The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - VIII

ROBB WAS RUNNING. He could feel the scrape of twigs and stones beneath his bare feet, the rushing of the wind against his face. It ruffled his hair and filled him with an odd excitement. He could hear his breathing, rough but shallow. Trees rushed past him in a blur and yet he was so far away from them, close to the ground.

The sounds of combat surrounded him. Metal, splashing, screaming. Someone begged for mercy. He was racing right towards the thick of the fight. With a leap, his body rose high, water droplets flying from him as he left the ground. His teeth bared and blood rushed to meet them.

He woke, gasping, in his bed. Above him was the grey fabric of his tent, rather than the moonlit trees he had seen a moment ago. The dream was already slipping away. All he recalled now was battle and blood. He swore, fingers raking down his face, feeling the sweat that had gathered.

His nerves were still rattled when sunlight streamed through the entrance. Olyvar ran in, his grey eyes wide and darting. He did not bow but instead stood there, staring back at Robb. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Rubbing his eyes, Robb sat up and croaked, "What is it?"

No response came. The boy tripped over his feet, holding out a letter. Taking it, he read it over. The heat that had overwhelmed him before was gone and he now felt a strange coldness, as though something had passed through him — like the spirits in Old Nan's tales. He could not think of spirits. He could not think of anything. His eyes stung with the threat of tears.

"I wish to be alone."

At some point, he ventured out of the safety of his tent. He'd put his armour on himself but some buckles were loose, some pieces on all wrong. Every thought he attempted stopped before he could properly grasp at it.

They knew. The soldiers watched him go. Some bowed, and a few of his lords attempted to convey words of consolation. He passed them all by without acknowledgement. He walked and walked, not stopping until he was free from their sight, standing alone on a rocky hill separated from the camp by woods.

A cry tore from him, hoarse and inhuman. He did not recognise it as his own. Before he could stop himself, he had snatched his sword from its sheath and swung at the nearest tree. His blade cut into it again and again. It brought no comfort but the dull noise was enough to drown out the sound of his sobbing so he kept at it.

The bark morphed before his blurring eyes. Its lines shifted to form faces. Cersei. Jaime. He swung again and let out another yell of rage. Tyrion. Tywin. Joffrey. Damn them. Damn them all. They would pay for it. They would pay for what they took.

Father was gone. What was he to do without him? All his life, he had gone by a simple code: what would father do? Now there was nothing. He felt alone, more than ever before. Lost.

Someone was calling his name but he did not stop. He did not know how. But his arms ached and his body felt weak. "Robb? Robb. Robb!" It ended. Turning, he met his mother's gaze. She was not herself. She was pale and the light had left her blue eyes. "You've ruined your sword."

He looked to his blade, now blunted. It grew heavy in his hand and fell. A pitiful sight, he stumbled forward, his breath shallow and ragged. She pulled him to her. As he clung to her, she stroked through his hair and rubbed his back, soothing his sobs as she had done when he was a child. "I'll kill them all," he promised into the fur of her cloak, now wet with his tears. "Every one of them. I will kill them all."

"My boy. They have your sisters. We have to get the girls back, and then we will kill them all."

—

He forced himself to leave his tent that evening. Though his stomach was unsettled, he ate and drank with his men in the forest clearing they had come to, beyond some old ruins. It was pitch black around them, only candles and torches to light their temporary hall. Discussions had ensued but he only paid half a mind to them. His whole body felt heavy, his eyes dried out from crying and his head pounding. It was too much.

"The proper course is clear: pledge fealty to King Renly and move south to join our forces with his," Galbart Glover was announcing, pacing back and forth before the lords' table.

This caught his attention. He spoke out coldly for the first time since that morning, "Renly is not the King."

The man looked at him in bewilderment. "You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, my lord. He put your father to death."

"That doesn't make Renly King." All eyes were on him now. It was the last conversation he wanted to have. Robb did not wish to speak of kings, he had had enough of them. Nevertheless, he raised his voice for his company to hear. "He's Robert's youngest brother. If Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can't be King before Stannis."

"Do you mean to declare us for Stannis?"

Lady Mormont shrugged. "He does have the better claim."

"Renly is not right," someone heckled from the depths of their dark dining space.

Ser Stevron stood and smiled thinly at them all. "My lords, I must urge caution. Wait, let these two kings play their game of thrones. When they are done fighting, we can bend out knees to the victor, or oppose him, as we choose. With Renly arming, likely Lord Tywin would welcome a truce... and the safe return of his son. Noble lords, allow me to go to him and arrange good terms and ransoms..."

His suggestion was roared down, the table breaking out in shouts of indignation until he had no choice but to sit again. They all joined in — all except for Roose Bolton, who sat in thoughtful silence, sullen as always, watching the proceedings with the look of a reader rather than a listener; it was a habit of his that Robb had learned to expect. He was calculated in all things but a loyal ally, choosing his side every time.

It was not long before the din became enough even for the Greatjon, who groaned, downing the rest of his ale before standing. "My lords..."

"If we put ourselves behind Stannis—"

"My lords!" His booming voice commanded silence. "Here is what I say to these two kings." He spat on the ground, earning a few whoops and laughs. But, unlike with his jokes, he did not stop there. He had a purpose, though Robb could not anticipate it. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood? Even their gods are wrong!" More laughter. He kept on, "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to, and now the dragons are dead."

Reaching for the sheath at his back, he drew his greatsword. Robb's breath caught in his throat. The blade was pointed at him.

"There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to — the King in the North!"

Robb stared at him. There had not been a King in the North for hundreds of years. He did not know what to say but found himself standing.

Lord Karstark also stood. His face was still heavy from fresh grief but he, too, drew his sword and knelt. "I'll have peace on those terms. They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well. The King in the North!"

Next was Maege Mormont. She threw her spiked mace down at Robb's feet. "The King of Winter!" Her eldest, Dacey, laid down her morningstar and echoed her.

More lords followed. Stunned, Robb scanned the faces around him and met Theon's proud gaze. The boy — a man, now — got to his feet and asked, "Am I your brother, now and always?"

"Now and always."

He laid his blade down and lowered himself with the others. "My sword is yours, in victory and defeat, from this day until my last day."

His mother smiled for him. He saw it, though, the pain in her eyes. She no longer saw him as her little boy. A part of him wished she would. He did not know if he was ready to be a man — especially the man that his people needed.

"The King in the North!" the Greatjon cried out. The call was taken up. Soon, Robb towered over a sea of deference, the chant filling the forest. It was all for him. For a new king of old.