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——
The man Robb saw pulling his horse to a stop wasn't anything like the stories. Not even close. The tales spoke of a demon on the battlefield, a warrior king forged in fire and fury.
This man?
He looked more like a fat innkeeper who'd had one too many drinks, his face red and puffy, his breathing heavy even from just sitting on a horse.
But despite how he looked definitely not kingly everyone in the courtyard dropped to their knees the moment Robert Baratheon rode in.
Mud splashed up from his horse's hooves.
Following him like shadows were four members of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks spotless even after the long ride, their faces hidden behind serious-looking helmets. They looked ready for anything, a sharp contrast to the king they guarded.
As King Robert finally pulled his horse to a halt near the center of the yard, a young squire scrambled forward. He was practically tripping over his own feet, carrying a small wooden stool.
It was obvious why helping the king, who was clearly overweight and maybe a bit unsteady, get off his massive warhorse wasn't a one-person job without a little help.
Robert grunted as he swung a thick leg over, his armor creaking under the strain, finally planting his boots firmly on the muddy ground.
Once steady, Robert started walking towards Robb's father, Ned Stark, who was still kneeling patiently. The king's face was set in a grumpy, hard expression.
With a wave of his thick hand, he signaled for everyone to get up.
"On your feet," his voice boomed, rough like rocks grinding together.
Everyone shuffled upright, the scrape of boots on stone filling the air for a moment. Robert finally stopped right in front of Lord Stark.
They just stood there, inches apart, staring at each other. Robb felt his own breath catch in his throat. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick and heavy like before a storm.
Everyone was watching, silent, wondering what was about to happen. Robb saw his mother, Lady Catelyn, biting her lip nearby.
Even the guards seemed stiffer than usual. Was the king angry? Was Father in trouble?
"Your Grace," Ned Stark finally said, his voice low and steady. He bowed his head slightly to the king, who was maybe an inch taller but easily twice as wide.
The king just tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Ned's calm face. The silence stretched out, making Robb's skin crawl. What was he waiting for? Then, Robert spoke, his voice surprisingly clear despite his earlier grunting. "You got fat."
Just like that. The words hung in the cold northern air.
The entire courtyard went stone silent again. Robb stared, his eyes wide, feeling a blush creep up his own neck.
He glanced at his father, wondering how he could possibly answer that. You couldn't just snap back at the King of the Seven Kingdoms, could you?
You couldn't just tell him to 'bugger off' or point out his own massive gut.
But to Robb's surprise, his father didn't say a single word. Instead, Ned Stark just slowly, deliberately, lowered his gaze.
He looked down at King Robert's enormous stomach, straining the laces of his leather tunic. Then, Ned's eyebrow arched up, just a fraction, a flicker of dry amusement in his grey eyes.
Robert stared back for another heartbeat, his grumpy face unchanging. Then, suddenly, he paused. A slow grin spread across his face, cracking the grumpy mask.
And then he exploded. A huge, booming laugh burst out of him, echoing off the stone walls of Winterfell.
His massive belly shook like jelly, wobbling beneath his tunic as he threw his head back, roaring with laughter.
It wasn't a mean laugh, Robb realized, but a genuine, happy one. The tension in the yard vanished like smoke.
Before Ned could react, Robert stepped forward, throwing his thick arms around Robb's father, pulling him into a fierce, back-slapping hug that looked like it might crack ribs. "Gods, Ned!" Robert bellowed, still chuckling. "It's good to see you!"
Just as quickly, Robert released Ned and turned, his eyes finding Lady Stark. "Cat!" he shouted, his voice still loud enough to rattle the windows. "Good to see you! Still beautiful!"
Robb didn't pay much attention to his mother's polite greeting, though. His eyes were drawn elsewhere towards the huge, fancy royal carriage that had rolled into the yard behind the riders.
The door opened, and a woman stepped out. Robb's breath caught again. She was incredibly beautiful, with hair like spun gold and eyes the colour of emeralds.
But her pretty face was twisted into a look of clear distaste, like she'd just smelled something rotten, as her eyes swept over the rough stone and muddy ground of Winterfell's courtyard.
This had to be the Queen, Cersei Lannister. Who else could look so regal and so unhappy at the same time?
Following right behind her came two younger children, both with the same striking blonde hair. One was a boy, maybe around Arya's age, maybe a bit older, with bright green eyes just like the Queen's. The other was a girl, looking younger, perhaps Bran's age, with a quieter look about her.
It didn't take a genius to figure it out. Robb realized these must be the younger royal children, Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella.
Which meant... the other blonde prince he'd seen riding near the front, the older one with the arrogant sneer he'd noticed earlier, the one he thought might have been called Tytan in some rumour... that must be Joffrey, the Queen's oldest son.
But that just raised another question in Robb's mind, a confusing one. If Joffrey was here, and Tommen was here... then where was the Crown Prince? Weren't kings supposed to have their oldest son, the heir, with them on important trips like this?
"My Queen," Ned said, his voice steady as he turned to the beautiful blonde woman who had stopped nearby. He bowed his head respectfully, taking the hand she offered almost carelessly. Her fingers were cool as he brushed a light, formal kiss across her knuckles.
——
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