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it wasn't exactly love at first sight,
but familiarity. like: oh hello, it's you. it's always going to be you.
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Everything was going to shit.
The Young Wolf paced the floor of his tent, his steps hard and uneven, like a man trapped in a snare. Every day, they won battles, and yet somehow, they were losing the war. His mind was a storm of anguish and fury, twisting tighter with each passing moment. Hermione was still gone, no word from her or Willem. His own mother had betrayed him by freeing the Kingslayer, Stannis had lost at Blackwater, and now this—the worst blow yet. Roose Bolton stood before him, his face as cold as the flayed man on his banners, delivering news that twisted the knife already lodged deep in Robb's heart.
"Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell," Bolton said in his smooth, deadpan voice. "Your brothers are his prisoners. We've sent ravens, but none have returned."
Robb felt the rage boiling beneath his skin, his hands curling into fists, knuckles white. Theon—his brother in all but blood—had turned cloak. Betrayed everything. Betrayed him. For what? A crown of driftwood and salt? Theon had always sought to prove something, but Robb never thought he'd prove his treachery.
"If we storm the castle—" Robb began, but Bolton interrupted, his tone slippery, almost serpentine.
"Theon wouldn't dare harm the boys," Bolton said, his pale eyes glinting. "They're his only bargaining chip. His only chance to leave the North with his head still attached to his shoulders."
Robb clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the bile rising in his throat. The pain, the hurt, the betrayal all churned together, but the anger—it was the anger that filled him. He'd fought alongside Theon, laughed with him, shared his deepest thoughts with him. And now, Theon had spit on all of it. He had taken Winterfell—his home. He had captured Bran and Rickon—his brothers.
"Send word to your bastard," Robb said, his voice a growl. "Any Ironborn who surrenders will be allowed to leave Winterfell unharmed."
Bolton raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly. "A touch of mercy, your Grace?"
