Boy of promise
Written by Adesh
They called him Silver-Stray in the streets, a name given more out of envy than mockery. At fourteen, Robb looked nothing like the beggar born in the slums. His hair shone silver in the sunlight, long and tangled from the wind and rain. His eyes were sharp and icy blue, having witnessed more cruelty than most men three times his age.
He wore no armour, just a patched leather jerkin and a cloak full of holes. Yet he moved like someone who had trained with knights, not thieves. He was fast, focused, and deadly. Few dared to cross him twice.
No one knew where he came from. How a boy with the look of old blood and the skill of a seasoned soldier ended up sleeping in alleyways, eating scraps, and selling his sword to anyone with a coin and a cause.
But Robb knew. He remembered the fire, the men in black, the screaming, and the woman with silver hair, like his, who told him to run.
He had been running ever since.
Robb sat near a broken wall, chewing on stale bread when the soldiers found him.
"Look what we’ve got here," one of them said, eyeing his silver hair. "A little noble brat lost in the gutter?"
There were five of them. Armed. Laughing.
Robb didn’t speak. He stood slowly, sword already in hand. Rusted, but sharp enough.
The first one lunged, too confident. Robb stepped aside and slammed the hilt into his nose. He dropped.
The others didn’t laugh after that.
Ten seconds later, three were down. One ran. The last stared at Robb, bleeding, panting.
“You’re just a kid,” he said.
Robb’s eyes were cold. “So what does that make you?”
The alley was narrow, walls leaning in like they wanted to hear the fight. Robb stood still, one hand resting on the hilt of his worn sword, the other hanging loose by his side. The soldiers, five of them, blocked the only way out.
“Drop the blade, boy," said the tallest one. “We’ll make it quick.”
Robb didn’t move. “No.”
The leader sneered. “Your mistake.”
The first soldier charged. Robb pivoted, letting the man’s blade slide past him, then stepped in close and slammed his elbow into the man’s throat. The soldier gagged, stumbling—and Robb swept his leg, sending him crashing into the wall.
Another came from behind. Robb ducked just as the sword whistled through the air. He spun and drove his shoulder into the man’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. The soldier staggered back—and Robb swung his blade, low and fast, cutting through the back of his knee.
The alley echoed with a scream.
Two down. Three left.
One tried to flank him with a spear. Robb kicked a loose cobblestone at his face. It wasn’t much, but enough to make him flinch—and in that moment, Robb charged. He grabbed the shaft of the spear, yanked it forward, and slammed the soldier’s head into his knee.
He collapsed.
The last two hesitated now. They weren’t laughing anymore.
Robb’s chest rose and fell, but his hands were steady. “Still think I’m just a street rat?”
They attacked together—one high, one low.
Robb blocked the high swing, steel sparking against steel. The low fighter lunged for his legs—but Robb kicked out, stomping on his hand. The sword clattered on the ground. Robb stepped in, smashed his fist into the man's face, then turned and parried the final blow with a grunt.
He countered with a brutal upward slash—not elegant, not pretty, but effective. Blood sprayed the wall.
The last man fell to his knees, clutching his arm. “Wh… what are you?”
Robb stood over him, breathing hard. His sword dripped.
“I’m someone you should’ve walked past.”
The last soldier knelt on the ground, clutching his wounded arm, his face pale. Blood pooled near the body of the man Robb had killed. The alley smelled of metal and sweat.
Robb stood over them, breathing heavily. “Next?”
But the soldier didn’t move.
Instead, he said, “You need to come with us.”
Robb narrowed his eyes. “To finish the fight somewhere else?”
The soldier shook his head quickly. “The king will want to see you.”
Robb blinked. “What?”
Another soldier, limping but still conscious, groaned, “No one… no one fights like that. Not at your age. And that hair…”
The kneeling soldier looked up at Robb. “You might be a street rat. Or you might be something else. But if you kill a crown soldier in this city, you answer to the king. Alive.”
Robb kept his sword raised. He glanced at the blood on it, then at the wide eyes of the man who hadn’t run.
“Fine,” Robb said. “Take me to him.”
Robb’s hands were bound, not tight, but enough to send a message. The guards beside him looked nervous. One had a black eye. The other winced with every step.
They walked through marble halls lined with banners and golden torchlight. Robb had never seen such wealth. His cracked and muddy boots left prints on the polished stone.
At the end of the hall sat the king—tall, grey-bearded, crowned in iron and bone. His throne was carved from the wood of an old warship, blackened by fire.
The king studied him in silence. Then he spoke.
“You’re no soldier’s brat.”
Robb said nothing.
The king’s eyes narrowed. “You killed one of my men. Why?”
“He tried to kill me,” Robb replied. “I just didn’t let him.”
A few nobles chuckled, but their laughter quickly faded under the king’s glare.
“And that hair…” the king leaned forward. “You look like someone I knew. Long ago.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know my parents.”
The king stood slowly. “Maybe I do.”
The king circled Robb slowly, keeping his eyes on his face.
“You're dangerous,” he said. “That's clear. But raw steel is useless until it's forged.”
Robb stayed quiet, his wrists still bound. He didn’t trust this sudden change; kings didn’t give second chances for killing their soldiers.
“I could have your head on a spike by nightfall,” the king said, his voice calm. “But I won’t. There’s something in you. You fight like a wolf, but with time, you could fight like a sword.”
He turned to the guards. “Fetch Commander Varik.”
One of them flinched. “Your Majesty, Varik? Are you sure—?”
“I said fetch him.”
Ten minutes passed. Robb stood in silence, hiding the ache in his arms and the fear in his stomach.
Then the doors opened, and a man stepped in.
Varik.
He wore no crown or medals. He had a battered black cloak and a sword so worn that the hilt had bite marks. His eyes were cold grey, and a scar ran down his left cheek. He was silent and moved slowly, heavy as a storm.
“This is him?” Varik asked, his voice rough.
