Silent Snows: A Robb Stark and Myrcella Baratheon Tale

The Conquering

When Robb Stark takes Kings' Landing, he is covered with blood and soot and sweat.

He liberates the starving masses with a stone countenance covered in enemy blood, riding his black steed through the streets, though without his direwolf by his side, as the commoners cheer when he passes. He looks to be a true warrior, a true king. He does not look as he did all those years ago, with arrows pierced through his flesh and a dagger in his gut.

He walks into the Throne Room to all of his enemies in chains. Cersei and Jaime Lannister, along with that repulsive slug, Littlefinger, will die by his sword and his sword only. Of course, all of those condemned to death will, but he will have their own deaths where his father died. He will have vengeance; he stopped searching for justice long ago.

He stops in front of Cersei. "You will die. I will behead you on the palace steps, kneeling where my father once kneeled. He was honorable; he gave you the opportunity to flee before you orchestrated his death. You will find no such honor nor mercies from me."

Her eyes narrow and her face contorts into a vicious sneer. "I suppose your wife would be proud then, Young Wolf? Tell me, did the child they cut from her womb take shape yet, or was it merely a lump of unformed flesh?"

Robb's stone mask cracks, and the unadulterated rage makes Cersei's countenance contort to one torn between twisted satisfaction and petrified fear. If looks could kill, Cersei Lannister's death would be drawn out and excruciating. "You will die as your father has, Lady Lannister. Alone, in defeat and humiliation, with no one who loves you. Your manipulation has been your downfall. I take no pleasure in killing, but I shall enjoy your death."

Brienne of Tarth stands behind him, watching the Kingslayer with such intensity and desperation that it almost pains Robb, thinking of what he must do next, of the loss he must force her to endure. But then he thinks of Bran and his father and his mother and he knows that he will never be able to close his eyes at night if it transpires any other way.

So he breathes, and turns to the once blonde deity. Oh, how things have changed. The Kingslayer is nothing more than a battered sack of bones now, soot and dried blood marring his face. The blood on Robb's face is fresh. "And you, Kingslayer. Your death shall be the same. Bran was innocent. However, in light of the honor you displayed for Lady Brienne, I will allow you the choice of dying before or after your sister."

"How merciful, Your Grace," Jaime spat, blood splattering on Robb's already ruined boots.

Robb cannot keep a stoic facade forever, so he grabs the Kingslayer by the collar and lurches him up to meet his eyes. Once green and lively, Jaime Lannister's eyes have hollowed. Robb's are different as well. They are filled with the bitterness and darkness that death and war have brought him. He can see the Kingslayer's pupils spark with recognition of the monster he's truly become.

"You are the reason my brother will never walk again, Lannister. Your abomination of a bastard terrorized my sister. I will not let you destroy this land with your presence any longer. It is time to answer for your crimes, and if I recall correctly, Kingslayer, a Lannister always pays his debts."

A girl with golden blond hair matted with dirt surges forth against her chains, shattering the silence. "Stop! Please, stop! Have mercy, Your Grace, please! Have mercy!"

She was a pretty thing, even in the shackles and in no more cloth than her nightdress. They were seized in the night, if he recalls correctly, her long honey golden locks braided down her back. She looks innocent, as he recalls Sansa looking, before it all. How a Lannister could manage to look so very innocent, he would never know. Her pleas are like those Sansa must have screamed for their father, all those years ago. He is one and twenty, having beaten every man and woman who sought to kill him. And she must be at least fifteen by now, if not older, not like the scared little girl his sister had been, no more than twelve. He will not let another innocent suffer the way his sister has. Seven years of war may have changed him, but they have not changed all of him.