"My father was the North," Robb declared. "And though they took his head, they could not take his spirit. It lives in every gust of wind, every frozen stream, and every man who stands here tonight."
"The southrons play their games with gold and whispers," Robb said, his voice carrying over the courtyard, silencing the clatter of steel. "They believe a crown makes a King. But we know the truth. Honor isn't a word spoken in a court; it’s the blood we spill for our own." He drew his sword, the steel singing a high, mournful note. "Game of Thrones" The North Remembers(2012)
Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, stood atop the ramparts, his grey direwolf, Grey Wind, a silent shadow at his side. Below, the Northern lords gathered around flickering braziers, their breaths blooming like white ghosts in the dark. The news from King’s Landing had finally curdled: his father, Ned Stark, was dead. "My father was the North," Robb declared
Robb turned, his blue eyes hard as glacial ice. He wasn't a boy anymore; the crown of winter was already settling on his brow, invisible but heavy. He thought of the weirwood tree in the Godswood, its red leaves like weeping sores against the white bark. He thought of his sisters in the lion’s den and his brother, Bran, broken in his bed. "They believe a crown makes a King
