He was standing in the courtyard near the East Gate watching the uproar of men, wagons and horses being readied as the royal party prepared to leave Winterfell alongside the new Hand of the King and his retinue of daughters and sworn swords. It was a controlled chaos with so many moving parts that it all seemed blurry to Robb. The only thing he could really see clearly was his two younger brothers standing in front of him, both looking so small and vulnerable in his eyes. Bran was clutching his cloak tightly, keeping it wrapped around himself like a protective layer of armor. Rickon, on the other hand, supported himself against the now even larger Shaggydog for comfort, gently stroking the chops of the direwolf who had long since outgrown its master in size. They were all packed and ready; it was time to say goodbye.

"Why do we have to go all alone?" Rickon demanded with all the indignation of a child. "Why can't everyone come with us? Shaggy'll get lonely without the others…" He nearly mumbled the last part, eyes downcast and staring at the ground. Robb could see tears prickling at his eyes.

"The Glovers' seat is deep in the Wolfswood, Rickon," Robb explained to his brother gently, kneeling down and placing a hand on the younger Stark's auburn mop of hair, so like his own. "You and Shaggy will come to love it, of that I'm sure. And Master Galbart's nephew Gawen is your age. You'll be fast friends, just as it happened to Domeric and I." He ruffled the younger boy's hair, but felt the sting of farewell bite at his eyes as well. Rickon had not even seen five name days and yet he would have to go live with and learn under the care of total strangers. The Glovers were leal bannermen of the House Stark, to be sure, but so were the nearby Cerwyns and yet Lord Stark had settled on Deepwood Motte nearly a hundred leagues away, almost as far from Winterfell as the Dreadfort was.

"You'll do great there, Rickon, and before you know it you'll be back here for the harvest feast."

"Really?" Rickon asked hopefully, voice cracking with sadness. "You promise?"

"I do, little one." Robb assured him and hugged him tight. "I promise." He held the hug for a long moment before turning to Bran, who already knew what was in store for him at Karhold. His was not the fear of going somewhere new, but the grief of leaving once again.

"Torr is going to teach me how to joust. He said so himself before I left," Bran half-boasted, half-tried to disguise the lump in his own throat. Torrhen, Lord Karstark's youngest son, had taken a liking to Bran to the Starks' great relief.

"And you'll be great at it, Bran," Robb said and meant it, placing a hand on his head just as he had Rickon's. "You'll be the greatest knight in all of Westeros one day." The words put a small smile on Bran's face, but in his eyes Robb saw that doubt that comes with age, with learning just how much it took to be the best at anything.

"I've finally thought of a name for him," Bran offered, glancing sideways at his direwolf who was busy chasing Robb's own wolf around the courtyard in the heedless play of pups. "It came to me in a dream. Do you want to know what it is?"

"Of course I would."

The boy looked around for eavesdroppers before leaning in closer to Robb and whispering, his breath suddenly cold, colder than anything Robb had ever felt before against his skin. Around him, Winterfell and all the people in it had suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing but a frozen wasteland in its wake. Only Bran remained, clutching him tightly against his now naked frame. He was cold; oh by the Gods he was so cold. The sound of his voice was like icicles in his ears, so freezing that he felt as if his whole face was burning.

"His name," Bran rasped, his boyish soprano now a deep bass that sounded as if a thousand ancients were speaking all at once. Robb caught a glimpse of his eyes then, no longer their familiar baby blue they shone an electric cyan that seemed to herald a complete emptiness, an unspeakable evil with no malice, only cruel purpose. He felt his heart beat frantically in his chest, thumping wildly as his senses begged him to escape, to hide, to look away.

"His name," Not-Bran repeated, each syllable draining Robb of his stamina to the point of collapse. "Is Winter."

8

8

Robb awoke with a startled yelp that caught the attention of the only man remaining by the fire that late at night. Tyrion Lannister raised a crooked eyebrow at him in an unspoken question, one that Robb left unanswered as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shook off the chilling memory of the nightmare. It had started as a memory; everything exactly as he remembered it from the day every living Stark save his mother had left Winterfell. Until that horrible change.

