King In The North

Oh shit! Well, I just saw quite the picture from tomorrow’s episode! : (

The North Remembers!!!!!

‘The Hound’, he was called.

How ironically fitting.

Forcing his own irritation down at the other’s response, Robb slipped the piece of attire over his head. It annoyed him so that he should be deprieved of the knowledge with regard of the other’s movement for that particular moment, but to stand there enshrouded only by algid night’s air with one Sandor Clegane eyeing him did not appear an option too enticing to his mind either. Like all youth of his age, he felt bare enough after the scrunity he was forced to endure earlier that day. However so, unlike most other youths of his age, Robb cannot afford neither the haste nor the recklessness as are often expected. Thus, it had came to be that regardless of how tantalizing the option may appear to be to simply act, he must maintain his own perseverance.

Patience…is a blessing toward men— peasants, lords, king alike.

“What are you doing here well away from your subject, ser Clegane?” Ser, for perhaps Robb was in the mood to be mocking, or perhaps the slip happened simply because he was tired. He certainly felt drench enough. Soaked in his own sweat, it’s almost as if he had ran a mile with snow storm going endlessly on all around him. Still, the fabric in his hand was clean, ane even with him there all sweaty and bedruggled after hours of sword work in plain, it would serve well enough to shield him from Winterfell’s frozen air.

Not the hound’s eyes though. Not that. Robb wryly thought as he tugged the shirt over his shoulder. He did not know what had brought Clegane here. He was not entirely sure he even care. However so, as Robb finished adjusting his cloth, he found himself turning his glance back. Clegane looked to be a man who’s with a bit of a drink already in him. Either wine or ale. Night had almost settled and the cold glistening path bathing down Sandor Clegane’s beard can perhaps be taken either way. Robb remained uncertain still if the flush on the other cheek existed mainly from his scar, or from the fiery drink he’s consumed. He tipped his head, considering his unexpected companion’s inquisition. Dropping his eyes momentarily, Robb cautiously replied. “A man may be where he wishes to be.” Lifting his glance, the stance became mirror in the motion of strong shoulder, shifting lightly in a dismissive shrug. Unbeknownst to him, curled digits proceeded to tighten and loosen around the sword’s wooden hilt in indecision. Maybe he should have stopped there. After all, Robb wasn’t entirely too thrill to repeat the earlier event of that day. “so long as he abides by the law, I’d suppose.” Robb had almost bitten his tongue at the addition. Being whom he was supposed to be, even a tiny semblance of uncertainties can prove too great a weakness. He frown in annoyance.

He glared at Robb, his shoulders seeming bigger..his chest too. “Tell me…do you dream of being a knight, boy?” he walked forward, his armor clanking, his sword, sheathed by his side. ” Do you dream..of fighting wars..killing the bad guys…fucking all the women you want? Do you dream of being a murderer? Of putting knives through babies throats? Of a glorious death in the mud as your brothers trod on your corpse.??” he spat again then.

“I’m no fucking Ser. Don’t forget that”

Aflash of steel caught his eyes, as with the baring of Sandor Clegane's teeth. To some, the twisted complexion-- fashioned even more so by the angry burn that have always corroded the elder's form-- as akin to a wolf's. Still, Robb felt the man in him incline to disagree. The hound is no wolf, as no wolf is the hound. Planting his own footing apart-- to the breadth of his shoulder-- Robb momentarily dropped his gaze, counting on. The clattering steel where by each sauntering step Clegane's armor covered body is led closer and closer sounded like the tickling of clock in the main hall that has been his father's, and his father's father's before him. Robb knew the weight. In all its clarity, he had always known what is expected. "Tell me....do you dream of being a knight, boy?" It sounded pretty ironic, really, coming from Sandor Clegane's mouth, a man twice more than Robb's own age.

Most time, what a man wants is not always what he expected...or have dreamt of, even a boy would know. It was then that Robb lifted his chin, meeting the other man's speculation with the level of self-assurance recognized of being possessed as well in Lord Eddard Stark, the name he has deigned to mention just . about. then. "I was only trying to be conversational." Ser Clegane. The title, 'Ser', goes without saying but for the sake of courtesy-- well, if he was not kidding himself, Robb would say it had been precisely for the sake of courtesy that he had opted for that title in the first place-- the young lording was willing to indulge that bulk of a man. Did Clegane seem taller? Beckoned by the older man's sudden motion, Robb swiped his attention minutely aside. His own sword, for a moment, remained forgotten. With wood being wood, it will never carry the same weight as with the metallic piece laying there at Robb's feet.

