Robb had not taken the seat of honor behind the desk, choosing instead a hard-backed chair near the door. He had left the high-backed chair draped in a thick black bearskin for Viserys.
Now Robb sat straight-backed with his fingers interlaced on his knees, trying hard to maintain the bearing expected of a great lord.
But the weariness etched into his brow and the faint dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed the immense pressure the young ruler of the North had endured of late.
At the sound of the door opening, Robb immediately raised his head and looked toward the entrance.
Viserys stepped inside and reached back to close the door himself, shutting out both the attendant and the chill of the corridor.
He first surveyed the study, his gaze lingering briefly on the map before settling on the thick book lying open on the desk. Only then did he look at Robb.
Without ceremony, he walked straight to the seat of honor and sat down. Even the softness of the black bearskin seemed unable to soften his impassive expression.
"Your Grace." Robb rose first and bowed respectfully, then spoke before Viserys could. His voice sounded especially clear in the quiet room, but especially grave as well. "There were too many eyes and ears at the feast just now. Some things were difficult to discuss."
He paused, seemingly gathering his courage, then continued, "The truth is, even now, there are still some houses in the North... some people who have not fully accepted bending the knee to House Targaryen's Iron Throne. Not everyone saw where things stood after the Battle of Harrenhal. Here in the North, the loyalties and pride of many ancient houses are not so easily set aside."
"I know," Viserys replied evenly, as though Robb had merely