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Chapter Three: The Hammer of Justice.
Under the cover of darkness, Robb made his way through a Riverlands infested with Freys. They may have passed that broken corpse off as him, but they couldn't very well be fooled by their own deception. As well as rounding up stray Stark bannermen, they would be looking for him. Whether they were under orders to take him a captive to Roose Bolton or simply kill him on sight, Robb couldn't guess. Besides, either way resulted in certain death – one way possibly a little quicker than the other.
All the same, he took no chances. Even by night he stayed away from open roads and circled villages, avoiding people as best he could. Every stray traveller whose approach he saw, he had to assume was working for the enemy. At every approach, he slipped into the cover of trees and verges and overgrown bushes. Whatever was closest. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he stayed close enough to pick up snippets of conversation.
Mostly, he picked up the chatter of smallfolk. Crops, harvest, labour in the fields and the desolation of war. But, more than once, they talked of wolves. A wolf pack roaming the land led by a she-wolf the size of a destrier, angry and aggressive as the Mountain. These wolves, the she-wolf in particular, knew no fear. Whatever the truth of these stories, it made him yearn for Grey Wind. Grey Wind always showed him the way out of a tight spot. He would have headed off the smaller wolves that prowled these forests. Without his beloved companion, he felt as vulnerable as his name day.
He did hear them. Their howls haunted the woods every hour of the night, the loudest of them even sounded like Grey Wind. Howls that carried easily, resonating through the trees; it sounded like loss. Once or twice, he thought he caught sight of them and his horse shied. One evening, at sunset, he awoke to find his stolen horse had wandered off in the day as he had slept. It's mauled remains he found a mile or two down the tracks he was following, its guts spilling over the dirt track.
He could have wept; half wishing the wolves had done for him, too. Still suffering from a quarrel through the leg and his shoulder, he couldn't walk for long. Dehydrated, he had given in and drank water from a river. He'd been vomiting and shitting through a needle's eye ever since. Now his horse was gone, too. His only companion throughout the long and dangerous journey to Riverrun. All he had now was fear and the danger of the stalking wolfpack. It felt like they were following him.
Worse, he couldn't estimate how far he had come. He looked for landmarks, something to give him some clue as to where he was. For all he knew, in his pain and sickness, he could have walked in a big circle and not noticed. Sometimes, he grew so lightheaded and dizzy, he didn't even know which way was forwards. Then the sickness would return and he'd be left so thirsty he ended up unable to resist drinking from the river water. Unable to stop himself, he sucked it down and tried to ignore the grit and river mud mixed in. And the cycle of sickness would begin again.
By the time the mounted retainers had him surrounded, he was sorely tempted to just give himself up. Get it over and done with. He had nothing to live for anyway. He had lost the North, savaged the Riverlands, seen his mother, wife and unborn child butchered at a wedding feast along with thousands of bannermen. In this haze of pain, grief and fever, he didn't even know why he was bothering to try and save himself. Even Arya would be better off without him.
All the same, he pressed his back flat against a tree and listened as the horse's hoof falls got closer and closer. He didn't dare breathe; he didn't even need to look to know that they were Freys. Two men talked quietly to each other, but he heard more horses than that. It was growing dark, too. He had only just left the spot he'd holed up in to rest.
"Who goes there?"
The breath hitched in Robb's throat and he tried to make himself as small as possible from where he hid behind the broad oak trunk. Soft, wet moss soaked through the shirt he wore, rainfalls dripping from the canopy overhead. The men dismounted, he heard their feet hit the soft ground, squelching in the mud. This was soon followed by the sickening sound of twine drawn tight as an arrow was knocked to a bow.
"Show yourself!" The speaker grew impatient. "You have no escape."
Robb's gut churned, stopping him from thinking clearly. He had no weapon and was too weak to fight anyway. If he moved a muscle, he'd be seen. All the while, the men-at-arms approached him with footsteps as soft as snowfall, getting closer all the time. His mind raced for a way out, but there was none. He couldn't fight back and he couldn't out run them.
Rather than be hunted like an animal, Robb screwed up his courage and stepped out from behind the tree. He held up his hands to show was unarmed and dropped to his knees, head down. He saw them only long enough to note the twin towers of House Frey stitched into their cloaks. All he had as a passable disguise was filthy clothes, several days of beard growth and a strong stench of vomit and shit that clung to him like a second skin. Quite a difference to when these men might have seen him last.
There were six of them, four of which had weapons trained right on him.
"I'm just a farmer, sers," he blurted out. "My holdfast is near Oldstones, where I'm for now."
The arrows were still trained on him, the men still drawing closer. Less cautious now. One of the two doing the talking stepped forwards, looking him up and down.
"Oh really," he said. "Well, we'll see about that."
He took a length of rope that had been looped at his hip and straightened it out. "If you are who you say you are, you have nothing to fear."