The king nodded. “He killed one of my men. He beat the others half to death. With this.” He threw Robb’s old, rusted sword onto the floor, and it clanged.
Varik looked Robb up and down. “How old?”
“Fourteen,” the king said.
Varik raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t fight like it.”
“No,” the king replied. “That’s why he’s yours now. Train him. Or break
One month of hell under Commander Varik transformed Robb from a street rat into something much more dangerous. Each day started before sunrise, with his body aching from the day before. Steel clashed before he even had breakfast. Bruises covered him. He bled and broke, but he never quit.
Varik didn’t baby him. He fought with real blades, shouted orders with no patience, and knocked Robb down every time he showed weakness. But Robb learned faster than anyone Varik had trained before. His reflexes were uncanny. His pain tolerance was extreme. His rage, once wild and pointless, had become focused and precise.
He no longer swung like a boy desperate to survive. He moved like a weapon honed for battle.
Some whispered that Robb wasn't human at all; he was just a ghost of some ancient warrior reborn in a boy's body. Others feared he was something worse.
But no one denied what he'd become: a monster created by men.
The castle halls buzzed with tension. Horns sounded. Armories opened. Black banners were raised from every tower.
War.
The king stood on the battlements, looking out over the valley below. Dust rose in the distance, not from the wind but from marching armies.
He faced his gathered lords and generals. His voice was as hard as stone.
“The House of Deyros has broken the treaty. They march on our eastern border. They’ve taken the fortress at Graymarch. My scouts report they’ve already started conscripting our border villages. This is not a raid. This is conquest.”
The room erupted with curses and arguments. Lords debated numbers and gold. Generals discussed strategy. But the king raised his hand, and silence returned.
“I have let them grow bold for too long. No more. We go to war. We will crush them.”
The enemy is no small threat. House Deyros is one of the oldest noble bloodlines in the east. They are proud, brutal, and wealthy from controlling the iron mines of Varnhal. They have long resented the king’s rule.
Years ago, they had to submit after a failed rebellion, and they have never forgiven it. Their new lord, Tyren Deyros, is a cunning and ruthless man who believes the kingdom is weak, distracted, and divided. For years, Tyren has quietly built power with a growing army of mercenaries, deserters, and even magic-wielders rumored to be in his court.
The capture of Graymarch Fortress is a brilliant move. It protects the only mountain pass between east and west. With it, Deyros can send troops directly into the king’s lands and cut off trade routes.
Even worse, rumors suggest that Tyren has teamed up with a forbidden group of blood priests, exiled sorcerers once thought to be extinct. Strange fires have been spotted on the hills near Graymarch. People are going missing, and no bodies are found.
The king understands this situation is no longer just about politics.
It’s about survival.
Blackstone Keep sat atop a jagged hill, its dark stone walls rising like a claw against the gray sky. The fortress had stood for centuries, watching over the winding trade routes between the eastern plains and the heart of the kingdom. The name came from the nearly black granite used in its construction, which some said was quarried from beneath the mountain it topped.
Now, it would serve as the kingdom’s last defense against House Deyros.
The king’s orders were clear. A hundred men, chosen from his best warriors, would hold the keep at all costs. Among them were Robb, the silver-haired boy who had become a monster in training, and Ser Erwn, known far and wide as the best swordsman alive. His reputation was a legend whispered in taverns and courts; few had seen him fight and lived to tell the tale.
The soldiers arrived as dusk settled, tired but determined. The cold wind swept through the ramparts, bringing the scent of blood and fire.
Robb stood beside Ser Erwn, watching the horizon. “They’ll come in numbers,” Robb said quietly.
Ser Erwn’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, scanned the darkening landscape. “More than we have men. No way out once they arrive.”
From the valley below, a distant rumble began. It was the sound of thousands of marching feet, clanking armor, and roaring war cries rising like a storm.
Robb’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. There was no running. No hiding. Only the cold stone walls and the will to fight.
Keep trembled under the weight of the enemy's siege. Its walls were slick with rain, sweat, and blood. The thousand-strong army of House Deyros pressed forward like a tide eager to drown the defenders.
Inside the keep, amid the chaos, a hundred loyal soldiers held firm, battered but unbroken.
Ser Erwn stood atop the highest battlement. His silver hair caught the flicker of torches. His armor, scarred from countless battles, gleamed like a beacon. He raised his sword high, the tip glistening in the rain.
“Men of the kingdom!” his voice rang out, clear and fierce above the roar. “They come like wolves, hungry for our flesh. But we are not sheep to be slaughtered!”
A deep, haunting song rose from the hearts of the soldiers. It was a battle hymn older than any man alive, carried by voices roughened by cold and fear but steady in defiance.
“Steel and stone, blood and bone,
We stand as one, not alone.
Though shadows fall and giants call,
Our hearts are fire — we will not fall.”
Ser Erwn's voice cut through the chorus like thunder.
“Remember what we fight for! Our homes, our honor, our lives! Tonight, we are the shield between them and all we hold dear. Let them come! Let them break their backs against these walls! If we fall, our names will be forgotten — but if we stand… our story will be told for generations!”
Robb stood among the ranks, sword gripped tight. The song filled his veins with fire. Around him, the men roared back, their voices raw but defiant.
The first wave crashed against the gate like a flood, and the battle for Blackstone Keep began.
“Robb, you have the heart of a warrior, but more importantly, you need the courage to live. Not just for yourself, but for everyone who cannot fight back.”
Robb’s breath caught, panic gripping his chest. “I... I can’t—”
“Listen to me,” Ser Erwn said, gripping Robb’s shoulder with unexpected strength. “You will survive. You will live. One day, you’ll rise. You’ll fight back against every shadow that threatens this land. You’ll kill every evil that dares to cross your path.”
Tears blurred Robb’s vision. “I promise.”
Ser Erwn gave a faint, proud smile. “Good. Now go. Run, Robb. Run like the wind.”
