So, I love the ASOIAF books. I love the HBO adaptation. Really, I do. I love all of it, the triumph and sadness, I love it all in equal measure. Hell, I know that GRRM disapproves of fanfiction – though, I do think that's a bit hypocritical coming from him since that's how he got started: writing stories about comic book characters.
However, in my heart I know I'm a House Stark fanboy through and through. I wanted Robb to win so badly and George crushed that. I love the fact that he did that by the way, since that was one hell of a twist. But, I'm still an optimist.
Robb was a badass and really the bee's knees in my opinion. I wrote this as a bit of a wank piece to be honest, exemplifying how awesome the Stark men are what with the wolfsblood and all.
So, yeah. Wish-fulfillment, basically. Robb Stark fucks people up and gets laid by all the lovely ladies in the Kingdoms. That's what you can expect here. Though, that does not mean I won't try to write in the best way I can. I've got standards people.
I've also got some similar stories planned for other fandoms, specifically Mass Effect. They're all in the same vein as this one: badass good guy kills baddies and bed beautiful women, both alien and human. Should be fun, so keep your eyes peeled for those.
Enough about me, then. Read away.
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Only two kings left now, Margaery Tyrell mused.
Her soft brown eyes roamed across the dimly lit room. Maegor's holdfast, the safest place in King's Landing. Or at least that was what she was told. Noble ladies and their daughters, handmaidens and children, the old and sickly, all huddled together in the dark, candlelight dancing amongst the shadows. Some were crying, young girls and some older, whilst others prayed, whispering to the seven for salvation… but a few could be heard calling upon the old gods, the tree spirits that the Young Wolf knelt to.
It made a bit of sense, truly. Margaery knew well what went through their heads. The Stark boy may very well be the new king by the end of the night. Why not pray to his gods? The seven could not stand against him.
The queen and her children were notably absent, having left the holdfast some time ago.
Two kings… one – my betrothed – cowers behind his mother's skirts and the other rams at the city gates.
Renly Baratheon was dead, slain by a shadow that took the shape of a man. That, or it was Brienne of Tarth, the woman who wanted to be a man, the woman Renly graciously allowed on his rainbow guard. Or mayhaps it was not the Tarth girl. Mayhaps it was Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, as some knights had claimed. Mayhaps it was Stannis, Renly's older brother, the supposed true heir to the Iron Throne.
If it was Stannis who murdered Renly, it no longer mattered. Stannis had also met his end, cut down just inside the city gates during the great battle of the Blackwater. He and his men fought bravely and viciously to the bitter end. Lannister and Tyrell forces won that day, but not before losing a man or more for every Baratheon sword. The might of the Stormlands had been stamped out, or at least most of it had. What men that survived the arrival of Lord Tywin's cavalry slipped away, heading north.
Balon Greyjoy, the King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, had fallen off his castle, swallowed up by the very waters that supposedly birthed him, lost to the salt and rock he worshipped so dearly.
The Dragon Queen, Daenerys the Unburnt, had last been spotted heading towards the great city of Qarth, far, far away from the Seven Kingdoms she was said to covet.
"Only the Young Wolf remains," Joffrey had told her with a wicked smile, his small green eyes bright with glee and hatred. "I'll smash him like I smashed Stannis, my lady, and on our wedding day my gift to you will be a fine wolfs pelt. I will give Lady Sansa a gift as well I suppose… Her brother's head perhaps." He had laughed then and so had Margaery, though it shamed her to do so.
That was a fortnight ago, back when the capitol had first received news of Robb Stark marching south with his army of northmen… as well as some twenty thousand swords from the Vale and the Riverlands, in addition to the remaining men from Lord Stannis' army. Now, the King of Winter was on Joffrey's doorstep, with the might of justice at his back. The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, they all lost someone to the Lions of Casterly Rock. Women are the gentler sex, Margaery's parents had taught her, but men have need of vengeance.
Noble Lord Eddard Stark lost his head on Joffrey's order. His son, Robb, sought to return the favor. And the men following him would all rather brave the deepest of the seven hells than allow a bastard born of incest to sit the throne.
Should the Young Wolf claim victory, my betrothed will be executed. That is for certain, the Rose of Highgarden realized then, her heart beating faster. A mother shushed her weeping child a short distance away, all while the fool, Dontos, tried and failed to juggle apples. And what will become of me? Of my family? If we lose…
The Starks of Winterfell were an honorable bunch, yes, but they were cold, hard. Unyielding as the lands they were born to, her brother Garlan had once told her. Some of the smallfolk believed the Starks had ice in their veins rather than blood.
If this King in the North takes the city, Joffrey will be nothing but a bastard born from the loins of the Kingslayer, Margaery breathed deeply, eyes darting from her handmaidens to the door. She still smiled though, for she needed to remain strong. Only tall gaunt Ser Ilyn Payne guarded them, hard eyes staring straight ahead, a greatsword slung sheathed across his back. And I will have been betrothed to a bastard king. I will have consorted with a pretender…
Much to her own surprise, Margaery Tyrell found herself genuinely praying. For the safety of her family… and for merciful conquerors.
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Men were screaming. All around, there were the cries of the dying. There was fire and smoke, thick and hot and black as it was. Orange and crimson snapped at the stars above, while beneath it all the world burned black.
