. Strong, brave, and she carries herself with such grace."

"And she can knock Theon flat on his back," Arya added cheerfully. "That alone makes her perfect for you. Remember how red his face got?"

"Children," Catelyn warned, though her stern tone didn't match the amusement in her eyes.

"Fenrir likes her," Bran pointed out thoughtfully. "He never lets anyone that close except family. Even Ghost keeps his distance sometimes."

"The wolf has better sense than his master," Jon quipped, dodging another elbow from Robb.

Ned cleared his throat, setting down his goblet. "The Mormonts are a proud and noble house. Their women are-"

"Fierce as the bears on their sigil," Arya interrupted, grinning. "Just like our wolf here needs."

"I'm trying to eat," Robb protested weakly, pushing his stew around his bowl and wondering if he could escape to the training yard.

"Oh, don't worry brother," Sansa smiled sweetly. "I'm sure Lady Lyanna will feed you plenty once you're-"

"Sansa!" Catelyn exclaimed, though she couldn't quite hide her laugh.

"Can I be in the wedding?" Rickon bounced in his seat, spilling his milk. "I want to hold the flowers! And can Shaggydog wear a ribbon?"

"There won't be any flowers because there won't be any wedding," Robb insisted, his face burning hotter with each passing moment. Fenrir let out a low whine that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"The Young Wolf protest's too much," Jon whispered, earning snickers from around the table.

Robb glanced at his father, hoping for some support, only to find Ned Stark watching the scene with undisguised amusement. "Perhaps," his father said carefully, "we should discuss the upcoming grain shipments from White Harbor?"

The desperate attempt at changing the subject only made his siblings laugh harder. Robb sighed, resigned to his fate, and reached for the wine pitcher. He had a feeling he'd need it.

*****

The next day Robb strode across the muddy field, his boots sinking into the soft earth with each step. Eight hundred men stood in uneven rows before him, their armor gleaming in the morning sun. Most wore the fine leather and steel of noble houses - a stark contrast to the patched wool and rusty mail he'd seen at the other training grounds.

Ser Rodrik's weathered face betrayed no emotion as Robb took his place beside the master-at-arms. The old knight's eyes swept across the assembled men, lingering on their pristine equipment and straight backs.

"Your grace," a young lord called out from the front row, his voice carrying across the field. "Surely we noble-born should train separately from the common recruits?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the ranks. Robb caught sight of familiar house sigils - a Cerwyn axe, Tallhart pines, even the giant of House Umber. These men had grown up in keeps and castles, trained since birth in the ways of war.

Fenrir padded silently to Robb's side, the black direwolf's presence causing several men to step back. The wolf's green eyes studied the assembled men, his lips curling to reveal white fangs.

"Look at them," Ser Rodrik muttered under his breath. "More concerned with their house colors than learning to fight properly."

A Karstark youth adjusted his sunburst brooch while a Hornwood lordling examined his spotless leather gloves. Near the back, two young nobles compared the quality of their sword hilts, completely ignoring Robb's presence.

"They think their birth makes them better warriors," Robb replied quietly. "That will change soon enough."

The morning mist clung to the ground as Robb surveyed the men before him. Seven training fields, with fourteen hundred men per day cycling through each, split into morning and afternoon sessions. This batch would be the most challenging - breaking down their pride before rebuilding them into true soldiers.

Robb's gaze drifted across the field, settling on some that stood apart from the preening nobles. Jon had positioned himself near the edge, his plain black training armor matching those around him. Smalljon Umber towered over the others, his massive frame somehow less imposing without the Umber giant emblazoned on his chest. 

Cley Cerwyn and Daryn Hornwood stood shoulder to shoulder, their usual house colors replaced by functional leather and steel. Jory Cassel's experienced stance spoke volumes - here was a man who understood true combat went beyond fancy sigils and polished armor.

Lyanna's presence drew his attention, her dark hair pulled back tight, practical for the training ahead. But his breath caught as his eyes landed on the woman beside her. Tall and graceful, with the same striking features as her sister but somehow wilder, more mature, more dangerous. Dacey Mormont carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, her violet eyes sharp and assessing.

Their gazes met across the field. Where Lyanna's looks made his heart race, Dacey's knowing smirk sent a chill down his spine. She tilted her head slightly, an almost predatory gesture that reminded him of Fenrir sizing up prey.

Robb quickly pulled his attention back to the assembled nobles before him, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand. The contrast between the two groups couldn't have been clearer - one preparing for real combat, the other still playing at war.

Robb stepped forward, his voice carrying across the field with practiced authority. "Look around you. Each of you stands here hoping to become part of the greatest army the North has ever seen. An army that will stand ready at a moment's notice, unafraid of any threat."

Fenrir's low growl punctuated his words as Robb paced before the assembled men. "Many of you believe your birth or status guarantees you command. It does not. I care nothing for your family name or the sigil on your chest."

His grey eyes swept across the nobles, lingering on those who had spoken of separate training. "Whether you're highborn or lowborn, whether you've wielded a sword since childhood or never touched one before today - you'll all follow the same training and prove yourselves. No exceptions."

The morning mist swirled around his boots as he continued. "The next three months will break you. You will bleed. You will suffer. You will find yourself pushed beyond what you thought possible."

A few of the more finely dressed recruits shifted uncomfortably. Robb noticed Jon and Smalljon standing straighter, their faces set with determination.

"Only those who prove themselves worthy through these trials will lead. Show your fellow recruits - through actions, not words - that you deserve to command them. Show them you're willing to endure everything they endure. Show them that you will bleed with them."

Robb's hand rested on Fenrir's head, the direwolf's presence adding weight to his words. "The positions of command in this army will be earned, not given."

A Tallhart lordling stepped forward, his face twisted in disgust. "You expect us to wallow in mud like common soldiers? I've commanded men since-"

"Since your father gave you the position," Robb cut him off. "Tell me, how many real battles have you fought?"

The man's mouth snapped shut. Behind him, a former guard captain from White Harbor spoke up. "With respect, Lord Stark, it's easy for you to make such declarations from-"

"Easy?" Robb's voice carried across the field. He unbuckled his sword belt, handing it to Ser Rodrik. "I am the heir to Winterfell, yet here I stand. I will train beside you, run beside you, bleed beside you."

Fenrir's growl silenced the remaining murmurs of protest as Robb continued. "I will work harder than any man here. Fight better than any man here. Push myself further than any man here. Only then will I deserve to lead this army."

Without another word, Robb strode through the ranks, past the shocked faces of noble-born warriors, to take his place beside Jon in the formation. A few of the lordlings exchanged uncertain glances, but none dared speak against him now.

"Well said, brother," Jon whispered as Ser Rodrik took command of the field.

The old knight's voice boomed across the grounds. "Twenty laps around the field! Move!"