Wood. Steel. Physicals. Something always carries. "Knighthood, and glory. Those, however, sound just like dreams for child's fantasy." If Clagane had wished to enrage him, then he would have to be solely dissapointed. "Boys', childish, something you would already have outgrown." Much lighter of form when came face-to-face in comparison with the hound, a wolf's arrogance earned Robb with a befitting grace to easily rival the other. He met Clagane's gaze. The older's scowl was answered with a smile and a dismissing laugh as Robb took his own step forward. Good natured, and perhaps, with a touch of defiant, it was then when he's sufficiently covered the ground that he was only a distance apart from Clagane, the not-knight's daring offer was reached for. It was tentative at first, but by the time his hand came enclosing around the sword's metallic hilt, the grip was decisive. Robb braced his feet, and gave the blade a firm pull. The blade required both his hands; not to mention, a minute or so before he finally managed to heft it up for closer inspection.

It is heavy...but again, physical.

"There are always a luxery to dreaming so long as one learn enough never to get caught in one."

Though, granted to him alone, Robb wagered it was more oweing to the power of her fleet than her marriage that Nymeria managed her conquest.

He also wagered Arya, if rarely agreeing with him on else, would concur with him on this one. Funny though, that Nymeria should be the example Sansa had chosen to raise against him.

“I must admit I have not heard of tales where any ladies in them possess the abilities to rip others’ throat out with their fangs however.” Maybe with words and guiles but Robb had always felt the game is never for him regardless of whom he is to be, or his son is to be afterward if the God is good. A successor from King in the north they might be, now they are merely warden to the King who spent his Autumn, Winter and Summer always to the south …though…

if what Robb had heard remained correct, that fact soon will change. The realization was enough to rouse a smile. Robb had always wondered what King Robert Baratheon is like, and all he did manage to learn was only a titbit here and there caught by his father’s hearth as they gathered round for another stories of his father’s conquest, and the men whom after Eddard Stark’s banner they followed. “Still, you would have it right, sister. Arya’s would be something named from old stories and those of great deeds.” Women’s, if Robb is correct in his guess. His youngest sister may have never voiced her disdain aloud, but Robb thought the manner of all true ladies as tales would go had never truly fit her. Well, saving for perhaps…Nymeria. Arya Stark had better be born a boy. Still, the north had always made do with what they have, and Robb would not have preferred his sisters or brothers otherwise but being whom they are. Even as exasperated as they could appear to be at time. “Mine, however…Gallant..?” In quiescence, Robb mused upon his sister’s chosen word. He supposed he can content himself with that too. Gallant, for an aspired soon-to-be lord does sound better than else. “..I appreciate that you’d think so, sister.” Allowing himself to shift forward, Robb cautiously brushed Sansa’s escaped auburn strands back. She looks more of her mother with each passing days.

So much unlike Arya, once again, he reminded himself.

“Still, all the flattery in the kingdom would not have me gone against our dear father for you, I’m afraid.” To further accentuated his words, Robb accompanied an admitance with a dramatic sigh before he let his hand dropping back down. A soft thud danced across the table’s smooth wooden top, followed by a rhytmic cadence of drumming digits. “Trained as they are supposed to be Sansa…and here, I said ‘supposed’.” As with word, Robb also quieted down whichever protest he suspected his sister was about to stir with a raising of one solitary index as he held her with his gaze. “…Courts and men’s halls are never place for wolves. Wolves needed freedom, sister. Wolves needed to run …wild.” He allowed his statement to settle in before he quietly proceeded. He did notice the contriety in his words, but again, like his sister, Robb admitttedly already grew attached and should the circumstance truly demand, he will find a really hard time letting them go. Grey blue optics narrowed momentarily down, Robb continued. “Though I agree, lettiing it sitting alone in your room for half a day is hardly the way for wolves…Men, even, sometime…for all that matters.” 

Rolling her eyes towards her brother, the girl simply shook her head. “Perhaps in some of the scary stories Bran likes,” She shrugged, “The Others can be ladies, too.” She chuckled, imagining the thought. She wasn’t much of a fan of Nan’s scary stories, but she supposed if they changed the gender, it would be all the same. Those monsters were supposed to kill anyone on sight with no remorse. “Of course none of the proper ladies would be tearing throats out with their teeth, so no matter,” She said, waving one of her hands absent-mindedly.

