His brother wore grey chainmail over bleached leathers, sword and dagger at his waist, a fur-trimmed cloak across his shoulders. "You must take my place, as I took Father's, until we come home."
I know, Bran replied miserably. He had never felt so little or alone or scared. He did not know how to be a lord.
Listen to Maester Luwin's counsel, and take care of Rickon. Tell him that I'll be back as soon as the fighting is done.
Rickon had refused to come down. He was up in his chamber, redeyed and defiant. "No!" he'd screamed when Bran had asked if he didn't want to say farewell to Robb. "NO farewell!"
I told him, Bran said. "He says no one ever comes back."
He can't be a baby forever. He's a Stark, and near four. Robb sighed. "Well, Mother will be home soon. And I'll bring back Father, I promise."
He wheeled his courser around and trotted away. Grey Wind followed, loping beside the warhorse, lean and swift. Hallis Mollen went before them through the gate, carrying the rippling white banner of House Stark atop a high standard of grey ash. Theon Greyjoy and the Greatjon fell in on either side of Robb, and their knights formed up in a double column behind them, steel-tipped lances glinting in the sun.