"I find that wine is the best cure for bad dreams," the Imp offered sagely as he broke the silence between them, his tone devoid of the judgement Robb would have expected from most other men. He held up a wineskin and sloshed the liquid inside around for effect "The more everything spins, the less clearly you'll see your demons."

"No demons," the Stark heir mumbled in response as he got up to join Tyrion by the fire. "Just my mind playing tricks on my last memory before we set off from home."

"The mind sometimes plays tricks on itself, Lord Robb. That's what dreams are, according to some Maesters." He held out the wineskin for Robb to take, and after a moment of hesitation, he did so, taking a small swig of the surprisingly sweet drink. On their long trip, Tyrion had quickly proved himself exactly the type of company Robb had longed for. The older man was learned, very much so, and thoughtful in a way that belied his reputation as a drinker and whoremonger. He still drank like a fish of course, but that detracted nothing from his insights as far as Robb was concerned. The two had enjoyed many quiet conversations around the fire discussing history, geography and many other things between heaven and earth. They had shied away from politics, however, especially family politics, if only because Robb had so many other things he had wanted to ask the well-traveled Lannister about.

"We've been on the road nearly a fortnight now," the Stark heir said with a sigh. "Now is a strange time for such a trick." Tyrion only shrugged at that and held out a hand beckoning for his wineskin back, which Robb gave to him. It was nearly empty. The two sat in silence for a while then, staring at the dancing flames of the small campfire. Around them the rest of their companions were sleeping soundly, save for one of Tyrion's two Lannister retainers who had the second watch that night. Aside from Domeric, Jon, Robb and Theon the party consisted of Tyrion and his two retainers, as well as Benjen Stark, who had noted that company on the long trip north would do him well. His sworn brother Yoren joined the group three days out of Winterfell in the company of two condemned peasant boys. Jon had looked at those two with dismay and pity, and had hardly spoken a word since.

"I've thought about what you said at the welcoming feast," the Imp mused as he leaned back against the tattered old bearskin cloak he had rolled-up and laid down for comfort, taking a drag from the wineskin. "You have a mind for many things, Robb, but politics may not be your forte. I admire the idealism, truly, but it will run afoul of reality." He shook his head slowly. "Growing up together does not always make friends of children. Even siblings can end up hating one another."

"It's always a possibility," Robb acknowledged. "But there is good reason why this realm with one King is still called the Seven Kingdoms. Except for Robert, who came for his own reasons, I do not believe the North has seen a royal visit since the progress of Good Queen Alysanne, and we are blessed to have even that. Which King upon the Iron Throne has left it to tour his Kingdoms for any other reason than war, besides the Conqueror himself and his immediate descendants?"

"Kings are busy," Tyrion said simply. "And the Seven Kingdoms are vast. The North alone is nearly as large as the other Kingdoms combined. Should this hypothetical King make time for every holdfast in every corner of the continent, or is it only great castles like Winterfell you believe should be honored?"

"My father has had some success in forging lasting bonds by fostering me and my brothers with his bannermen. Not all of them, but the principal Houses."

"And yet House Manderly is conspicuously without a Stark ward, are they not? And perhaps the Hornwoods, Ryswells, Flints and many others do not much appreciate their Houses not being counted amongst these worthy few." Tyrion sighed and emptied his wineskin, staring at it as if willing it to refill itself before he continued. "No one has enough time, or gold, or sons to satisfy everyone. For every man you honor, two more will expect the same or feel slighted for not having received it before the others. Lord Stark is an honorable man, truly, but he is not a political man."

"Maybe he should do as your father has instead, then?" Robb asked with more bite than was suitable for polite conversation. "Rule with fear and an iron fist? Satisfy no one?"

"Carrot," Tyrion said calmly, holding out his wineskin for effect. "And stick," he upended the container, showing it to be empty. "To make a man appreciate what he already has is a useful skill. Nobody wants to lose anything and everyone wants more than they've got. Some will gorge themselves to no end if you let them. Balancing their wants and fears is a hard thing to master."

