Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.
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[Cycle - July, 288 AC]
"...nd the shield is not a wall to hide behind, Robb! It is a partner in the dance. You use it to deflect, to create an opening, like so. Now, watch Harry."
Robb tried to pay attention to Ser Rodrik's words, he really did, but his eyes kept drifting to his cousin. Harry held his practice shield like it weighed nothing, the wooden blade in his other hand moving in smooth circles that made Robb's own clumsy movements feel like a drunk man stumbling through mud.
The training yard smelled of sweat, leather, and the peculiar scent of well-worked earth. Men-at-arms practiced their forms while stable boys hauled fresh straw for the archery targets. But all of it faded into background noise when Harry moved.
"See how he keeps his elbow up, lads?" Ser Rodrik called out, his grey beard bristling with approval. "The shield should feel like part of your arm, not a burden to carry."
Harry stepped forward, facing Jon across the packed dirt. Jon was good, better than most boys their age, but next to Harry, he looked like a child playing at war. Harry's movements were fluid, precise, each step placed with the certainty of someone who'd never doubted where his feet should go.
He never seems to try. The world just seems to bend for him.
The thought came unbidden, and Robb felt a familiar mix of awe and something that wasn't quite envy. He loved Harry, loved him like the brother he was, but sometimes watching his cousin felt like staring at the sun; brilliant and impossible and just a little bit painful.
Harry's wooden sword flicked out, a quick tap that knocked Jon's blade wide, then followed through with a shield bash that was controlled enough not to hurt but firm enough to send Jon stumbling backward. The whole exchange took maybe three heartbeats.
"Yield," Jon said with a grin, raising his hands. He wasn't bitter about losing, none of them were, anymore. Harry always won, but he made it look so effortless that defeat felt more like a lesson than a humiliation.
"Good try," Harry said, reaching out to pull Jon upright. "But you're telegraphing your attacks. Your shoulder dips right before you swing. Try this instead..."
Robb watched his cousin demonstrate the proper form, noting how Jon hung on every word. Even the castle guards had stopped their own training to watch. Harry commanded attention without even trying, like a flame drawing moths.
From his perch on a nearby post, Shadow watched the proceedings with those unsettling black eyes. The raven had shown up a few weeks ago and hadn't left Harry's side since. The maester called it unusual but not unheard of. Ravens were clever birds, and this one seemed cleverer than most. Still, the way it stared at people made Robb's skin crawl.
"Robb!" Ser Rodrik's voice cracked like a whip. "Stop daydreaming and take position. You're up against Harry next."
Robb's stomach dropped. He hefted his shield, the leather grip slick with sweat, and stepped into the circle. Harry gave him an encouraging smile that somehow made everything worse. His cousin never mocked him for being slower, never made him feel stupid, but that almost made it harder. Robb would have preferred honest contempt to patient kindness.
"Remember what I showed you about footwork," Harry said quietly, settling into his stance. "And don't hold your breath. It makes you rigid."
The spar lasted maybe ten seconds. Harry's first strike came high, drawing Robb's shield up, then the second swept low to tap his knee. Just like that, Robb was on his back in the dirt, staring up at the grey summer sky.
"Better," Harry said, and the awful thing was that he meant it. "You didn't drop your shield that time."
"Boys!"
They turned to see Lord Eddard approaching across the yard, his long face creased with the hint of a smile. Behind him walked three stable boys leading saddled ponies.
"Enough swordplay for today," Ned said. "Time you learned there's more to being a lord than swinging steel. We're riding out to the edge of the wolfswood. Consider it your first hunting lesson."
Robb's heart leaped. A real hunt, or the start of one anyway. He'd heard the older boys talk about riding with their fathers, tracking game through the deep woods, returning with stories of danger and glory.
"Just to the old bridge and back," Ned continued, crushing some of Robb's excitement. "But it's time you boys learned to sit a horse properly and read the signs of the forest."
Harry was already moving toward the ponies with that easy confidence he brought to everything. "Which one's mine, Uncle?"
"The grey," Ned said. "She's spirited but not mean. Think you can handle her?"
Harry's grin was answer enough. He swung up into the saddle like he'd been born there, settling the reins with practiced ease. Robb tried to copy the movement and nearly slipped off the other side, catching himself with a graceless scramble that left his cheeks burning.
"Here." Harry had somehow maneuvered his pony over without Robb noticing. "Your stirrups are too short. Makes you sit wrong."
Warm fingers adjusted the leather straps with quick, sure movements. This close, Robb could smell the soap Harry used, something that reminded him of summer evenings and his mother's garden.
"There. Try that."
The difference was immediate. Robb felt more secure, more balanced. "Thank you."