The battle was over, but the war continued. Robb, tired and wounded, slipped away from the ruined walls of Blackstone Keep and found shelter in a small village hidden in the nearby woods. It was humble, with rough-hewn cabins, smoke rising from chimneys, and children’s laughter mingling with the sound of cartwheels.
In this place, Robb found three friends: Jaren, a clever archer with sharp eyes; Milla, a healer whose gentle hands treated more than just wounds; and Thom, a blacksmith with strong shoulders that could bend iron easily.
For a while, there was a fragile peace.
Yet, the village had secrets, including a ruthless chief who ruled with an iron fist. His greed grew with the war. When he learned of Robb’s presence, he saw either a threat or an opportunity.
One night, under a dark sky, the chief’s men came. Lanterns moved through the shadows like angry fireflies.
Robb was asleep when loud shouts woke him. He rushed outside to find chaos—smoke rising from Jaren’s cabin, screams piercing the night.
He burst into the village square just in time to see the chief standing over Jaren’s lifeless body, sword dripping with blood.
“Why?” Robb’s voice broke, rage filling him.
The chief smirked. “He was weak. A liability. You and your friends could bring disaster here. I protect this village, with or
The village square lay quiet under the moonlight as Robb and the chief faced each other, tension thick in the air. The chief narrowed his eyes with hostility and held his weapon firmly.
“You don’t belong here,” the chief said, his voice sharp. “This village answers to me.”
Robb’s expression hardened. “Not anymore.”
With no more words, they charged.
Their blades met with a ringing clash. The chief fought fiercely, determined to hold his ground, but Robb was
After months of quiet leadership, Robb was drawn to the river that bordered the village. There, by the shimmering water, stood a stranger — a man whose eyes reflected the depths of the stream itself. He spoke softly, "I serve the god of water. If you wish, I can teach you to harness the strength of the currents, to flow like water in battle."
Robb, feeling the weight of his promise to Ser Erwn, nodded without hesitation.
By the river’s edge, the man settled onto a smooth stone. The water’s gentle ripple mirrored the calm in his voice.
“My name is Kaelen,” he began, his eyes distant. “I was once like you, driven by anger and lost in the chaos of war. But then the god of water chose me, not because I was strong, but because I learned to be patient and to adjust like the currents.”
Kaelen’s gaze fixed on Robb. “I lost everything in battle—my family, my home. But the river taught me that strength isn’t just about fighting harder; it’s about knowing when to flow and when to strike. It’s a power that comes from balance.”
He reached out and placed a hand near the water. “If you train with me, Robb, you’ll learn not just to fight, but to survive and protect what matters. To honor your promise to Ser Erwn.”
Robb nodded slowly, feeling the weight of their pasts intertwine by the water’s edge.
Robb sat by the fire one evening when Kaelen handed him an old, worn letter sealed with two crests intertwined — the emblems of the kingdom’s two greatest houses.
Kaelen’s voice was quiet but firm. “This came to me from someone who knew your past. You are the son of both houses — a union forged in secret, but one that never saw the light. You were born out of that forbidden bond.”
Robb’s hands trembled as he broke the seal and read the words that changed everything he thought he knew about himself.
“You carry the blood of power and privilege in your veins, but also the burden of being born a bastard. That is why your enemies seek you, and why you must be stronger than ever.”
he morning sun broke over the village as Robb packed his few belongings. The weight of the letter still pressed heavy in his pocket, a constant reminder of the bloodline he never knew he had.
He looked back once at the village — his home, his people — then turned toward the distant mountains where the great houses held their courts.
“I’ll find them,” he whispered to himself. “Mother or father… whoever you are, I’ll find you. And I’ll claim my place.”
With a steady breath, Robb stepped forward, the promise to Ser Erwn and the fire of his newfound identity guiding his way into the unknown. Robb’s journey led him to the formidable House Frostvale, rulers of the northern mountains—known for their strength and icy resolve.
As he approached the towering stone gates, a regal woman dressed in a cloak of white fur stepped forward. Her piercing blue eyes held a mix of warmth and authority.
“You’ve come a long way, Robb,” she said softly, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “I am Lady Elara Frostvale — your mother. And you are my heir.”
Robb’s heart stopped. The woman before him wasn’t just any noble — she was the mother he’d been searching for, and the future of one of the greatest houses in the north.
Lady Elara’s eyes softened as she looked at Robb. “You are my heir, Robb. The blood of Frostvale runs in you — stronger than any other.”
But just as she reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, her body trembled violently. Her face twisted in pain, and she gasped, “Protect… the North…”
Before Robb could react, she collapsed to the cold stone floor.
Silence fell over the great hall. The gathered nobles stared in shock.
Robb knelt beside her, heart pounding. “Mother? No—stay with me!”
But Lady Elara’s last breath slipped away, leaving Robb alone — the new king of House Frostvale, with the weight of an entire kingdom now on his shoulders.
Chapter 2
The bastard king
At just fourteen, Robb stood before the ancient stone throne of House Frostvale. The frostbitten banners fluttered in the cold wind outside the great hall. His mother, the wise and fierce Lady Elira, had died suddenly. This left the burden of leadership on his young shoulders. But Robb was no ordinary boy. Raised beside council tables and war maps, he had learned the sharp edges of politics from a young age. Although grief burned in his chest, his eyes were clear as ice. The lords and bannermen who once overlooked him now studied him with caution. Robb was not simply a boy; they saw it now. He was a king in winter.
Robb perched on the high chair made of ice-carved stone, wrapped in furs that were too big for his slender build. The fire in the hearth flickered low, casting long shadows behind the banners of the old northern houses. One by one, the lords arrived, called to either pledge loyalty or challenge the boy claiming the title King of the North.