"Your lord father snuffed out the lines of two noble Houses, one of them as ancient as his own. He gave them no quarter and refused all offers of parley as the innocent and guilty alike were crushed or drowned at Tarbeck Hall and Castamere. Was that for the sake of balance, Lord Tyrion, or so that a dreadful song might warn your father's enemies of their doom should they dare defy him?" While Robb spoke, Tyrion looked at him with an unreadable expression, but the moment he finished the smaller man simply reached beside him for a heavy, leather-bound book that he held out for Robb to examine.

"I know you admire the Targaryen Kings of old. If so you must have read volumes about their House, have you not?" The question was rhetorical, for Tyrion continued before the younger man could answer. "Then you should know that on the Field of Fire your venerated Aegon and his sister-wives burned thousands to death with dragonfire and extinguished the ancient House of Gardener, all for the Conqueror's ambition of a continent united under his rule." Tyrion tapped a finger against the book's decorated cover. It was a tome about the Targaryens' greatest, most legendary asset. "Their dragons were tools, were weapons of war, and wars are not civil. They are not fair or honorable. Before Aegon, the Kingdoms of Westeros fought incessantly over territory, gold and pride. Now we fight wars over the Iron Throne. Debilitating ones, yes, terrible ones, yes, but fewer than we used to."

The dwarf leaned back with a sigh, giving a soft, dejected shake of his head. "How do you measure the cost of peace, and against what?" he all but mumbled to himself, staring into the fire once again. "The alternative?"

Robb felt schooled, but it was not as humiliating a feeling as he remembered it from the lessons of the Dreadfort's sneering Maester Tybald. He opened the heavy volume and leafed through some of its pages absentmindedly, his mind too focused on what Tyrion had said to care about its content at that moment. It was an edition he had not seen at Winterfell, but the alluring siren song of its pages that he would normally hear was silent to him as he digested the Imp's lesson. He wanted to explain to the Lannister that it was not about fairness, or honor; it was about the long run. What mattered was stability, continuity, and, most importantly, dialogue between these thousands of nobles, high and low, all of whom wanted to claw and clamor their way to more, more, more while the people and lands around them withered and died. Robb did not balk at the methods; he balked at the cynicism that warranted them.

"I actually admire many things about your father," Robb began softly, eliciting a snort of disbelief from Tyrion who turned to face him again. "And I understand that some deaths in the now might prevent more in the future." At the Lannister's sceptic look, he assured him. "I really do. Many deaths here are unnecessary, or could be prevented, but not all. For better or for worse Lord Tywin has ensured peace and stability in the Westerlands, even prosperity, just as my own father has done in the North."

"Different places, different methods, different results even," Tyrion weighed in.

"Mayhaps," Robb acquiesced. "But similar goals in the short term. It is in the long run that they differ. My father would like nothing more than to remain in the North for the rest of his mortal life. Paying his royal taxes, yes, but thinking nothing of what occurs south of the Neck. I think he would make no protest if the North were to detach itself and simply float away from the rest of Westeros. Your father does not seem to limit himself to his domain in the same way." Robb had no experience with the man, nor any network of spies to substitute. However, it was no secret that Tywin Lannister was an ambitious man who continued to marshal the resources of the Westerlands for his own lofty aspirations.

"Our House is as wealthy as and more powerful than ever," Tyrion counted off in response, voice droll and carefully neutral. "My sister is Queen, my nephew the next King. Wouldn't you say that constitutes a resounding success, whatever my father's ambitions?"

"Joffrey may give the sigils of his parents an equal place on his breast, but however blond his hair he is a Baratheon by birth and blood."

"Family can have a special place in one's heart, or on one's breast," Tyrion countered with just a bit of heat, a frown appearing across his jutting forehead. "I enjoy your company, young Lord Robb, but recall that our families have their differences indeed. Ned Stark may have wished to stay in the cold North for the rest of his days, but by now he is on his way south. His eldest daughter is betrothed to that selfsame Crown Prince, and he has been appointed Hand of the King. Whatever his desires or intentions your father is now playing politics, the most important, most dangerous game there is, and very few of the players on the board want the same thing."