There was the ringing of steel and iron, echoing across the battlefield. And the smell of blood and flesh and the loosened bowels of dead men, but all of that could barely be noticed past the smoke. Robb Stark was shocked to find that he loved it.
His blood was singing to him, his bones as well. His body, all of it, trembling almost. He felt a fire inside him, a stirring deep in his gut when he sunk his blade into another Lannister soldier. He drove it deep into the man's soft belly, and twisted. The Young Wolf wretched the blade free, spilling blood across the ground. The dirt drank it up.
Some distance away, Robb could feel his direwolf, his Grey Wind, end another man. Somehow, he could taste the blood on his lips. It was sweet. Robb smiled at that.
Another enemy spearman charged at him then. But Robb saw him, or perhaps Grey Wind had. It didn't matter. Robb cut down the man – no, boy – a boy no older than himself. Robb cut him down like all the rest that came before. Lions, a voice growls, all of them, lions. Treacherous lions! A slash across the boy's belly and innards spilled out like eels. Another slash across the boy's back when he spun. The spearman fell into a bloody heap.
Grey Wind howled.
Robb saw the moon. The smoke from the fires had yet to blacken the night sky, but the moon…
The moon was red, much the like the comet across the stars. The Young Wolf of Winterfell, Eddard's son, called out to it, his sword raised. It is a wordless cry.
The old gods, his ancestors, Robb could feel them. They were watching, looking down from the heavens. They were with him on the battlefield, every time he put a sword through a lion's gut. They were with Grey Wind, every time he opened a man's throat. They were in his blood, the strength of over a thousand years of Starks flowing throughout his body. Father, Uncle Brandon, Grandfather Rickard, Cregan Stark who fought Aemon the Dragonknight, Rodrik Stark who won Bear Island from the Ironborn, and Theon Stark the Hungry Wolf. He could hear their whispers at his ear. The Starks that came before, they urged him forward, onward to take more and more.
It had been like that since the Oxcross, or seven hells, perhaps the Whispering Wood. It was not something any normal man experienced, Robb was sure of that. No, this was a thirst for blood. Lannister blood. Each victory on the field, each man he cut down, they filled Robb with a warmth, a joy he had scarcely known before. Joy and pride.
Yes, a thirst… and a hunger. A Stark's hunger…
The Crag had not been a challenge. He took the castle from the Westerlings with ease, an utter victory if there ever was one. And Robb had been disappointed. The young maid of Westerling, Jeyne her name was, she treated Robb well enough and tended to his arrow wound with more courtesy than a conquered House had any obligation to give. But… Robb's thirst had not been quenched. He wanted – no, needed more.
So Robb marched on Casterly Rock soon after. Tywin had made for King's Landing with the majority of his forces, leaving the Lion's den ripe to be claimed. The wolves would take Tywin's gold, his home, his power.
Along the way, Dacey Mormont, one of his own guard, had come to his bed. He had never asked anything of her, not in that way, but she came to him all the same, and quite eagerly too. It had been quite the sight, seeing tough, hardened Dacey Mormont, the she-bear, standing before him as naked as she was on her nameday, giving him those doe-eyed looks he thought to receive from the more "proper" noble ladies.
Robb found that he could not refuse her. Nor did he want to, once her sleeping gown pooled around her ankles. The wolf had lost himself then, no longer Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. He was just the Young Wolf, young and hungry. He took the she-bear, frantically if he was to be completely honest, his mouth attacking her neck, her breasts, lower and lower until he reached her pink. Sweet, warm pink resting just there between her legs. He tasted her and later drank from her, when she was writhing under his tongue.
"Robb!" She cried, fingers digging into the dark curls of his hair, "Oh, Robb!"
Dacey was an older woman and Robb was barely a man grown. Ten and six he was, but she was willing enough and so very sweet. And soft. And warm as well. It was enough to satisfy his hunger.
…For a while at least. Fighting, killing, hunting. Robb found that these things placated his urges almost as well as a woman did.
Now…
Now he was here. King's Landing. The final battle, should the gods be good.
Joffrey is here.
Robb could smell the bastard king, the pretender. He could smell his cowardice. The Wolf of Winterfell yearned for the Bastard of Lannister's blood.
He could hear the Greatjon in the distance, bellowing the war cry of the north, "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
The other northmen followed suit as did the Riverlords and the Vale knights and those who had followed Stannis before turning to Robb, crying to the stars for Eddard, for Robert, for Winterfell, for Tully and Riverrun, for justice and their beloved Lord Jon Arryn.
"The King in the North!"
"The King in the North"
"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"
Grey Wind was howling again.
Robb breathed. His heart, his bones, they ached. It was a good ache. He could see the Red Keep from where he stood, towering above the rest of the capitol. There, his father's murderer waited for him. There, justice waited for him.
He was a Stark of Winterfell. He was of the North. He was of the wolfsblood.
He was going to win. For his father. For Robert. For all the rest.
I'm coming for you, bastard.
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I also love the Mannis. Killing him off was the worst part of writing this, but it needed to be done. I needed to make sure no one stood in the way of the Young Wolf. So, sorry about that.
Baratheon/Seaworth 2015! GET HYPE!