First to speak was Lord Harlan Drek, Master of Ships. A stocky man with salt-crusted hair and a weathered face, he carried the scent of brine and old fish. His house had ruled the northern seas from their cliffs on Stonewake Isle for three generations. "The sea only bends to storms," he said, his voice rough and low. "And storms must be worthy." He gazed at Robb with eyes like black pebbles. "Prove yourself a storm, boy, and my fleet is yours."
Next came Lady Marra Vellthorn, Warden of the Woods. Her cloak stirred softly like leaves as she moved. Her house, hidden deep within the Pinevale Thicket, was ancient and mysterious. She bowed low but remained silent for a moment, observing Robb with pale green eyes that missed nothing. Some said she spoke to wolves and danced with shadows. "Trees remember kings," she finally said. "Make the forest remember your name."
Lord Jerrick Blackhale, Lord of the Mines, entered with the smell of iron and sweat. A giant of a man, he wore armor even within the hall and knelt without ceremony. "A pickaxe carves mountains like a sword carves kingdoms," he growled. "You’ll have our steel as long as you keep the fires burning."
Ser Toman Reedvale, Knight of the Frost Marches, stood in shining silver armor despite the cold. His house had southern roots, and some considered him too proud and too polished. Yet his sword was sharp, and his riders unmatched in the frozen hills near the borderlands. "Kings rise and fall like snowflakes," he said. "But if you stand firm, my sword stands with you."
Old Maedric Hollow, Keeper of the Vale of Bones, appeared as a relic — thin, hunched, and dressed in grey. His lands lay far north, where the ground held more dead than living. People said he spoke to crows and buried his own brother alive. "Death follows kings," he rasped, his lips chapped from the cold. "The question, young Robb, is whether you walk ahead of it or behind."
Last came Lady Celyne of Wyrmdell, Mistress of Fire and Glass. Her lands brimmed with old magic, warm springs, and unique crafts. Her skin was as dark as midnight, and her hair wrapped in gold thread. She carried no sword, yet Robb felt her presence weigh heavily on him. "A beggar boy on a throne of frost," she said, circling him like a flame. "I wonder, will you melt or burn the world instead?"
As they stood before him, six pillars of power, Robb remembered something his mother once whispered before fever took her: “A crown is not given. It’s taken and held, with blood.”
The snow had thickened by the time the raven arrived.
It came at dusk, its black wings cutting across the white sky. Its cry was shrill and sharp enough to pierce stone. The bird landed on the frostbitten perch just outside the great hall, shaking flakes from its feathers. Its scroll was sealed with red wax, marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
Maester Wyland broke the seal with trembling hands. Even after decades of service, the old man had never touched a letter bearing the king’s personal sigil. His breath fogged as he read. He glanced at Robb, then back to the parchment, as if unsure whether the boy was ready for its contents.
“My lord,” Wyland finally said, his voice thin like a reed. “A summons from the Iron Throne itself.”
Robb took the scroll. The paper smelled of dragonsmoke and foreign ink. The writing was elegant, featuring fluid Valyrian strokes, with a translation in the common tongue beneath.
To Robb of House Frostavle, Called the Beggar King, Lord of the North, Keeper of the Iceborn Lineage—
By the grace of old and new gods, I—Daemon of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms—recognize your claim over the northern frostlands.
Let it be known that your title shall bear its truest name: King of Snow and Steel, if you dare earn it.
A contest is to be held in the holy lands of Godsrest, where fire meets faith. You are summoned to stand among heirs, champions, and sons of noble blood. Let your sword speak for your name, and your heart prove your crown is no accident.
Ride south. Winter ends where the dragon’s breath begins.
King Daemon Targaryen
The Blackflame Reborn
Robb read it twice. The title burned into him: King of Snow and Steel. A name forged by fire, not frost. The kind of name history remembers or destroys.
The great hall was silent as he handed the scroll to Maester Wyland. Even Lord Drek, who mocked the storms, remained quiet now.
Lady Vellthorn broke the stillness. “It is a trap.”
“No,” Lord Blackhale grunted. “It’s a challenge.”
Lady Celyne smiled faintly. “It’s both.”
Robb stood from the throne, the furs of his cloak rustling like dry leaves. “It doesn’t matter what it is,” he said. “If I want to wear this crown, I can’t hide beneath it.”
The fire behind him cracked, sending sparks into the air.
“I’ll ride for Godsrest.”
The sky split open with fire.
They heard the dragon before they saw it, a thunderous roar that sent flocks of ravens scattering from the treetops. Snow swirled and melted in the wake of wingbeats that shook the pine-topped ridges. The great shadow passed over Frostavle Keep like an eclipse.
Then came the flames, not wild or wrathful, but bright and controlled, streaking across the horizon in a blaze of crimson and gold. A single figure rode atop the beast, cloaked in black and silver, hair as pale as ice.
Maester Wyland gasped softly. “Gods help us. A Targaryen comes north.”
The lords gathered in the courtyard. Some gripped their swords. Others merely stared, spellbound. Dragons had not flown over the North since Aegon’s first conquest, and even then, they had not lingered.
The beast circled once, then descended with a grace that belied its size. Its talons struck stone, sending cracks through the old courtyard. Snow hissed into steam beneath its body.
The rider dismounted with practiced ease.
She was tall for her age, perhaps seventeen, clad in riding leathers stitched with Valyrian steel thread. Her white hair was braided down her back, and her clear, piercing eyes, the color of northern ice, met Robb’s without hesitation.
“I am Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” she said, her voice strong and steady. “Daughter of Daemon, First of His Name. My father sends me as your companion to Godsrest and your rival, should the gods will it.”
Robb stepped forward, heart pounding.
“I am Robb of Frostavle,” he said. “If we are to ride together, we ride as equals.”
She looked at him, truly looked. For a moment, neither spoke.
“You have my eyes,” she said quietly.
“You have mine.”
A flicker passed between them. Recognition? Fate? Or something older—blood calling to blood?
The dragon behind her, a sleek creature with molten red and black scales, lowered its head to Robb’s height. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed him. For a terrifying second, he thought it might breathe. Instead, it growled low, a sound like mountains shifting.