Watching Robb think, the girl blinked a couple times in confusion. Did something happen? She asked herself, petting the soft fur while blue eyes focused on Robb’s. He seemed pleased though, which was more than enough to bring a smile to her own lips. “She really is wild,” She nodded, moving to set the pup on the ground. Sansa watched it scramble for a moment, trying to figure it’s way around. Reaching down to pet it once more for a moment, she glanced towards Robb for a moment. “Of course it’d be something gallant,” She nodded, folding her hands together as she stood up straight. “You’re to be Warden of the North. One with a direwolf. It’d have to be gallant like you,” She said, voice beaming with pride and joy for her brother. As Robb reached up and moved the strands of her hair, the smile broadened ever so slightly. He’ll be a great warden, She thought, excited to see it one day for herself.

No. Hardly, if at all.

Now. Were him asked, the auburn haired lordling might feel incline to say-- after he has taken his sweet time considering, gloved index tapping away upon his lips in an act of quiet contemplation he was often associated with-- that the simple answer to such perception had been in the manner his younger charge held her ground: confident, and assured, with just a tilt to her chin to which her resolution was conveyed regardless of the uncertainties possibly pleaguing therein. She would not be swayed, and perhaps, just perhaps, simply to prove the price of her promise, Lady will be trained to be 'the lady' that presents all the proper ladies.

Maybe just to prove herself. Robb never holds his doubt.

"Perhaps you could start with a bathing and combing her fur." Trying to appear helpful, or that was the story Robb had conceded himself to believe in, he mildly offered his suggestion regardless of how the other has shifted her eyes skyward. Her Lady, though, seemed placid enough to endure that entire session. The fluffy ball of fur has never suffered even a tiny whimper as his sister shifted it in her arms. Robb called it a test of patient. His own though, appeared to have found the keep's kitchen a new set of adventure. Robb doubted he had seen the cub remaining in the same position-- maybe just for once-- whenever he opted himself to steal a returning glance.

As if prompted by a mere thought, Robb shifted his gaze away. There. Truely as personally prior predicted, the tiny canine chose precisely just that moment to attempt a pounce. A miniscule curve crept upon his lips as Robb shifted himself forward, chin resting upon his gloved hand. Supported by the hot spring, Winterfell's ground usually withstands the weather thus, hardly there existed the need for extra coverage. Still, considering the manner he intended to spend his time after-- out-- removing the piece of cloth seemed too much a hussle at the moment.

Now. He knew he had almost came up with something. Was it in the way his pup had moved? Robb crinkled his nose in annoyance at what was swiftly thought of and as quickly, forgotten. "I will be the Warden of the North.", he replied absentmindedly, keeping his attention fasten upon his tottling ball of a direwolf now that the grey beast was joined by his sister. "...and you shall be the lady to draw an envy from all the ladies in the stories." Funny. He thought it was important. Yet now as he sought after that particular idea, he no longer recalled. Azure irses dropped, strong jaw beckoned to a turn, Robb returned his attention back toward the one that mattered more to his foolish predicament: his sister.

"I daresay, though, even queens" And is that not one glorious model for a lady? "...may not have all matters arranged to her preference." Oh how he recognized the look on Sansa's face. Years ago, he might have given it. Years ago, he might not even hold the authority to decide. Did he hold one now? Some games, he thought, were better left in other's hands unless the neccessity demanded.

Robb did not intend to overrule his father, even when he knew the older Stark would agree with him. Caution, however, that was in his liberty to share. "I'm not trying to take Lady away from you, Sansa." Robb soften his tone, realizing what he was about to say will not make the conversation sound any easier. "I do trust her with you, as I trust you with her." Strangely enough, it was as well how Robb felt toward his newly acquired charge. "Others, however." Pushing his stool back, the auburn haired raised to his feet. Casual steps led him toward the pup whom, by this time, had chosen to saunter back. With them meeting halfway, Robb knelt down to give the grey direwolf a pat on his head. "Most men might not be too forgiving, not especially with things that uneased them...and direwolves?" He stole a glance back at her. "Proud animals they might be, our sigils they might be, they are still what they are, Sansa."

The first time Robb came glimpsing upon the King’s procession, a thin line of men, and horses and carriages lumbering steadily across grass covered mound and snow soaked dirt, stretching along the hill’s rise and valley’s fall, progressing southward for as far as Robb’s eyes may see, if Robb had not known better, the auburn haired Winterfell’s heir can almost believe King Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, had decided to relinquish his hold at King’s landing and choose instead for a quieter resettlement amidst Northern’s jagged peaks and snow covered terrain.

