#robb:threads

No one understood fully what Howard Stark was doing in his lab, night and day. They knew he helped to make weapons, and they knew those weapons kept them alive, that those weapons might very well help their side win the war, so they let him get on with it. The generals, more caught up in monitoring the success of Captain America than asking about scrap metal and wires, didn't question the archway in the corner of the room, nor did they read his notes about the 'multiverse' and 'portals between worlds.' It was an early prototype in any case, and Howard didn't really know what he was looking for, hadn't expected it to really work...

--

A year ago, Robb would have said he didn't believe in magic. He enjoyed the stories of course--like his sister, who held onto ever word their Old Nan told them about knights and princesses and happily-ever-after, Robb found himself captivated by stories of giants beyond the Wall, of the ghosts in the castle Harrenhal, of the Children of the Forest--ancient beings said to watch through the trees--and, of course, the Direwolf--ancient wolves, larger than a horse, thought to have died centuries ago, though, as the sigil of his house, its profile was woven into every flag in Winterfell. But these were stories--nothing more--tales to scare and delight children by the fire.

And then Robb had found a direwolf of his own. Not only was the wolf meant to be dead and wasn't, but Robb soon found that he could communicate with the wolf in strange and unexpected ways. It was not like talking, not exactly. It was as if the wolf could sense his very thoughts, act upon his unspoken commands. And at night, Robb could have sworn he dreamed that he was his wolf, that he would wander the forest on four paws. It was only a dream, of course, but it felt so real--and then there was that morning he'd woken up after a lengthy dream where he'd swam in the river and caught a fish between his fangs, only to find in the waking world that his wolf had, indeed, just returned from the river, fish held in his maw.

Robb could not pretend to understand this connection. He knew only that it was foolish to dismiss the unexplainable when he himself was now part of it. Of course, war had left him very little time to contemplate any of this. But when a glittering light appeared in the corner of his vision--a jagged rip in the air, as if the world itself had been peeled open--Robb was helpless but to follow it.

He had been walking the battlefield, as was his custom after a fight. Despite being named king a fortnight ago, he had not stopped fighting on the front lines, nor had he stopped counting the dead for himself. He had memorized the names of all his men so that he might know which ones had fallen, and he closed their eyes himself and helped to load them on the medics' carts for burial. As for the wounded, he thanked them each for their sacrifice and made sure they were treated properly by someone that knew far more about medicine than he did. All the while, his direwolf, Grey Wind, trotted by his side: a giant, looming beast with sleek grey fur, glowing yellow eyes, and a stature nearly as tall as Robb was at 6'1". Once, his men had feared the wolf. Now, he had become a comforting presence in their camp, their guardian, protector, and a legend spread throughout the realm.

One of his advisors was speaking to him--a report about the supplies--but this time, Robb did not hear him. His eyes were locked upon the light. "Thank you for your council," he said automatically, the formality well memorized despite his distraction. "Excuse me." Leaving his advisor standing, staring after him, several letters in hand waiting to be read, Robb hurried toward the slit in the world, wondering if anyone else could see what he did. His wolf hurried after him. As they grew closer, Robb came to a stop. "Heel," he ordered the wolf. But this time, the beast did not listen. "Grey Wind, stop. Get away from it."

But the wolf continued to move, rushing toward the gash in the air. Robb reached out for him, but too late--without a sound, the wolf vanished, as if he'd never existed before. "Grey Wind!" Robb cried out. He rushed forward, but he'd barely taken a step when it happened--a pull near his naval, the spinning of the world, and suddenly he was stumbling, scrambling to stay on his feet.

At first, he could not find a difference in their two worlds. It was dawn, and the muddy ground was soft beneath his boots, the blood thick on his hands; the early morning air was crisp and the sky gray, and screaming filled the air. These were the sounds of war, and centuries would not change that. But there was a new sound laced within the cacophony: sharper than the clashing of swords, louder than the roar of a cannonball. Robb did not have a word for 'gunfire', could not have searched his mind for the name 'bullet' even if one had pierced through him. But he knew that he was not where he'd been.

His wolf was yet again in front of him, rushing toward a group of men--and one woman--in the distance. They wore strange clothing and held even stranger weapons (were they crossbows? No. They seemed to be made of metal, but this was all Robb could discern).

This island was a strange and confusing place. Robb had only been there two days, but two days was enough to know that this world was nothing like Westeros. And yet he had found Sansa, and that meant it was possible that he would find the rest. There were so many faces he hoped to see, longed to see, and yet as he walked across the street, he found himself staring at the face of the one man he had been both desperate to see again, and hoping he never would. His best friend. And the man he hated most in all the world.

