Chapter 4: Whispers of the North
The library tower loomed in the predawn light that was able to enter from the narrow windows, the beams spilling ashen light onto sagging shelves. I prowled the aisles, my steps stirring up dust into lazy swirls that caught the glow. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and leather, evoking memories of another life, and a hobby spent hunched over texts. My fingers grazed the spines—some smooth, others rough, and some etched with sharp runes. The Old Tongue. A thrill surged within me. Once, I had loved studying and learning dead and dying languages, and now these old runes, which whispered the soul of the North, would become my new Latin. Although the Old Tongue might be challenging to learn, it would ultimately benefit me in my goal to revitalize what I knew was lost to the North and rekindle relationships with the Giants and the children of the old gods, if I ever wanted some of my planes to be successful.
A rattle of chains broke the silence. Maester Luwin emerged, scrolls in his arms, grey eyes catching me. "Robb," he greeted, surprise edging his mild tone. "What brings you here so early?"
I turned, flashing Robb's charm with my purpose. "Sleep's a stranger tonight. Thought I'd hunt old tales."
Luwin's gaze flicked to the shelf. "Those are relics—histories, some in the Old Tongue. Few read it now."
My heart quickened. "Who still can?"
"Wildlings beyond the Wall, some mountain clansmen, and I believe old Nan had a small grasp of it," he replied, easing scrolls onto a table. "It's fading, lost to time."
I traced a rune, mind racing. If I wielded it, wildlings might bend, secrets unravel. "Anyone close who could teach it?"
Luwin's brows arched. "You wish to learn?"
"Aye," I said, shrugging casually, though my intentions burned within me. "I've felt a strong urge to learn more about our North and Stark traditions. We have been the kings, and now lords, of the North for thousands of years, and Winterfell is built on ancient bones. Perhaps there is power in understanding our history. I couldn't help but think out loud —what if we used this knowledge for messages? A language that no Southron spy could decipher would have great advantages for our household. The benefits of learning it seem high." I concluded my sudden ramble.?"
Luwin's eyes widened, intrigue flaring. "Secret messages? Sharp thought, Robb. Its rarity would cloak words well—southerners wouldn't know where to start."
I nodded, pressing on. "Ravens get snared, parchment burns. If our lords spoke a Northern tongue, we'd be bound tighter for it and the South allready sees us as the outcast kingdom, perhaps even more than the Iron Islands sometimes, so with us revitalizing it could be yet another shield or trait of the North just with words of the First Men."
He rubbed his jaw, chains clinking. "It'd be slow teaching, even just a few men would take months. But it could work, a cipher rooted in the North's old tongue."
"Could you do it," I said, firm yet warm most likely cutting into his thoughts. "Even if we just Start with me I'll make time to learn we could learn to gather and ha e even father study with us.
Luwin studied me, a smile ghosting. "You're full of notions lately, fostering wards, now this. What's stirring in you?"
I chuckled, slipping into Robb's lightness. "Too much time to think to myself after that kick to the head, I laughingly say I just want to do more, I don't know how to explain it exactly, just a feeling of restlessness, I suppose.
His amusement lingered as he turned back to his scrolls. My grin stayed on my face as the many uses of The Old Tongue spun in my mind. I could sway clans, shield plans, and unearth knowledge. I'd definitely have to learn it sooner rather than later.
The forge roared, heat and noise beating into my face as I entered Winterfell's forge. Flames danced, casting jagged shadows across the steel racks—blades and spearheads glinting like fangs. The air was thick with the scent of iron and sweat, a familiar smell from battlefields in a past life. Mikken loomed over his anvil, his hammer sparking against a glowing blade. His soot-stained face barely twitched as I approached. "Heir Robb," he rumbled, not pausing in his work. "Checking the steel?" "Something like that," I replied, my voice cutting through the clamor. I lifted a spear, testing its heft. I was curious about the smithing capabilities of Winterfell and how I could improve them, even slightly. As I prepared for the War of the Five Kings, I wanted to ensure that more men could be outfitted with quality arms, unlike the rushed jobs that had been done in Cannon. Not remembering how many hands, if any, Mikken had working with him, I asked, "Is it just you, Mikken, or how many hands do you have working under you now?"
Mikken paused, wiping his brow. "I have a couple of the winter town's boys come in from time to time, and I have a baseborn son who stays in winter town and helps me quite often, but I don't normally need the extra hands he provides."
