The walk back down the mountain was decidedly easier than the climb up.

After the avalanche, everyone had agreed that continuing on would be a foolish idea. Boromir had said they should pass through the Gap of Rohan, whereas Gimli had advocated for the Mines of Moria.

Although Robb knew neither of those places, the expressions on both Gandalf and Aragorn’s faces had told him they were equally undesirable. There were no other choices, however, and so in the end, Gandalf had let Frodo fell the decision.

The Ringbearer.

So, there was some importance to the ring on Frodo’s necklace, after all. For all that Robb still did not know how they were going to destroy this weapon of Sauron’s, he was slowly but surely getting the impression that this ring played quite an important role in the whole endeavour.

After some deliberation, Frodo had decided that their way would be leading them through Moria. Gimli seemed to be the only one happy about that; a fact that did not fill Robb with confidence.

They reached the place where they had camped the evening before in the early hours of the morning, just as the sun began to rise over the horizon.

As they had not slept in a day, they decided to do so now.

Robb was glad his dreams still did not make him scream. Bolton stabbed him in the heart, this time. (That feeling, Robb knew already.)

At around noon, they continued on—south, as far as Robb could tell.

The day went by peacefully and they made good time, as opposed to the night before.

Pippin seemed to be overly eager to strike up a friendship with him, constantly asking him questions about Robb’s home and his life before he had come here.

Robb did not feel compelled to stop him.

He had missed having someone to talk to and even if Robb did not tell him everything—his time as the King in the North, his death—it was nice to speak to someone about his home.

Pippin reminded him of Bran and Rickon—Robb quickly pushed away the wave of agony he felt thinking of them—and that made him all the easier to talk to. It also resulted in him telling mostly anecdotes from his childhood in Winterfell—those had been easier times.

Robb talked about the time Jon had covered himself in flour and hidden in the Crypts to scare Arya, Bran and Sansa. About the time Jon and he had accumulated a mountain of snow on the ramparts to push it on unsuspecting victims in the courtyard. About the time Theon had-

Robb stopped.

He clenched his jaw and shoved the thoughts of the man he had considered a brother away before he had a chance to get lost in his fury.

Robb instead delved into a story about when Arya, fed up with Septa Mordane’s embroidery lessons, but unable to leave due to their mother’s presence, had embroidered the words ‘Arya Stark did this in 295 AC and hated every stitch’ on the fabric.

Robb was thankful Pippin made no mention of the sudden change in topic.

“So, your father was a lord as well?”

Robb went rigid as he felt Boromir come to walk next to him.

“He— aye, he was the Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North,” he replied, trying not to let his discomfort show. “Although I suppose those places mean little to you.”

Boromir laughed good-naturedly. “Indeed, they do not. But I can imagine that the North must be a vast place, going by what I have gleaned from your stories.”

Robb nodded, trying to smile as well. “It is.”

There was a stretch of silence, before—

“My father is the steward of Gondor. It seems we have more in common than I thought.”

Robb held back the ‘more in common with my father, really’ that threatened to escape him. Boromir had done nothing to deserve such cold treatment from him. Robb really needed to remember it wasn’t Boromir’s fault that he looked so much like Ned Stark.

“Do you have any siblings?” he asked instead.

Boromir’s smile instantly widened. “Yes. My brother Faramir is a ranger of Ithilien.”

Alright, Robb really needed to get a map from somewhere.

“Well, I know nothing of Ithilien, but I am sure your father must be proud of his sons.”

By the way Boromir’s face fell, Robb could tell he had been wrong.

“He is proud of me, to be sure,” he sighed. “But no matter what Faramir does, he just cannot please our father.”

Robb was strongly reminded of Jon’s relationship with Robb’s mother. He knew Jon had always tried to be obedient and the best version of himself he could be, but due to his status as her lord husband’s bastard, she had disliked him so strongly that she had never seen any of his virtues.

In some way, Robb could understand his mother, of course—but he would never grasp how she could think Jon a threat to her children when the only thing he wanted was a family.

“I know what you mean,” Robb told Boromir. “My half-brother’s relationship with my mother was just like that. It is sometimes painful to watch.”

Boromir sighed. “But not as painful as it is for our brothers, I am afraid.”

Robb could only agree.