“You’ve met Draevyx,” Rhaenyra said. “He doesn’t bow for many.”
Robb didn’t flinch. “Then he’ll have to get used to me.”
Lady Celyne watched from the ramparts, eyes narrowed. “The snow boy and the dragon girl,” she whispered to herself. “Two fires from different frost.”
They stood in the courtyard long after the lords had returned to their chambers. Firelight from the keep cast long shadows on the stone. Draevyx lay coiled behind them, his wings tucked, his black-and-scarlet eyes half-lidded but watchful.
Rhaenyra stepped closer to Robb, her breath fogging in the cold night air. The stars appeared, thousands of them glittering like frost across the sky. Above them, the moon hung low and silver.
“You’ve never flown, have you?” she asked.
Robb shook his head. “I’ve seen them in dreams. Never with my eyes open.”
She turned to Draevyx and placed a hand on the beast’s warm hide. “You could ride with me. Draevyx won’t mind. He likes you.”
Robb looked at the dragon. The creature’s eyes narrowed on him, but they offered no threat. Only something strange—curiosity, almost gentleness. Draevyx lowered his head slightly, smoke curling from his nostrils.
“I’m not afraid,” Robb said, but the lie struggled on his tongue. His sword had faced men, not monsters.
“You should be,” Rhaenyra said, stepping closer. “But do it anyway.”
She climbed with practiced grace, settling into the saddle between Draevyx’s shoulders. Then she turned and offered a hand.
He stared at it.
You're a king now, he told himself. Stop thinking like the boy with torn boots and empty pockets.
Robb took her hand.
The dragon rumbled low, shifting its weight. Robb swung himself up behind her, grasping the saddle straps. The warmth of Draevyx’s body radiated through him—wild, ancient, alive.
“Hold tight,” Rhaenyra said.
Then Draevyx leapt.
The courtyard disappeared in a roar of wind and fire. Stone blurred beneath them. Then the night opened wide and deep, and they were flying.
The North fell away behind them—snowy hills, rivers of ice, forests dark as ink. Draevyx’s wings beat like thunder, yet the world above was silent. The cold bit into Robb’s cheeks, but he didn’t care. His heart pounded with awe, not fear.
He looked up. The sky was endless.
Stars glittered in every direction, so close he thought he could touch them. They passed through a cloud like smoke, and it parted around them like a veil. Rhaenyra glanced back once, her hair lashing like silver fire in the wind.
“Still breathing?” she called.
“Barely,” Robb grinned.
They flew for hours or maybe only minutes. Time bent in the sky.
When Draevyx began to descend, the lights of Godsrest shimmered far below—a ring of marble towers surrounding a vast lake, glowing with torchlight. At its center stood the great temple, domed and golden, where the Old Gods and the New were said to speak as one.
The dragon landed on a high terrace overlooking the holy city. Robb dismounted with shaking legs, but his eyes sparkled with wonder.
Rhaenyra joined him, her breath shallow from the cold.
“You did well,” she said.
He looked at her. “So did you.”
For a moment, they stood close, two pale-haired strangers bound by flame and frost, staring out at the city where fate waited to test them both.
Far above, the stars kept watch, silent and eternal.
The dragon landed softly on the wide stone terrace. Robb jumped down first, and his boots made a gentle thud upon hitting the ground. The air here felt warmer than in the North, and it smelled of flowers and burning oil instead of snow and pine trees.
Guards awaited them, dressed in black and red armor adorned with the Targaryen dragon on their chests. A tall man stood in front of them, his silver-blond hair tied back neatly. He wore a dark red cloak and a silver pin shaped like the Iron Throne.
This was Jace Targaryen, the Hand of the King.
He stepped forward and gave Robb a brief bow. “King Robb of Frostavle,” he said politely. “Welcome to Godsrest.”
Robb nodded, unsure if he should bow in return. He chose to stand tall.
“I hear your flight went well,” Jace added, glancing at Rhaenyra. “And that Draevyx didn’t eat you.”
“He likes him,” Rhaenyra said with a small smile.
Jace raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask anything further.
“Come. Your rooms are ready. The contest starts tomorrow morning, but tonight, the king asks that you rest. You’ll need your strength.”
They followed him through long halls made of white stone. The walls were carved with images of dragons and old kings. Fire flickered in golden lamps, lighting their path.
After a few turns, they arrived at a large wooden door with iron bars across it.
Jace paused and looked at Robb.
“These are your chambers. You’ll find food, clean clothes, and armor fitted for you. If you’d like, the king will speak with you after the first round of the contest.”
He paused, studying Robb for a moment.
“You’ve come a long way, boy,” he said. “But the higher you rise, the more enemies you’ll have. Be careful. Smiles here often hide sharp teeth.”
Robb met his gaze. “I’ve been around people like that before,” he said. “I’m not afraid of them.”
Jace offered a faint smile. “Good. Then maybe you’ll last longer than most.”
He turned and walked away, his red cloak trailing behind him like smoke.
Robb sat alone by the window. The cold night air brushed his face as he gazed into the dark sky. His thoughts kept drifting back to Rhaenyra—the girl who rode the dragon, the princess with ice-like eyes.
The night was quiet and filled with stars, but none shone as brightly as she did in his mind.
To the people of Godsrest, Rhaenyra Targaryen was a living legend. Her beauty was fierce and unforgettable, not gentle or soft. Her pale skin glowed even in the darkest halls, like moonlight. Her white hair fell like spun silver, framing a sharp, proud face with high cheekbones. Her lips rarely smiled but hinted at secrets.
Her eyes, those piercing blue eyes, were said to hold both fire and frost, capable of freezing hearts or setting them ablaze. Many whispered that she resembled a dragon herself, fierce and wild, impossible to tame.
Yet, beneath her strength, there was a quiet grace, like the stillness before a storm.
