This was the North's two-pronged preparation: resist first, and if that failed, pack up and flee.
"This is Duke Eddard's charge to you. I believe you will carry it out well." Gendry looked at Robb. Military thinking differed from political thinking.
"For the North, for the king's glory," Robb said, his heart surging.
The atmosphere grew somewhat more relaxed after that. After all, there were so many children at the table. Besides the melancholy Bran, there were the lively Arya and Rickon.
"Could you forge me a sword, Your Grace? One even better than Arya's Needle. Master Mikken said you received the Smith's blessing," Rickon requested.
Rickon Stark had bright eyes, having inherited his mother's looks.
Gendry looked at Rickon. Like Arya, the boy seemed to have truly inherited the wolf blood.
Eddard, Catelyn, and Robb's departure south had left Rickon willful and occasionally quite ill-tempered. Shaggydog was as bad-tempered as his master.
"Rickon, you're still little," Catelyn interrupted.
"But little children can become big children." Rickon pursed his lips.
Catelyn considered it. Eddard had also discussed something with her. Keeping so many children at their side was, in fact, a waste of resources.
Rickon was third in line to inherit Winterfell. Eddard felt his temper was growing increasingly wild and wanted to send him to the royal household as a page, which would also foster friendship between the two houses.
After the formalities and a rest, Gendry also asked Robb to take him to see Winterfell's crypts.
Gendry, Daenerys, and Robb stepped together into the thick darkness underground.
They reached the foot of the stairs and entered the profound darkness of the crypt.
"Your Grace, please come in," Robb said.
Shadows crept furtively, and flickering firelight fell across the flagstones beneath their feet, revealing paired granite pillars on either