When his men had told him they'd captured a Lannister, Robb had been eager to meet with the prisoner, expecting a knight or lesser lord--someone (anyone) he might trade for his sisters' safe return. He held Jaime Lannister in shackles already, but he was far too valuable a prisoner--and had killed far too many Northern men--to be bargained for anything less than the complete end of this war. Robb followed one of his guards into the cells beneath Riverrun but stopped short when he saw the young woman waiting behind the bars: golden hair of the Lannisters, yes, but no soldier. "What is this?" Robb asked the guard. "Why have you brought her here?"

"We found her helping with the wounded, Your Grace," replied the guard sheepishly. "She's a Lannister, we thought--"

"You thought you would capture an unarmed woman who has committed no crimes and bring her into our camp, so she might see our plans and our armies and send that knowledge back to her family?" Robb glared at the man who cowered even more.

The rest of his advisers had gone hours ago, trickling out of his tent one by one. It was rare that Robb was alone--if he was not surrounded by his bannermen, each vying for a moment of his attention, suggesting battle plans and strategies--he was with Theon or his mother, listening to their concerns too. Robb had promised that when he became Lord, he would take all council into consideration and weigh all voices equally, but what no one in his camp had expected was just how much time he would spend alone with the girl who had once been a fox.

Though her leg had healed long ago, Beck had not gone. What was more, she had remained human more often than not, and suddenly, Robb found himself meeting with her each day, valuing her council as much as the rest. It had been strategic at first, seeking out her advice on how best to tend and harvest the land so his camp could stay strong and his men well-fed without leaving devastation behind. Then he had wished to speak to her about magic and her perspective on the Riverlands. Once he had been declared King in the North and the Trident, this had become of the upmost importance. He knew the North well, but how could he rule the Riverlands without guidance? That his mother had lived here her whole life seemed not to have occurred to him as he regularly sought out Beck's advice instead.

Lavinia inclined her head to the other in acknowledgment and appreciation of his comment. It wasn’t the first time she had a similar compliment but from him it actually did seem genuine rather than just the expected thing to say to win her over which was in its self rather unexpected, it had been a long time since someone had been so sincere with her. “Thank you, you also carry yourself well. Your father’s influence I take it?” She asked with a smile, giving him her full attention, quite the contrast to her usual routine of brushing off anyone who approached her.

Whether their parents planned to wed them had not yet been made clear. Admittedly, Robb was not very aware of these sorts of things anyhow. He did not think much about marriage or the politics of betrothals. He had paid attention in his lessons, of course, learning the sigils and the words of all the noble houses, knowing who controlled what lands and what they most valued. He had been raised since he was a very small child to be the future Lord of Winterfell, and so he had never expected to see King's Landing at all. That had always been the fate and future of his other brothers: brothers who might become knights or scholars, brothers who would marry into other noble houses and rule keeps of their own. But Robb, the heir, would stay in Winterfell, preparing to care for the people of the North and the North alone. That had always been the plan--at least, until his father had been named Hand of the King and everything, in an instant, had changed.

Robb had been so busy thinking about war, he had had little time to think about anything else. He hardly remembered to eat and sleep, let alone plan for his marriage. The arrangement with House Tyrell had been a good one: with the armies of High Garden combined with the forces of the North, they would outnumber the Lannisters two to one. The war would be over in a fortnight. Robb spent day and night making sure of it. When he was not on the field, fighting beside his men, he was hunched over the war table in his tent, studying the maps, discussing with his advisors. This was where he stood now, quietly muttering to himself, far away in thought, when the noise erupted from the camp, and he heard the sound of a hundred horses. House Tyrell had arrived. His bride had arrived.

Much had changed since this war had begun, and Robb was not the same man he'd been when he'd last held Jaime Lannister in chains. That was before his mother had released him. Before Robb had married and broken his oath. Before he'd returned to the Freys for his uncle's wedding. Before Robb had died.

Robb had never been particularly interested in scholarship, not the way Maester Luwin had been back in Winterfell, always rattling on about his books even when the children were clearly bored out of their minds. It had been Master Luwin, too, who had taught the Stark children the many houses of Westeros, made them memorize their words and their banners, drilling them on whose rivers belonged to whom, and who had control over the crossings and the mountains. Such memorization had come in useful to Robb during his siege of the southern lands in the war against the Lannisters, but he had had no plans to step foot in a university, no matter how skilled he had heard the school was in King's Landing. Yet, it seemed prudent now to learn where he was and how he had come to be here, and so he had found his way into Naporia University. Wandering this island all day had been enough to tell him that he could not force his way off this island with a sword. He needed information, to develop a strategy.