Robb knew he would see her again soon. The contest awaited, bringing the fate of kings with it.
But for now, all he could do was watch the night and remember the girl who had come with fire on her wings.
The morning sun poured over the grand arena of Godsrest, turning the stone walls golden and casting long shadows across the sand. The air was already warm, but a crisp breeze whispered through the stands, carrying the sounds of clashing steel and shouted commands.
In the highest seats, Eamon Frostavle sat with his daughter beside him. His eyes were sharp, watching every move in the ring below with the calm of a seasoned lord. His daughter’s gaze was fierce and curious, taking in the knights’ duels with wide eyes.
“They’re strong,” she said softly, gripping the edge of her seat as two armored knights locked swords at the center of the arena.
Eamon nodded. “But not all strength comes from muscle. Some comes from skill, and some from fear.”
Below, the combatants battled fiercely, sparks flying as their blades met time and again. The crowd roared with every strike and parry.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena. “Next
The signal was given. Robb tightened his grip on his swords, two finely balanced blades, sharp enough to strike but dull enough to draw no blood. The clang of metal filled the arena as he faced Tylarion’s attack.
Tylarion was fast and strong, swinging heavy blows that tested Robb’s skill and speed. The crowd gasped with every near hit and cheered when Robb parried or dodged.
For minutes, they circled and fought, blade against blade, each strike ringing through the air. Sweat dripped from Robb’s forehead; his arms burned with the effort, but he remained steady.
Then, in a quick move, Robb saw his chance. Tylarion’s guard dropped for a fraction of a second, and Robb slipped past, knocking the larger man’s sword aside and pushing him to the ground.
The arena erupted in cheers.
Breathing hard, Robb helped Tylarion to his feet. The two men bowed to each other, respect earned in battle.
From the crowd, Rhaenyra stepped forward, carrying a crown made of fresh flowers, delicate white blossoms woven with green leaves and tiny silver threads that caught the sunlight.
She smiled and placed the crown gently on Robb’s head.
“King of Snow and Steel,” she said softly.
Robb touched the crown, feeling its lightness and the weight of its meaning.
The contest was far from over, but this victory was his first step.
The sun sank low as day turned to evening, and the grand feast began in the great hall of Godsrest. Long tables sagged under platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet fruits. Laughter and music filled the air, but underlying the celebration was a rising worry.
Rhaenyra was gone.
The king’s voice rang out in the hall, sharp and commanding. “Ser Harwin Long, take a team to the left woods. Robb, search the right side. Find the princess now.”
Ser Harwin, tall and broad, nodded and quickly vanished into the shadows on the left. Robb tightened his cloak and moved swiftly into the trees on the right.
The forest was thick and dark, with the scent of damp earth and pine. Robb stepped carefully, his eyes scanning for any sign of her. After a tense search, he finally saw a pale figure near a small clearing—Rhaenyra, seated quietly on a fallen log, staring into the twilight.
“Princess,” Robb called softly.
She looked up, startled but unharmed.
“I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” she said, standing. “I just needed to think.”
Robb nodded and stepped closer. They spoke in low voices, the world fading away until sudden rustling broke their quiet.
From the underbrush, a wild boar charged—huge, furious, with sharp tusks gleaming in the fading light.
Robb drew his sword, heart racing. Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed as she moved beside him, ready to fight.
The beast crashed toward them, but they fought together—Robb dodging the tusks and striking with quick blows, while Rhaenyra used her agility to distract and weaken the creature.
After a fierce struggle, the boar fell, breathing heavily but defeated.
Robb exhaled and turned to her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, brushing dirt from her cloak. “Thanks to you.”
Together, they made their way back to the feast, the danger behind them but the night still full of questions.
The morning sun filled the great hall with a soft golden light, illuminating the gathered crowd. Lords, knights, and nobles from across the realm had come to witness the ceremony. The air buzzed with whispers and anticipation.
At the center stood Rhaenyra Targaryen, her silver hair shining like a crown. Her eyes showed the calm strength of someone born to rule.
The king’s voice rang out, steady and clear. “By the right of blood and dragon, I name Rhaenyra Targaryen, my daughter, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”
A hush fell over the hall.
All eyes turned to Robb.
He stepped forward, feeling the weight of the moment on his shoulders. With slow, steady movements, he bent his knees and lowered himself to the ground before her.
“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “I pledge my loyalty and sword to you, heir of the dragon.”
Rhaenyra nodded once, accepting the pledge. There was respect in her gaze, not just for a fellow warrior, but for the boy who had become a king.
The hall erupted in applause.
Robb rose, feeling the shift in power and the start of a new chapter. This chapter would test loyalty and fate like never before.
After the ceremony, as the excitement in the hall faded into quiet conversation, the king of the North stepped forward. His eyes, weathered but proud, met Robb’s with serious kindness.
“Robb Frostavle,” he said, his voice steady. “You have shown courage and honor worthy of the greatest lords. The North has no greater ally than you.”
He reached beneath his cloak and revealed a small, polished chest carved with ancient runes. Opening it, he lifted out
The king’s chamber was dim and warmed by the soft glow of candles. He sat close to his wife, Sansa, their faces serious as the night deepened around them.
“Robb Frostavle,” the king began quietly, “is not just the boy who lost his mother and rose from the streets.”
Sansa looked at him, waiting.
“His mother was from House Frostavle, that’s true,” the king said. “But his father is a Targaryen.”
Sansa’s eyes widened. “You mean Robb is part Targaryen?”
The king nodded. “Yes. That is why he was given a dragon egg. It is an old tradition; only those connected to our blood are given such a thing. It’s a symbol, a sign that they belong to the family.”
He looked at the small chest holding the dragon egg. “By giving Robb this gift, I acknowledged his place—not just as a lord of the North but as part of House Targaryen.”
Sansa’s voice was soft but steady. “This will change everything, once the truth is known.”
