AN: I normally don't do author notes at the beginning of a chapter. But this chapter is probably going to be a bit more heavy worded or slightly boring, though it does offer some importance to the plot. It's mostly just to finalize the growth and change that Robb has gone through in the eyes of others. Also, this will probably be the only chapter with a Catelyn Pov, so I wanted to get her thoughts out.
Catelyn POV
Catelyn Stark sat alone in her chambers, the hearth's fire casting a soft glow across the stone walls of Winterfell with little light from her window as well. The needle in her hand hovered over the embroidery she'd been neglecting, her thoughts drifting far from the delicate threads as she gazed at the window with her mind lost in thoughts as they lingered on Robb, her eldest son, and the remarkable changes that had reshaped him and her household over the past eighteen months.
The accident that had nearly claimed his life had been a fracture in time, splitting her world into before and after. She found herself tracing her memory back to that moment with a mixture of relief that it was in the past and quiet sorrow for the terrible pain she had felt in her heart.
It had begun with terror. Robb crumpled on the frozen ground, blood seeping from his head where the horse's hoof had struck. She'd been in the yard with the rest of the family when it had happened so suddenly she rushed to kneel beside him, her hands trembling as she pressed a hand to her heart, her voice steady only for his sake as she cried for help even as the guards had already rushed to fetch Luwin and move Robb to Luwin's chambers as the rest of the family watched beside her as Ned and a few guards picked up his body to rush him to Luwin.
For days, she'd kept vigil by his bedside, her prayers a ceaseless murmur to the Seven, while Ned sought solace in the godswood, beseeching the Old Gods she'd never fully understood, and the children and some servants came to wish their respects and offer their own prayers but she told all of them he needed rest and not to disturb him, and after what felt like days, in her exhaustion, she'd even let a few prayers to the Old Gods join her prayers to the Seven, her lips forming unfamiliar prayers to her husband's gods, bargaining with any power that might listen.
When Robb awoke the next night, his eyes clear but distant, she'd wept with relief, yet even then, she'd sensed the shift he awoke somewhat confused though Ned and Luwin had brushed it off as a lingering effect of a head injury, assuring her her boy would return to himself in time. But as a mother, she was not too sure and as the weeks turned to months, Catelyn saw not the return of her carefree son, but the emergence of someone new, someone more it was her son she knew but he just seemed so much more grown now more like Ned or her uncle seemed like a man who had lived already but still was just her boy she did not know if it was his near-death experience but she noticed it all the same.
Yet time had softened her concern about Robb's changes as they took root to be the new normal for her and the household. Where once he'd raced through the yard with Jon and Theon, laughing as their wooden swords clashed, he now sought Maester Luwin's study, poring over tomes of history and strategy until she or Ned and even Luwin would have to have someone or themselves take him back to his room to sleep. Luwin had been astonished, his voice warm with praise as he told her, "Robb asks questions I'd expect from a maester thrice his age, sharp, probing things about trade routes and the more forgotten histories of the North and Westeros. He's not just learning; he's challenging what he learns." Luwin had been so happy to tell her and Ned of the more studies changes in Robb and that he had found a new companion with Robb over the books and debates of Westeros. Though if even his newfound love of books and learning was not enough, When Robb did return to the yard, it was with a focus that silenced the older men of the guard, his determination to hours of practice, as Catelyn had watched from the window, her chest tightening as her boy, her sweet, impulsive boy, slipped away, replaced by a young man who no longer ran to her for comfort. Yet she couldn't deny the pride that swelled alongside her ache, seeing how he inspired his siblings with that same quiet determination he seemed to now put into everything he did.
Robb's influence on his brothers and sisters was significant, and Catelyn held those vivid moments close to her heart. Sansa, inspired by Robb, spoke of him with reverence. Under his encouragement, her needlework became more intricate, and she began to read about the history of the South, learning about the prominent women of Westeros. Robb had encouraged her to aim to be the best lady she could, urging her to learn about all of them—even those who didn't conform to the norm—because they were women of great renown. He was helping her discover herself in ways she had previously overlooked. "He told me beauty is in the effort, not just the result," she mentioned one afternoon, her cheeks flushed with pride as she showcased a stitched wolf that rivaled Catelyn's own work.
Arya, wild and untamed, also embraced Robb's advice. Her defiance softened under his praise for her self-control, as he explained that only a true warrior of the North could master their actions. Catelyn remembered a day when Arya confided in her, saying, "Robb says I don't have to be a Southern lady if I don't want to; I could be a Northern one instead. But he says even a Northern lady must know how to control herself or risk embarrassing her house or seeming like a child. He believes in me." Catelyn chuckled at Arya's words, realizing how Robb could influence his sister to listen with just his words.
