POPPY | A Game Of Thrones

FORTY-THREE

the best kind of people are

the ones who come into your
life and make you see the sun
where you once saw clouds.

The air hung thick with humidity, clinging to Robb Stark like a second skin. He had hated the southern climes since he was a boy, and now, standing on the banks of the Red Fork for his grandfather's funeral, that hatred was no less. His linen tunic was soaked beneath his armor, clinging to his back and chest as the sweat beaded along his brow. But duty demanded he bear it, as he had borne so much these last few months. The Riverlands had never felt like home to him, not the way Winterfell did, yet here he was, standing alongside his Uncle Brynden, the Blackfish, as they pushed the funeral boat bearing Lord Hoster Tully into the slow-moving river.

Robb's gaze fell on his grandfather's body, swathed in the colors of House Tully, floating gently away. The man had always seemed so unyielding, a force of nature in his rare visits to Winterfell. Now, though, he looked peaceful in death—an irony Robb couldn't shake. Stepping back from the river's edge, Robb joined his mother, Lady Catelyn, and his new wife, Jeyne. Catelyn's eyes flicked to Jeyne with a cold disapproval that Robb could feel, though his mother said nothing. Jeyne stood quietly beside him, her presence as unwelcome as it was necessary.

At the head of the mourners, Lord Edmure Tully took his place, bow in hand. He was nervous, visibly so. His hands shook as he dipped the arrow into the brazier of fire, his face determined yet strained. Robb had seen that look before, often on men trying to prove themselves. Edmure loosed the arrow into the air, and all eyes followed its arc, waiting... It struck the river with a pitiful splash, far from the funeral boat.

Murmurs rippled through the gathered family and bannermen. Robb could barely suppress a smirk, but his mother's sharp glance silenced any amusement. Another arrow, another splash. Edmure's frustration was palpable as he prepared to try again, but Robb's uncle Brynden, always the pragmatist, stepped forward with a grunt, pushing Edmure aside. The Blackfish nocked an arrow, loosed it without hesitation, and the flaming shaft struck the boat squarely, setting the whole vessel alight. Relief spread through the mourners, though Edmure looked fit to burst with shame.

Robb laid a hand on Jeyne's back as they turned from the river. "Let's go," he whispered, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

As they walked back toward the castle, Jeyne glanced over her shoulder at the fading boat, the flames now a distant flicker. "He looked so peaceful," she mused. "Odd, though... setting him on fire and sending him down the river. We don't have customs like that in Volantis."

Robb gave her a sidelong glance. "How do you do it in Volantis, then?"

She smiled, her olive skin catching the soft glow of the setting sun. "We bury our dead beneath trees. The roots feed on the body, and from death comes new life."

"That sounds more poetic than setting a man on fire," Robb said, his lips quirking into a small smile. But the smile quickly faded as his thoughts wandered, not to his grandfather, but to Hermione—the woman he had lost. How long had she lasted before succumbing to her fate? Had she been scared? Had she thought of him in her final moments? He couldn't shake the image of her, alone, somewhere beyond his reach.

Jeyne must have sensed his distraction. "Did you spend much time with him? Your grandfather, I mean."

Robb shook his head. "Not much. I was born here at Riverrun, but we moved back to Winterfell before I was old enough to know him. I remember he forged my first training sword, though. Made a big ceremony out of it."

Jeyne laughed softly. "I can just see it now. You, a boy, running around with a wooden sword, thinking yourself a great knight."

Robb chuckled. "It wasn't a wooden sword," he protested. "It was steel—at least in my mind."

Her laughter was a balm to him, a sound that cut through the heaviness in his chest. He pulled her closer, pressing his forehead against hers, kissing her deeply. For a moment, the war, the death, the oaths—everything fell away.

But the moment shattered when Lord Karstark strode toward them, his face grim. "Your Grace, we have a problem."

Robb's hand slid from Jeyne's waist as he straightened. "What is it?"

"The Freys, your Grace. They're packing up their camp. Heading north, back to the Twins."

Robb's stomach tightened. "What? They swore an oath to me, to the cause."

Karstark's eyes flicked toward Jeyne, and his meaning was clear. "You broke an oath to them first, your Grace."

A cold anger began to brew in Robb's chest. The Freys had always been snakes, and now, it seemed, they were slithering back into the shadows, taking their soldiers with them. Losing their men wouldn't spell the end of his campaign, but it was a blow—one that would make his path to King's Landing all the harder.

"Go back to the castle," Robb muttered to Jeyne before following Karstark toward the Frey camp.

As they approached, Robb could see the Frey men dismantling their tents, packing their belongings. His anger flared hot and wild. "What in the seven hells are you doing?" he bellowed. Only a few turned to acknowledge him. One, a weaselly man with rotting teeth, spat into the dirt.

"We're leaving, your Grace," the man said mockingly. "Before we lose more heads over your broken promises."

Karstark surged forward, fury in his eyes, but Robb caught his arm. No, this wasn't the time for blood. Not yet.

"You made an oath," Robb growled, his eyes locking on a man he recognized—Rolland Frey, one of the few Freys who had proved himself capable in battle. "You swore to me."

Rolland's lip curled. "And you swore to marry Lord Walder's daughter. Then you broke that oath when you wed this Volantene whore."

Before Robb could think, before he could stop himself, his fist connected with Rolland's jaw. The man crumpled, but Robb wasn't finished. He grabbed him by the collar and pounded his fists into the man's face, over and over, blood spraying across his knuckles. Rolland's face became a ruin of red and swollen flesh. Robb felt strong hands pull him back, heard the shouts of the men trying to separate them, but he didn't care. His rage was a fire, and it consumed him.

"Get out!" he roared as Rolland's limp body was dragged away by the other Frey men. "All of you, get out! Go back to your bridge, to your rotting lord. And may you all rot with him!"

Lord Umber's deep laugh rumbled from beside him. "Seven hells, I thought you were going to kill the man."

Robb said nothing, his chest heaving, his fists still trembling from the force of his blows. The war weighed heavier now—his chances slipping further with every lost soldier, every broken oath. Without a word, he turned and stormed back toward the castle, the weight of the North and all its hopes pressing down on his shoulders like a great iron crown.