The king sighed. “It may. But it also gives him power no one can take away.”
The morning air was sharp and cold as Robb and Rhaenyra stood beside the great dragon, ready to leave Godsrest behind. The city’s towering walls faded in the distance as the dragon stretched its massive wings.
Rhaenyra climbed up easily, her silver hair catching the sunlight. She looked back at Robb with a small smile. “Ready?”
Robb nodded and steadied his breath. The dragon lowered its head, and Robb carefully climbed on beside her.
With a powerful beat of its wings, they lifted into the sky. The wind rushed past them, cold but freeing.
Below, the lands of the North stretched wide, with dark forests, rolling hills, and distant mountains capped with snow.
As they flew side by side, Robb felt the weight of everything he had faced and the journey still ahead.
Beside him, Rhaenyra’s steady presence reminded him that no matter what came next, he wouldn’t face it alone.
When they finally reached the cold, familiar air of the North, Robb felt a sharp relief. The forests and mountains stretched before him like old friends.
That night, Robb asked Rhaenyra to stay with him. Together, they walked through the halls of his keep until he led her to her chamber.
“It’s not often we have a quiet night,” Robb said softly, closing the door behind her.
Rhaenyra smiled, but before they could settle, a soldier hurried in, breathless and serious.
“My lord,” the soldier said, “riders from House Tully have been spotted near the border. They’re ready to attack today.”
Robb’s calm vanished. “Where exactly?”
“Not far. They’re moving fast.”
Without hesitation, Robb stood and reached for his armor. “Prepare the men. We fight tonight.”
He grabbed his sword and headed toward the armory. The weight of battle settled on his shoulders.
Tonight, the war for the North would begin.
The night was thick and cold, stars hidden behind rolling clouds. The archers stood silent, arrows nocked and ready, their eyes sharp in the darkness. Fighters gripped their weapons tightly, muscles tense, hearts pounding.
As the first riders from House Tully charged forward, the air exploded with shouts and the clash of steel. Arrows flew like deadly rain, finding their marks in armor and flesh. The ground shook under the pounding hooves of horses.
Chaos ruled the battlefield—men screaming, horses rearing, swords slashing in the dark.
But in the midst of the chaos stood Robb, steady and fierce. His swords moved like lightning, cutting through the enemy lines with skill and determination. His voice rose above the roar, rallying his fighters to hold the line.
Slowly, the tide turned.
House Tully’s forces faltered, their attack breaking apart beneath Robb’s unyielding defense.
By dawn, the fields were quiet but marked with the scars of battle.
Robb had won.
The North was safe—for now.
The war was over. The fields outside Dunmar were silent now. There were no screams, no banners, only the fading stench of blood in the wind.
Robb rode at the front of his men, his cloak torn, armor dented, and sword strapped across his back. Rhaenyra rode beside him, quiet, her eyes unreadable in the moonlight.
Behind them, a thousand soldiers followed, tired, bruised, and victorious.
The road to Godsrest was long and winding. Snow began to fall again, slow and soft, covering the blood-soaked ground in white.
They didn’t speak much. The silence between Robb and Rhaenyra wasn’t uncomfortable; it was just heavy. There were too many dead and too many memories.
As the city walls of Godsrest came into view, torches lit along the ramparts. Robb finally spoke.
“I’ve killed more men than I can count,” he said. “And yet I still feel like none of it’s done.”
Rhaenyra glanced at him, her voice low. “Because it’s not. Daemon will hear of this. You’ve won a battle, not peace.”
Robb gave a bitter laugh. “Peace is for the dead.”
The gates opened slowly. Lords stood waiting. Robb entered the city like a ghost — not cheered or hailed, just seen. Soldiers broke off, returning to their homes or barracks. Robb and Rhaenyra continued riding through the narrow stone streets, lit only by torchlight.
At the citadel, Lord Varek stood waiting in the courtyard.
“You’ve returned.”
Robb nodded and dismounted. “Dunmar’s ours again. Thorne’s banners burn.”
“Good,” Varek said. “But there’s something you need to see.”
Inside the war hall, a raven waited — dead in its cage.
Varek handed Robb a scroll, sealed with black wax.
Rhaenyra leaned in close as Robb broke the seal.
He read silently.
Then again.
His face darkened.
Rhaenyra asked, “What is it?”
He looked up.
“Daemon’s coming.”
The grand throne room of Godsrest was crowded with lords and ladies dressed in silks and jewels. Their eyes were sharp and curious as Robb Forstavle entered. The cold marble floors echoed beneath his boots. The scent of burning incense mixed with the chatter.
Daemon Targaryen sat atop the black iron throne. He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms. His silver hair caught the torchlight, and his eyes were cold and calculating.
Robb’s pale hair and piercing blue eyes set him apart. He was a northern wolf standing firm among southern lions.
Daemon’s voice broke through the murmurs. “So, you seek soldiers from the heart of the South? Speak plainly. Why should I trust my men to a boy who once begged in the streets?”
Robb met his gaze without flinching. “The North is no longer a land of beggars. It’s a land of warriors. I stand for its survival. But there’s more than war ahead. Whispers from Essos, shadows creeping toward our borders. I need your soldiers to prepare.”
A smirk appeared on Daemon’s lips. “Bold words. But words don’t win wars. Men do. And men fight for coin, loyalty, and fear.”
Robb took a step forward. “Then give me your men. I’ll give you loyalty—true loyalty. Not just from me, but from the North. The Seven Kingdoms are fragile. If we don’t stand together, we will fall apart.”
Silence filled the room.
Then Daemon slowly nodded. “You shall have two thousand dragon-trained men. But heed me—betray me, and you will face a dragon’s wrath.”
Robb nodded in return. “I understand. And I don’t intend to betray.”
Rhaenyra stood quietly to the side. Her gaze was sharp, and a subtle smile played on her lips.
Outside the towering walls of Godsrest, the city thrummed with life. Courtiers whispered, markets bustled, and the shadows of dragons loomed over it all.