Even Bran and Rickon, so young and full of dreams, looked up to Robb with wide eyes, captivated by his tales of Winterfell's past and learning from his patient lessons with a blade. He would even join them while Theon showed them tricks with a bow. One day, Catelyn found Robb kneeling in the dirt with Rickon on his lap, drawing pictures and telling him Northern tales of the Starks. His voice was gentle as he shared stories about clever heroes and knights who would dodge a hail of arrows by running in a zigzag pattern instead of straight.
Though Catelyn wasn't sure Rickon was paying close attention, it was clear her youngest son enjoyed spending time with his older brother. The memory warmed her heart, yet sharpened the pang of how quickly Robb had grown beyond her reach. By that past moon, Robb's physical presence matched his inner growth; he stood taller than Catelyn and nearly as tall as Ned. Lean and strong from hours in the yard, his auburn hair was now longer, trimmed at the sides in a way that echoed the North's old kings. Catelyn caught the servant girls, including the Manderly girl, sending him sidelong glances and whispering about his looks. Although he seemed aware of their gazes, he never acknowledged them, his focus fixed on his duty.
That duty extended to the people of Winterfell in ways she had not anticipated. She overheard servants discussing him, noting how he stopped to help a young servant boy mend his father's cartwheel, using his own hands and not getting angry when the boy thanked him by name instead of by title. Catelyn had paused, unseen, her heart swelling at their words. Another time, she spotted Robb teaching a stableboy to braid a rope, his tone firm yet kind. These small acts rippled through the household, earning him and their family a loyalty more than just mere obedience, with a deeper fostering of genuine respect.
Ned noticed it too, his pride in Robb a steady undercurrent during their quiet moments together. "He's a born leader, Cat, more so than me or even Brandon was at his age," he told her one evening as they watched Robb spar with Theon in the yard. "Not just in strength, but in how he thinks and cares. I'd trust him with Winterfell tomorrow if I had to." His words weighed heavily on Catelyn, a testament to Robb's growth and a reminder of the burdens he would one day bear as the lord of Winterfell and lord paramount of the North.
Maester Luwin's praise for Robb was even more effusive, spilling forth whenever he spoke of Robb's studies. "He's a faster learner than I was at his age," he once commented, adjusting his chain with a smile. "And just yesterday, he was debating with me about the pithouses and dugout homes he had designed with me." Catelyn smiled at that, though her mind wandered to when she had seen Robb out in Wintertown, sleeves rolled up as he built alongside the men.
That memory lingered vividly in Catelyn's mind, Robb in the muddy streets of Wintertown, sweat streaming down his face as he helped dig a pit for a new home in the spot of an old one along the new road. She had been riding past with Sansa, Arya, and the septa, intending to enjoy a leisurely ride with her daughters when she spotted him, her son, the heir to Winterfell, laboring like a common worker. The sight stunned her. She couldn't imagine a southern lord or any northern one deigning to engage in such work, nor their heirs. Yet there was Robb, laughing with the smallfolk and guards as they worked, his hands calloused and his tunic stained.
When she confronted him about it later, she felt a pang of upset at the thought that he was not taking his station seriously. But he shrugged, saying, "They needed help and needed someone to show them at least for the first couple of times. Also, if I am to expect these men to serve me and perhaps die for me someday, how could I not at least dirty myself when I ask them to dirty themselves? I must labor with them when I ask them to labor for me, Mother. A lord's no use if he can't lift what his people carry." His words echoed his father's lessons, but they also carried a weight all their own, a practicality that set him apart. She had turned this over in her mind ever since, marveling at the son she'd raised and the man he was becoming.
His drift from her faith was another thought in her reflections, one that pricked at her. Robb had stopped joining her in the sept, his steps turning more and more to the godswood, where he sat by the heart tree in silent meditation or pored over scraps of the Old Tongue with Maester Luwin. "He's seeking something greater than us," Ned had said once, his tone fond, and Luwin had nodded, adding, "The boy's got a mind for the tales past though he has strong ideas for the future." Catelyn felt the loss keenly, missing the mornings when he'd knelt beside her, his voice soft with the prayers to the Seven. Yet she saw the strength it gave him, the way it steadied him, and she couldn't begrudge it, not when it fueled the quiet resolve that now defined him.