I scanned the forge, counting the weapons. Enough for raiders, but not for legends or war, I thought to myself. "Your family has hammered for the Starks for generations. I was looking into some of our older histories and learned that, in the past, the Smiths of Winterfell occasionally crafted show weapons from obsidian, which they call dragon glass. Have you ever worked with that?" Internally, I knew he probably hadn't, but I was curious enough to ask. It was never mentioned in the show whether Winterfell had stores of dragon glass or obsidian. I believed it should, considering it was called Winterfell because that's where they defeated the Long Night the first time. However, I also understood they likely never looked into it, given that the Long Night was thousands of years ago. I couldn't blame them for not stockpiling it. Furthermore, in canon, the library was burned, and Mikken was killed by one of the Iron Islanders Theon brought to Winterfell. I thought I'd use the excuse of studying with Lewin to pose the question without it seeming too out of place.
The hammer stilled as Mikken looked up to respond. "Aye, my family has been here since the founding of Winterfell. Some tales say that my ancestors helped lay the first stone and stoked the first fires, and crafted the first pipes. As for the obsidian, I didn't work with it much, though I did see my father use it a bit when I was young. He said it was okay for arrowheads and maybe some showpieces, but nothing else really. We used to find it quite a bit around here, and I might still have some in storage, though I wouldn't bet on it. Why did you want me to try to make you something?" he asked in his gruff but friendly voice.
"No, I'm just reading some older records. However, if you do find some or acquire some from traders or others you think might have it stashed away, I might have you make a dagger and some earrings as a gift for my sisters," I replied with a smile.
"Sure, I can do that. It won't hurt to ask or look, anyhow," he replied.
"I'm glad! Thank you! And if you could, please don't mention it to my family, especially my sisters. I'd like to keep it a surprise," I said cheerfully as I left the forge. I put thoughts of the obsidian and future weapon and armor production out of my mind for the moment. I knew that as long as I was successful later on, I could acquire some dragon glass from Dragonstone without too much hassle, provided I wrapped up the War of the Five Kings quickly enough. With that thought in mind, I made my way to the godswood.
The godswood stretched wide and silent, a cathedral of roots and snow. As I knelt before the heart tree, I took in its white branches clawing at the dusk sky and its carved face weeping red. Pine and earth filled the air, the stillness pressing against my skin. Faith had never been close to me or Robb, from what his memories told me.
I took a few steps toward the heart tree and sank to my knees, the soft, wet soil nearly seeping through my wool as I shut my eyes. I sat there, trying to feel the power that I knew all my generation of Starks possessed. I had learned to meditate and focus within myself multiple times in the past. All that practice helped me concentrate now. I was searching for it, not knowing what it would feel like, but I was certain it would be different from anything I had experienced before. It would be the missing piece that would help me.
After what felt like a couple of hours, though it was probably only thirty minutes, I finally felt something, an energy and a connection. It felt like a well overflowing at the very top, or like a faucet on the verge of dripping, water hanging just at the edge. Fears that I knew were not my own rose up, but I pushed them aside, reaching for the power inside me. I extended my consciousness and plunged into the feeling, immediately sensing the energy of the well flow over my entire being. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before—almost like a higher state of consciousness.
For a brief moment, I felt connected to the earth itself. I stood up quickly, feeling restless. If this was what the ability of warging entailed, it was incredible. I steadied my breath, stretching my more controlled consciousness into the woods around me. I was careful not to get too close to the heart tree, as I didn't want to risk getting tangled with the three-eyed manipulator just yet as I try to go back into my meditative state.
Minutes blurred into a haze as I focused on the serenity of the woods until I felt rather than heard a leaf rustle with movement, then a jolt. I smelled fur, felt snow under paws, and saw a reddish-brown creature trampling strongly through the trees. My pulse quickened. Grey Wind? No—he wasn't born yet, and the creature seemed too big. His mother, maybe? No, she was of white fur. I reached out, but the thread snapped, leaving me gasping. I didn't know what the glimpse was, but I would find out eventually.
I opened my eyes once more, meeting the weirwood's gaze. "I'll be back," I rasped—a promise to it and to myself. "Every day until I master this gift."
As I brushed off my cloak and walked back toward the entrance of the grove, I caught sight of a stableboy bowing at the grove's edge. I squared my shoulders, fixing my posture as Robb Stark, heir of the North. I hoped that what they would see was me praying like a true Northerner, if not more devoutly than others.
As I lay down for the night, I swear I heard a wolf's howl, faint and sharp, though louder was the hoot of an owl with its flapping wings. My jaw tightened; I didn't know what all these things meant right now, but I would prepare myself. The North demanded it, and I would rise or die again trying.