Robb’s journey to power had only just begun.
The hall still buzzed with tension after Euron’s exit, whispers curling like smoke through the torches.
Robb stood tall, eyes cold but steady, when suddenly the massive doors behind him slammed open.
A low rumble shook the stone floor — a deep, guttural growl unlike anything the courtiers had heard before.
From the shadows emerged a beast — black scales glistening under the torchlight, wings folded but powerful, eyes burning with fierce intelligence.
Balerion.
Robb’s dragon.
Though barely a month old, Balerion was already nearly the size of an average dragon. His claws scraped the floor, and his breath came in smoky puffs.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Lords scrambled back, eyes wide with awe and fear.
Daemon rose slowly from his throne, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Well, it seems the Wolf brings more than words.”
Robb stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Balerion’s scaled snout.
“This is no longer a boy with a sword. This is a king who commands fire and fury.”
Euron’s face, visible from the far side of the hall, twisted into a snarl.
“Foolish wolf,” he spat. “A dragon’s bite doesn’t make a king.”
Robb’s voice was calm but deadly.
“Perhaps not yet. But it will.”
The hall fell silent, the weight of power shifting like the wind before a storm.
The hall was thick with silence, broken only by the soft hiss of Balerion’s smoky breath.
Then, from across the chamber, Euron Greyjoy’s voice shattered the uneasy calm like a thunderclap.
“Enough!”
All eyes snapped to him as he strode forward, eyes blazing with fury.
“You call yourself a king with your newborn dragon, but dragons alone do not win wars. The seas belong to me — the Kraken. And I will not have a wolf with dragon blood threaten my reign.”
He pointed a long, crooked finger at Robb.
“Consider this your declaration of war, Northern wolf. I will burn your lands, drown your people, and tear your armies apart before you even raise your sword.”
The lords gasped. Some whispered prayers; others clenched fists.
Daemon rose, his expression unreadable but cold.
“You threaten the realm itself, Euron.”
Euron sneered.
“The realm? The realm belongs to those with teeth and claws. Not boys playing at kings.”
Robb’s voice cut through the tension, calm and resolute.
“Then come, Kraken. Let the seas run red.”
Outside, the wind howled through Godsrest’s towering spires as the city braced for the storm Euron had unleashed.
he ride north was long and cold. Snow blanketed the landscape like a silent shroud, and the wind cut through Robb’s cloak like a sharpened blade.
Godsrest faded behind him, replaced by endless forests and frozen rivers. The further he rode, the heavier the weight on his shoulders grew—not just from the biting cold, but from the war coming to his doorstep.
At last, the towers of Forstavle rose from the white landscape, solid and unyielding against the grey sky.
The banners of House Forstavle fluttered proudly—silver wolves on black, symbols of survival and strength.
Robb’s men gathered at the gates, weary but loyal, their eyes lighting up as their king returned.
Inside the great hall, firelight danced on ancient stone walls etched with the history of his house.
Robb stood before his people, voice steady and commanding.
“The Kraken declares war. The seas will rise against us, and the South watches. But this land—this home—is ours to defend.”
A murmur of agreement swelled.
“We fight not just for Forstavle, but for the North. For every child who should never know hunger, for every family torn apart by bloodshed.”
The hall echoed with cries of loyalty and steel striking shields.
Robb looked out at the faces of those who would stand with him.
“This is only the beginning.”
The fire in Forstavle’s great hall crackled, casting long shadows over faces marked by loyalty and doubt alike.
Robb sat at the head of the table, surrounded by his most trusted bannermen. Maps sprawled before them, tokens marking castles and strongholds.
Lord Harren of Blackwater Vale, a grizzled veteran with sharp eyes, spoke first.
“The southern lords watch this Northern wolf with suspicion. Many question if he’s more dragon’s pawn than Northern king.”
Lady Margaery, a cunning southern-born noblewoman married into the North, nodded slowly.
“They whisper in Godsrest too. That Robb’s alliance with Daemon is a weakness, not strength.”
Robb’s jaw tightened.
“Then let them whisper. The North remembers, and we don’t forget those who stand with us.”
A younger lord, Ser Jory, frowned.
“But what of House Thorne? They’ve lost Dunmar, but their reach extends far. They plot still, and with Euron stirring the seas, we risk being caught in a web of betrayal.”
Robb’s eyes flashed.
“That’s why we must be smarter. Diplomacy as sharp as any sword.”
From the corner, Rhaenyra’s voice cut through, calm but fierce.
“The dragons are not just symbols—they’re power. Use them wisely. Show the realm strength, not fear.”
Lord Harren grunted.
“And yet, there are those in the South who will never accept a Northern king, dragon or no dragon. Some would rather see the realm bleed.”
Robb leaned forward.
“Then we make them bleed first.”
The room fell into thoughtful silence.
Robb stood, voice rising.
“This war isn’t just on the battlefield. It’s in these halls. In whispers, in deals, in shadows. We must be ready—body and mind.”
Margaery smiled faintly.
“Then let the game begin.”
Robb’s blade pressed firmly against Euron’s chest, his breath heavy, heart pounding. The fight had drained them both, blood staining stone beneath them.
Euron’s eyes, wild but sharp, locked onto Robb’s. A slow, crooked smile spread across his lips.
“You’re more than just a wolf... You’re the blood of the Kraken too.”
He coughed, a harsh, ragged sound, blood spilling from his mouth.
“Before I go... I name you heir of the Greyjoys.”
Robb froze, disbelief and shock crashing through him like a storm.
“Why would you—?”
Euron’s voice was a fading whisper, yet fierce with unyielding will.
“Because... chaos needs a king. And the North... needs a Kraken.”
His eyes fluttered closed. The madness, the fury, the legacy—all passed in a breath.
Robb stood over the fallen Kraken, the weight of two houses now resting on his shoulders.
The game had just changed.