That must have been half of his court!, Robb remembered silently musing from his perching atop his own ride. The stallion must have sensed his master’s veiled excitement as well. Its soft neighing danced down the column of men who had ridden with him for a first glimpse. Robb also remembered the anticipation he had right after when he had returned and found himself one among men and women who have came to offer their greeting to the warrior who’d slain prince Rheagar Targaryen with his great war hammer, their king, and the man to whom his father was a sworn brother. To his father’s left, his mother stood while Robb took to abide by his father’s right. Some referred it as the position of honour. Robb, himself though, called it duty.

Robb also remembered the jeering taunt, malicious poison poured forth from Joffery Baratheon’s more than plumpy lips afterward to the Winterfell’s master of arms’ proposition if they would wish to once more cross their swords. He remembered wanting to punch that smirk off the prince’s face and the hands that held him back. Still, most of all, he remembered the mind that whispered. Scarred face that could have belonged to the other in hell, and the ticking twitch to the edge of lips as a glance was stolen back, words breathed to the conch of the young cub’s ear.

Hence was why Robb found himself irritated so when he discovered himself with the company of one Sandor Clegane while he was working on his move. Northern wind left bare skin tingle when working in combination to the flush sheen of sweat coated upon his person. Disregarding the feeling of eyes on his back, Robb flew from one stance to the next, his practice sword securely held in both his hands. He was not allowed to carry a steel, at least not until Sir Rodrick deemed fit, but no one who saw him now could deny that he knew not the way to wield one. It took a good bit five minutes more before Robb finally let his arms fall and fully turned. His iced blue orbs narrowed down, waried of the man who preferred naming himself the prince’s dog.

He was cold here and it irritated him to no end, his mood always soured by the soft fallings of snow. It was still Summer. Snow at this time was unnatural to him. He leaned back and drank upon a wineskin, sloppily, his beard soaked by the time he looked back at the little lordling, questioning him.

Clegane himself much smelled of wine and sweat…but there was also a musky smell to him, one that Robb knew well from the Winterfell kennels, the man must have been there to greet his bretheren.

'The Hound', he was called.

How ironically fitting.

Forcing his own irritation down at the other's response, Robb slipped the piece of attire over his head. It annoyed him so that he should be deprieved of the knowledge with regard of the other's movement for that particular moment, but to stand there enshrouded only by algid night's air with one Sandor Clegane eyeing him did not appear an option too enticing to his mind either. Like all youth of his age, he felt bare enough after the scrunity he was forced to endure earlier that day. However so, unlike most other youths of his age, Robb cannot afford neither the haste nor the recklessness as are often expected. Thus, it had came to be that regardless of how tantalizing the option may appear to be to simply act, he must maintain his own perseverance.

Patience...is a blessing toward men-- peasants, lords, king alike.

"What are you doing here well away from your subject, ser Clegane?" Ser, for perhaps Robb was in the mood to be mocking, or perhaps the slip happened simply because he was tired. He certainly felt drench enough. Soaked in his own sweat, it's almost as if he had ran a mile with snow storm going endlessly on all around him. Still, the fabric in his hand was clean, ane even with him there all sweaty and bedruggled after hours of sword work in plain, it would serve well enough to shield him from Winterfell's frozen air.

Not the hound's eyes though. Not that. Robb wryly thought as he tugged the shirt over his shoulder. He did not know what had brought Clegane here. He was not entirely sure he even care. However so, as Robb finished adjusting his cloth, he found himself turning his glance back. Clegane looked to be a man who's with a bit of a drink already in him. Either wine or ale. Night had almost settled and the cold glistening path bathing down Sandor Clegane's beard can perhaps be taken either way. Robb remained uncertain still if the flush on the other cheek existed mainly from his scar, or from the fiery drink he's consumed. He tipped his head, considering his unexpected companion's inquisition. Dropping his eyes momentarily, Robb cautiously replied. "A man may be where he wishes to be." Lifting his glance, the stance became mirror in the motion of strong shoulder, shifting lightly in a dismissive shrug. Unbeknownst to him, curled digits proceeded to tighten and loosen around the sword's wooden hilt in indecision. Maybe he should have stopped there. After all, Robb wasn't entirely too thrill to repeat the earlier event of that day. "so long as he abides by the law, I'd suppose." Robb had almost bitten his tongue at the addition. Being whom he was supposed to be, even a tiny semblance of uncertainties can prove too great a weakness. He frown in annoyance.