"And therein lies my issue," Robb riposted with insistence, leaning closer towards his Lannister counterpart, eyes alight with intensity. This was the core of the issue; the meat on the bones. "Great or humble, the noble families of the Seven Kingdoms lack a common frame of reference. We define ourselves by our House, our region, even our religion. We see ourselves just as did the petty kings of old, only now we answer to a higher King, however nominally. We are like the Sarnori during the Century of Blood, so enthralled by our internal struggles for power that we not see the hordes at our gates before it is far too late. There is plenty of land and resources to go around for every Lord, if only they would administer it with diligence and care instead of looking to their neighbors with envy."

Tyrion was staring intently at him once again, reminding Robb of their first talk, however brief, at the welcoming feast. The Imp's mismatched eyes were unnerving to many, a fact that the man had shared with him in jest, but Robb paid them no mind. Men like Tyrion could make a difference; he was quick-witted and had influence that most could only dream of having, short stature or not. If someone like him could see reason behind Robb's words then perhaps there was hope for his blurry visions of the future yet.

"In Westeros the rulers rule," the Stark heir all but whispered to him, pointing at the heavy volume that laid between them. "What we need are rulers who govern, who reform. Jaehaerys the First, Viserys the Second, Aegon the Fifth. These were true monarchs with a vision for Westeros, but with real counsellors and advisors a mediocre, yes even a bad King can govern efficiently." Robb made a gesture with his hands, silently willing, even praying for the by then very quiet Tyrion to agree with him in the end. "When the Free Cities refer to us they call us simply Westerosi. They do not differentiate between Westermen or Northmen. They call us backwards because our armies are composed of mere peasant levies and because our most powerful officials are all but born into their posts. Compared to them we lack formal institutions of all kinds and at all levels, to such a degree that even the small council is but a collection of nobles with the personal assets or powers relevant to their semi-formal roles."

Robb gritted his teeth – mentally damning the habit – trying to discern some kind of reaction from the intense stillness in Tyrion's eyes. He looked… intrigued, perhaps? Robb could not tell, not truly. "That is the root of the problem, in my opinion," he continued, but with less vigor as he felt his muscles relax. He had not even noticed how tense he had become. "All power is vested not in offices, but in individuals who amass personal power in whatever fashion they can manage and attempt to pass it on only to their heirs. Westeros lacks a government, a central government. We do not need to be a new Valyria. Apart from their dragons, the Freehold possessed the most refined apparatus of government the known world has ever seen. If we could achieve only a fraction…"

"So the Iron Throne should dispatch governors to administer its Kingdoms?" Tyrion interrupted him with a misshapen eyebrow raised in skepticism. "That is idealism talking. I can think of no Lord in the whole of Westeros who would allow even the suggestion of outsiders ruling their family lands. Just imagine a Martell being dispatched to rule the North from Winterfell, or a landed knight being tasked with ruling Oldtown." He shook his head again. "There would be revolts before it came to pass."

"It needn't be so absolute, but there is a precedence for appointments." Robb protested and began to count them with his fingers. "Despite their traditional holders, Wardens are appointed freely by the King. Stewards administer holdfasts far and wide, and are appointed by their Lord. Maesters are appointed by the Conclave and serve as loyal advisors. Some honors, such as the Knight of the Gate, are conferred by a Lord upon whomever he so chooses. These are a foundation that can be developed and built upon."

Tyrion sighed and shook his head. He seemed to do a lot of that. "Even the meanest lordling of the smallest holdfast would call his three levymen and two sheep to arms before he would let his rights and privileges be encroached upon."

Robb only shrugged in response. "You said it well yourself. Balancing the wants and fears of men is a hard thing to master. However, a parcel of land or a town administered ably by men appointed for their skill in doing exactly that will collect more tax, more grain, more men, and so on. What landholder would not lick his chops at the prospect of being the beneficiary of that in the long term?"

Tyrion, it seemed, could think of a few. "I believe you overestimate the competence of the average lordling, Robb."

"You can only lead a horse to water, my Lord Tyrion. It has to drink on its own accord."

In that moment however, the duo was interrupted in their conversation. "By the Lord God who drowned for us," Theon all but wailed from his bedroll, rolling over to stare daggers at the two obvious sources of his irritation. "Would you two just shut up already and go to sleep?"