"That's what cousins are for." Harry's smile was bright and genuine, the kind that made everyone around him want to smile back. "Besides, can't have you falling off before we even leave the yard. Jon would never let us hear the end of it."
Jon, who had been struggling with his own mount – a placid brown mare that seemed determined to ignore his commands – shot them both a dark look. "I can hear you, you know."
"Good," Harry called back. "Maybe now you'll kick her properly. She's not made of glass."
They rode out through Winterfell's gates as the afternoon sun painted the walls gold and amber. The summer air was warm against Robb's face, carrying the scents of grass and distant pine. Shadow rode on Harry's shoulder, wings spread for balance, looking for all the world like some exotic hunting bird.
"Did I ever tell you about the time I caught a trout with my bare hands?" Harry asked as they followed the winding path toward the wolfswood.
"No," Jon said, though his tone suggested he suspected this story might be somewhat embellished.
"Well, it was down by the winter pool, the deep part where the current swirls around that big rock. I was maybe four, just learning to swim properly, when I saw this massive trout, had to be two feet long, I swear it, just sitting there in the shallows like it was waiting for me."
Robb found himself leaning forward in his saddle, caught up in the tale despite himself. Harry had a gift for stories, a way of making even the most ordinary events sound like grand adventures.
"So I thought to myself, Harry, you could go back for a net, or you could be clever about this. And being clever seemed like more fun."
"What did you do?" Robb asked, though part of him suspected he already knew.
"Patience, cousin. So there I was, standing in water up to my knees, and this trout is just floating there, probably laughing at me if fish can laugh. That's when I remembered something Old Nan told me about moving water and how fish think."
The story continued as they rode, growing more elaborate and unlikely with each sentence. By the end, Harry had somehow convinced the trout to jump into his hands through a combination of cunning, fish psychology, and what sounded suspiciously like magic. It was complete nonsense, of course, but Harry told it with such conviction that even Jon was grinning by the end.
"You're full of shit," Jon said, but he was laughing as he said it.
"Jon!" Ned's voice carried a note of reproach, but Robb could see he was fighting a smile. "Language."
"Sorry, Father. I meant to say Harry's full of... horse droppings."
That set them all laughing, even Shadow seeming to bob his head in amusement. Robb felt a warm glow in his chest, the kind that came from being part of something bigger than himself. This was what he'd dreamed about during the long winter evenings; riding with his family, sharing jokes and stories, feeling like he belonged.
They were perhaps a mile from the castle when Robb's pony decided to remind everyone that spirited animals had opinions of their own. A grass snake slithered across the path, no bigger than Robb's finger and completely harmless, but the pony shied like it had seen a dragon.
Robb felt himself sliding sideways, his hands grasping desperately for the reins, the saddle horn, anything that might keep him mounted. For a moment he thought he had it, thought he might recover his seat, but then the pony reared and physics took over.
He hit the muddy ground beside the path with a wet splat that knocked the breath from his lungs. Murky water soaked through his clothes immediately, and when he tried to sit up, his hands slipped in the muck and sent him sprawling again.
Tears pricked at his eyes. Not from pain, though his tailbone throbbed, but from pure humiliation. He was supposed to be learning to be a lord, supposed to be proving he could keep up with Harry and Jon, and instead he was wallowing in a puddle like a pig.
"Oh, for–" Harry's voice carried a note of mild annoyance, as if Robb's clumsiness had interrupted something important. "Hold on."
Robb heard hoofbeats, then Shadow's distinctive caw, then suddenly Harry was there, still mounted on his grey mare. Without even dismounting, his cousin leaned down at an angle that should have been impossible, grabbed the collar of Robb's tunic, and hauled him upright with one arm.
The casual strength of it was startling. Harry lifted him out of the mud like he weighed nothing, setting him on his feet with the same ease another boy might show picking up a dropped apple.
"There you go," Harry said, already turning back toward Jon. "So as I was saying about fish psychology, the really important thing is understanding their migration patterns..."
And just like that, the conversation resumed as if nothing had happened. Harry didn't make a fuss about the rescue, didn't call attention to Robb's mishap, didn't even seem to consider it worth mentioning. He'd simply solved the problem and moved on.
Robb stood there dripping, staring up at his cousin with something approaching worship. Harry had saved him from humiliation so effortlessly that it looked choreographed, like something from one of Old Nan's stories about knights and heroes.
He really is perfect, Robb thought as he caught his pony and remounted. Everything just comes so easy to him.
They reached the old bridge as the sun was beginning its slide toward the western hills. It was a ramshackle thing, barely wide enough for a single horse, spanning a quick-running stream that fed into the White Knife. Robb had crossed it before with his father, but today something was different.
"Seven hells," one of the guards muttered, then caught himself. "Begging your pardon, my lord."