Her thoughts circled back to his siblings, the bonds he'd forged with them growing richer in her memory. Sansa once came to her in tears after Robb praised a song she had written, saying, "He said it was better than anything he'd heard. Do you think he meant it?" Catelyn had assured her he did, knowing Robb's honesty. Arya, too, had a tale from a hunt; Robb had convinced their father to let her accompany them on, allowing her to ride ahead to track a deer, trusting her instincts when Theon scoffed at her. "He said I've got a nose for it!" she boasted, and Catelyn could see the spark in her eyes, a confidence Robb had ignited. These moments painted a picture of her son as a brother who led not by command but by belief in them, and Catelyn cherished this, even as it underscored how much he'd changed.
A sharp knock broke her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. "My lady," Maester Luwin's voice came through the door, "a message has arrived, from the Eyrie, I believe. Your sister, perhaps?" Catelyn set her needlework aside, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she rose, for it had been some time since she had received a message from Lysa.
She opened the door to find Luwin holding a small, familiar box, one her sister and she had shared in childhood, complete with a hidden compartment for the secret sweets they used to hide. "Thank you, Luwin," she said, taking it from him and tracing her fingers over the worn wood, wondering curiously why her sister would send a message in this particular box. She dismissed him and returned to her chair, opening the main compartment first. Inside lay a folded letter.
Catelyn, Jon Arryn is dead. The King rides to Winterfell with his family. Lysa.
Her breath caught as the words sank in. Then, with an old but practiced flick, she triggered the secret latch, revealing a second note:
The Lannisters killed him.
Ice crept through her veins as she stared at the words, her mind racing. Suddenly, she stood abruptly. "Luwin!" she called, stepping into the hall where he lingered. "We need Ned. Where is he?"
"In the godswood with Robb," Luwin replied, his calm demeanor faltering as he saw her expression. "They've just now returned from clearing some bandits along the White Knife route from Wintertown to White Harbor."
She nodded and began to move, with Luwin following closely behind her. They crossed the castle swiftly until they reached the godswood. Ned was kneeling by the heart tree, cleaning his blade, while Robb sat nearby with his eyes closed in meditation. However, there seemed to be something resting in his lap. Her footsteps, unintentionally louder than she intended, drew their attention.
"Ned," she said softly, handing him the first letter. "News from Lysa." As she handed the letter to her husband, she noticed that the object in her son's lap was actually a creature. It was grayish, black, and looked like a pup of some kind, though she couldn't tell which breed. She would have to ask her son about it later.
He read it, his jaw tightening. "Robert's coming. We'll need to prepare and send word to Lysa, with condolences for Jon."
"There's more," she said, passing him the second note. Ned's face darkened, anger and confusion warring in his grey eyes. "This is a grave claim," he muttered.
Luwin took the letter next, his brow creasing. "If this holds true"
"To my solar," Ned interrupted, glancing at Robb. "All of us."
Catelyn hesitated. "Are you sure Robb should?"
"Yes," Ned interrupted, firm but not harsh. "He's proven himself, Cat. He needs to know these things."
Robb rose, thanking his father with a quiet nod, and positioned his new pup in a more comfortable position in his arms, after which, they made their way to the solar. There, Ned stood by the window, Luwin paced, and Robb sat with a stillness that belied his years. "The King will likely ask me to be Hand," Ned said, his voice heavy. "I can't refuse without proof of this accusation."
Robb spoke, his tone steady. "Will you accept, Father?"
Ned met his gaze. "Duty demands it, to Jon Arryn's memory, to Robert. But if I go, the North falls to you, Robb. With your mother and Luwin, as well as Jory and Vayon, I know I can trust you to lead it."
Robb's lips curved slightly. "I thought you'd say that. And I see why you'd want the truth about Lord Arryn." He paused, thoughtful. "The King might want more than just your hand."
"Marriage," he clarified. "Joffrey for Sansa, or Myrcella for me, though he would most likely want a northern wife for his son to make up for the one he lost."
Catelyn gasped. "Sansa?" she whispered, the thought of her daughter becoming queen striking her.
"It's possible," Luwin said evenly. "A northern bride for his heir."
Ned nodded slowly. "I need to think. I believe we should speak more about this tomorrow. For now, the second letter stays here—between us," he said, looking at her and Luwin. "And I shall talk to you about it tomorrow as well, Robb."
As Luwin and Robb departed, Robb paused by the door. "Mother, Sansa, and Wynafryd would love to help you prepare for the King's visit. It'd be a great lesson for them and give them purpose."
Catelyn smiled, warmth piercing her worry. "I'll allow them to help with it," she promised.
He left, and she turned to Ned, seeing the pride in his eyes. "He's ready. If I do go to the capital, I know the North will be in good hands under him," Ned said, his voice proud. She nodded, her throat tight. Robb had grown from a boy to a man. That's what she was seeing, and in the past two years, she couldn't imagine any situation that could arise to make her son lose his head or composure.