The First Frost

Robb

Three weeks after the battle of the bastards.

Robb held Roose Bolton's knife. He never got to use it as he had planned. He still had the Frey's and the Lannister's. They would meet their ends by his hands, he would make sure of it. He paced the length of his chamber. He had been using revenge as a distraction from his grief. The demise of the Bolton line now reminded him of all that he had lost. Theon had been his best friend, his mother who always seemed to know what to do, Jeyne who always helped him forget his misery and his unborn child. His mind flitted to little Rickon and Bran who perished at the hands of the Bolton's, his father who was beheaded by the Lannister's, and Arya and Sansa who were probably dead. He had lost his uncle, the Blackfish, to the Frey's, his other uncle, Edmure, was their hostage.

His heart stung as the list of people he would avenge grew. Deep down, he knew that revenge would never fill the void, but for now, it helped him forget. The rage dulled the pain and he would do just about anything to ease his suffering.

He smoothed his hair back, sheathing the blade at his side. A distraction was what he was in dire need of, and it would arrive shortly. The lords of the North had arrived and would rally in the great hall at sundown. He could already see the sky turning pink in the distance. The men would gather soon, to either crown or oppose their king. Robb's eyes found a small mirror by his door. He never looked like a Northerner. As a child, part of him found it ironic that he, a trueborn son of Eddard Stark, looked more like a Tully than his bastard who practically embodied the North.

Now, Jon wasn't a bastard anymore. Robb hoped that the fact that Jon took after Lyanna would help him win the lords, but the Targaryen blood that ran through his veins may turn them against him. The North remembers Eddard's voice rang in his head. The North would remember that the Targeryens were prone to madness, they would remember the cruelty of the Mad King, but maybe the memory of Lyanna and Jon's previous feats would be enough to ease their concerns.

Robb knew that the Northern lords would never follow him again as a king. He made that much clear to them upon their arrival. He could remember his conversation with Lord Ironsmith, who had attempted to swear himself to "the true King in the North". As he bent the knee, Robb had pulled him back to his feet.

"Being your king was the honor of my life, but I am not your rightful leader. I failed the North as King, but I hope that I can help restore it as hand to his grace." Robb had explained. He had a similar conversation with nearly every Lord upon their arrival.

He hears a knock on his door. It must be Stiles Slate, his new squire. Robb had agreed to take him as a squire when his Lord father came to Robb. Robb knew that Lord Slate had lost two sons and countless men at the Red Wedding, so he granted his request. He opened the door for the small boy who could be no older than one and five name days. He was lanky with warm black hair and brown eyes.

"My Lord, his grace has summoned you to the Great Hall." Stiles always talked a little too fast and on occasion tumbled over his words. He almost reminded Robb of Lady Brienne's squire Podrick, but Stiles was not as quiet.

"Thank you, Stiles." Robb gave him a soft and reassuring smile as he pulled on his sword belt. He stepped out of his chamber, Greywind's claws clicking against the floor behind him. He expected to hear the roar of men in the hall, but the castle was silent. He could see Jon waiting by the closed door with Ghost. He was still dressed in grey, not red and black, as Ser Davos had suggested.

"Are you ready?" Robb asked, his voice hoarse.

Jon's pulled his face into a neutral expression. "No." his voice was hoarse.

Robb knew how nervous he must be. Robb felt as if dragons were swirling in his stomach and he wasn't even the one that would be put on display for the Northern lords. "Let's do this," Robb said and pulled the doors to the Great Hall open.

Every lord's eyes fell on Jon. Ghost and Greywind lead the way to the long table, where Robb had sat with his family on countless occasions during meetings with the lords. The table was now empty. Jon held his head high as he walked. Robb had grown up on stories of the great Targaryen kings of old. Jon lacked their silver hair or violet eyes, yet he still looked like the mirror image of what Robb had imagined Aegon I Targaeryn or Jaehaerys I Targaryen to have looked like.

He followed behind the man that he would always see as a brother, not a cousin. The room was a silent as the crypts. Wildlings, Northmen, the Knights of the Vale, even a few Ironborn and Riverlanders packed together, seeming to be almost at peace despite their histories of violence.

When Jon reached the long table, he took his seat at the center. Robb took his place, standing slightly behind him, yet still at his side. He could now see the expressions of the lords around them. Some were as cold as ice, some were angry and some looked as if they were ready to forge Jon's crown this very instant. The hall was quiet enough to hear shards of sleet tapping against the windows.

Then the silence was broken by Lady Dustin (who Jon had pardoned for her support of House Bolton). "We all remember the last Targaryen king all too well. Madness runs in their veins."

Robb's stomach twisted at her words. He had expected that a few lords may use the Mad King against Jon, but Jon had pardoned Lady Dustin and she still chose to turn against him.

Lady Dustin continued. "We have all heard the whispers, about his ramblings regarding tall tales of grumpkins and snarks. We have heard the rumors for how he has allegedly been raised from the dead by a red witch. He could already be following in his grandfather's footsteps!"

Tormund stood. "King Crow is many things, but he is not mad. I have stood by his side as he faced the dead beyond the wall. I watched as he was fucking murdered and brought back. He comes back and keeps fighting, not for himself, but for the love, he bares for you bloody people."

Robb couldn't see Jon's face, but he could watch as he flexed his burnt hand under the table, revealing the nervous energy that he kept inside of him.

Lady Mormont stood. "House Mormont remembers. The North remembers. We will never bow to the Lannisters again. The North will never forget the horrors of the Mad King, but they will also never forget how Aemon Targaryen fought for us, how Robb Stark chose to follow him, how he is of the true North." For such a small girl, she exuded a great presence. "Stark blood runs in his veins along with the Targaryen blood. He is the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He is my king from this day until his last." She drew her sword and sank onto her knees.

Lord Manderly drew his sword as well. "Lady Mormont speaks the truth. He may not be a Stark in name, but he is in his heart. Aemon Targaryen, Jon Snow, the White Wolf, the Last Dragon. Whatever his title may be, he is my King." Lord Manderly bent his knee.

Murmurs of agreement circulated around the hall as Lord Glover stood. "There are more battles to come, House Glover stands with you, your grace." The sound of metal being unsheathed filled the hall as more men, powerful lords and household knights alike bent the knee. Robb felt pride grow in his chest as he forced his face to remain neutral, but the smile leaked out through his eyes.

Jon stood, his back straight, drawing himself up to his full height. Robb couldn't see his face, yet he could picture the hard-edges and Stark coloring. Jon was of the North, every fiber of his being screamed it except for his true name. His true name was what gave him the right to the realm, but the Stark blood in his veins earned him the support of his people.