Ned had gone very still in his saddle, staring at something near the bridge's northern end. "Boys, stay back."
But Harry was already moving forward, Shadow taking wing from his shoulder to circle overhead. Robb urged his pony closer and saw what had caught everyone's attention.
A wolf lay dead beside the stream, but not just any wolf. This beast was massive, easily the size of a small horse, with fur like spun silver and fangs as long as Robb's fingers. A broken antler jutted from its throat, the tines dark with dried blood.
"Direwolf," Ned said quietly. "Gods be good. No one has seen one south of the Wall in..."
"Two hundred years," Harry finished. "The books say they went extinct below the Neck during the reign of the first Aegon."
The men were muttering prayers and making signs against evil. Everyone knew the stories. Ddirewolves were creatures of the far north, beasts of legend that belonged to the age of heroes. Finding one here was like stumbling across a dragon's corpse.
"Dark omen," one of the guards said. "We should burn it and ride back to the castle."
"No, wait." Jon's voice was soft, uncertain. "Do you hear that?"
Robb strained his ears and caught it; a faint whining sound, like wind through a narrow gap. But it wasn't wind. It was...
"Pups," Harry said, dismounting before anyone could stop him. He approached the dead wolf with careful steps, Shadow landing on his shoulder once more. "There. Against her belly."
They were tiny things, no bigger than housecats, their eyes still closed and their fur damp from recent birth. Four of them huddled against their mother's cooling body, mewling softly in voices that seemed to carry all the sorrow in the world.
"Kill them," one of the guards said immediately. "Dangerous beasts. Better to end it now before they grow."
"No." Harry's voice cut across the muttering like a blade. He turned to face Ned, his young face serious in a way that made him look far older than his years. "Lord Stark, there are four pups. Two male, two female."
Robb frowned. How could Harry tell that so quickly? The pups were barely visible, pressed together for warmth.
"We have four trueborn Starks," Harry continued, his logic clear and undeniable. "Me, Robb, Sansa, and, gods be good, the child in Aunt Cat's womb. It's a sign from the Old Gods, they are meant for the Stark children."
The silence stretched long enough for Robb to count his own heartbeats. Then Ned nodded slowly. "You may be right. The timing is... unlikely to be coincidence."
Robb felt his heart leap. A direwolf pup of his own, a beast of legend bound to him by fate and blood. He could already imagine it grown large, fierce and loyal, following him into battle like the wolves of the old stories.
They were preparing to bundle the pups for the ride home when Jon's quiet voice stopped them all.
"There's another one."
Indeed there was. A fifth pup had crawled away from its siblings, smaller than the rest and strange to look upon. Where the others bore fur of grey and brown and black, this one was white as fresh snow, with eyes like chips of red glass.
The symbolism was immediate and cruel. Four pups for Four trueborn children, and one albino outcast for the bastard. Robb saw the hurt flash across Jon's face before his brother could hide it.
But Harry was already moving. He scooped up the white pup with gentle hands and walked over to Jon, placing the tiny creature in his arms.
"He may be different," Harry said, his voice carrying clearly to every man present, "but he is still a wolf of the pack. Just like you, cousin."
The words hit Robb like a physical blow, not because they were cruel but because they were so perfectly kind. In a few simple sentences, Harry had transformed what might have been another reminder of Jon's bastard status into something special, something to be proud of.
Jon clutched the pup to his chest, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "Thank you."
"Thank me by raising him well," Harry said with a grin. "I expect he'll be the fiercest of the lot once he's grown. The quiet ones usually are."
The ride back to Winterfell passed in a blur of excited chatter and careful pup-handling. Robb held his chosen wolf – a grey male with white patches – close to his chest, feeling the tiny heartbeat against his ribs. The pup was warm and soft and completely dependent on him, and the responsibility felt enormous.
Harry rode slightly ahead of them, Shadow once again perched on his shoulder like some exotic herald. When he turned back to check on them, catching Robb's eye, he gave them both a confident, reassuring wink that somehow made everything feel possible.
The sun was setting behind them, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, and Winterfell's towers rose before them like something from a song. Robb looked at Jon, who was whispering to his white pup, then at Harry, who sat his horse like he'd been born to it.
We were three boys. But now... now we are a pack.
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Author's note:
This felt so nice to write… Ahhh, brothers, man. Getting into and capturing the mindset of a five-year-old boy was especially interesting, but I think I've done it justice.
I also had to move up the direwolf incident, but the number of Stark children hasn't yet hit its limit; it's only 288 AC, after all. Arya still hasn't been born. Then there'll be Bran and Rickon too. So, do the rest not get direwolves? Or do they find another dead wolf with three pups? I don't know, that's a problem for future MoonyNightShade. For now, our boys are happy and sated. Thanks a lot for reading!
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