Jonsa introducing their children to their namesakes.
okay so i have to say, this became more of sansa doing it & it’s only with robb. my headcanon is that most of the children are named for the dead & i didnt want to write the same scene for all of the children.
so if you want more of these, let me know, im sure i could come up with something else for the other kids!
hope you like it. thanks for the request.
When Robb was five years old, his mother took him down to the crypts.
It wasn't for the first time, they went down there often, and often Robb snuck down there with Brother Sam to play, though he wouldn't tell his mother that. Today, however, they do not stop at the usual spots- his grandparents graves- but rather they move a few feet further down, stopping at the stone statue of a young, handsome man with a great wolf at his feet. Even in stone, young Robb can see the Stark features of his father and the Tully of his mother. The young stone face is a perfect mix of the many faces he's come to know of the various families and he wonders what color the stone hair would have been. "Who is it, lady mother?" The boy asks, quietly, something strange welling up within him. A sense of sadness, he knows what that feels like, and a sense of... Something he's too young to yet understand. Later, he will call it an emptiness, staring into the face of someone you'll never know.
"It is your uncle, sweet child," his mother's honey like voice fills him with warmth as she sinks down to his level, hands upon his shoulders. "He was my older brother, your uncle Robb. It is he you are named for." She's smiling, a soft, but sad smile as she too stares up at the stone face of the young man. Young Robb knows that if those stone eyes were real, they would look just like his mother's. "He was the North's first King in over three hundred years." The little boy stares up at the face of his uncle, wishing with all of his might that he might speak to him, guide him. But the crypts are silent, aside from the soft sigh of his mother's breathing. "He was brave and a true knight, an honorable man that would have been a great king, had he lived." He turns to glance at his mother's face- she's beautiful and young, but sadness clings to her, especially down here among the ghosts and statues. "You too will be a great king someday." Robb blinks and then swallows, giving a solemn, single nod. She leans over him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her hands warm as they slide through his hair. Then she takes his hand and they turn to go, the memories she's now facing more painful than she thought they would be.
As he steps back to return to the courtyard, he pauses for only a moment, allowing her hand to slip from his. He turns back to the statue and his eyes seek out the etching that sits at the very bottom, words he's just begun to learn to read thanks to his mother's teaching. "Robb Stark, the Young Wolf." He reads aloud, thinking of this uncle of his dashing through the halls of Winterfell, a wolf on his heels. "The Young Wolf..." He tests out the name, a grin sliding into place upon his face. And then he returns to his mother's side, sliding his hand into hers as they make their way back down the corridor of the crypts.
[ x x x ]
When Robb Stark fights his first battle at the side of the Northern soldiers, he's hailed a hero, a protector of the North.
When he comes out the victor, he is hailed a hero, the beloved Prince of Winterfell, their future king.
He is called the Young White Wolf, to honor the king he was named for and the father he was born from. He is Robb Stark, the Young White Wolf, the Prince of Winterfell, the blood of the North.