All the same, Robb shied as he tried to think of something to do. "I've done nothing, sers. I'm just a farm hand- "
"I thought you said you had a farm in Oldstones?" one of them asked. "Now you say you're just a farmhand."
"My master's farm is in Oldstones, I can take you there," he said, desperately. "My Lord of the Crossing would not thank you for wasting his time with the likes of me. My master can vouch for me and then you can be on your way, no harm done."
The four suddenly dropped their arms and grouped together to confer amongst themselves. 'Oldstones is closer than the Twins,' one of them said. To which the other replied: "yeah, but the Old Man's going mad back at the Twins." All the while, Robb watched them, his blue eyes shifting from one to the other while silently praying for divine intervention as their voices dropped too low to hear. After what felt an age, the man with the rope approached again.
"All right then, Oldstones it is," he said. "If you're lying, we'll cut you down on the spot. Understand?"
Almost giddy with relief, Robb nodded. "Yes, sers."
It would take days to get there, during which time he could recover some strength. At some point, they would have to stop and rest overnight. He would find a way to get out of the binding. They each had swords at their hips and all he needed was one of them. But he was weak. Even standing upright and holding out his wrists to be tied up took effort. And they bound him tight, double knotting the rope around his wrists and then tying the other end securely to the saddle of one of the horses. He was to marched along like a slave, it seemed.
Mounted up again, the one who seemed to be in charge looked back at Robb. "Right then, we should reach The Twins in a week or so."
Instinctively, Robb pulled back, causing the rope to tighten. His heartbeat raced. "You said Oldstones! My master is at Oldstones- "
Two of the men exchanged a knowing look.
"See, I told you," one said to the other. "He's definitely got something to hide."
"He even sounds like a fucking Northerner…"
The horses walked on, dragging Robb with them. He tried to protest, only to be silenced with a lick of a horsewhip that lashed against the small of his back. His protests reduced to a startled yelp, he could only stumble after them as they headed for the road and back the way he came.
The wedding guests arrived early. Lannisters and Tyrells, the two families of the bride and groom. Margaery watched them from behind a rood screen in the Great Sept of Baelor. Multi-coloured light spilling through the stained-glass windows illuminated gowns of silk and samite, showing them off to their full advantage. The High Septon was there, talking to King Joffrey in a low voice. She barely paid attention to either of them.
Close by, her grandmother reclined in a wicker chair that had brought out especially for her. Try as she might, Margaery could not be as calm or as collected as Lady Olenna in those final few hours. Nervously, she chewed at a fingernail, waiting hawkishly over the arriving guests. Still no sign of Sansa.
"Have you considered what might happen if she doesn't wear the hairnet?" asked Margaery, keeping her voice down. "What will we do then?"
Dear Grand-mama seemed thoroughly unconcerned. "Of course she'll wear it. She made a solemn promise to that drunken sot Baelish has seen fit to pass off as a real knight. The Starks are famed for having promises as solemn as their long, grey faces, dear child."
As nervous as she was, Margaery couldn't help but laugh. "I wouldn't call Sansa grey-faced, Grandmother."
It hadn't been long since she was brought in on the plan. As such, her sleeplessness the night before the wedding had less to do with a blushing bride's excitement and nerves, and more to do with getting her timing right. If she leapt to her feet and declared "He's choking!" too soon, it would look like she had prior knowledge. Worst case scenario: she raised the alarm much too quickly and Joff really was just coughing. Cersei would sniff that rat from a hundred miles away.
'Just wait until he starts to turn purple,' her grandmother had advised. That would have to do.
"Margaery, sweetling."
Olenna's voice drew her out of her nervous musings. She looked at the old lady, finding her looking soft and serious. The look she gave her granddaughter was measured all the same.
"Yes, Grandmother."
"It is far too late to end this Mummer's farce today, not without making sworn enemies of House Lannister," said Olenna. "And we need only to look at what's left of the Starks to know the consequences of that. Your father is to blame. Lord Oath of Highgarden insisted on making his sweetest rose a queen and here we bloody well are."
Margaery turned away from the gathering congregation and knelt before her grandmother. "Thank you. But remember, I agreed to father's plans. It was not all his fault."
"All the same," Olenna continued, taking Margaery's hands in her own. "Once all this is over, and I have put right your father's foolish mistakes, if you want out: say the word. Leave your fool father to me and you can go back to Highgarden and I will find a husband worthy of your hand. As if such a man exists!"
Margaery tried to laugh again, but found her mouth dry. Although racked with uncertainty, she shook her head, causing golden-brown curls to slide over her shoulder.
"I know what I am doing," she lied, even though she knew Olenna would see right through it. Those eyes may have been old, but they were as sharp as ever. "We can make this family great. And Tommen is… - "
"A fat and foolish child," Olenna finished for her.
"I was going to say 'pliable'," said Margaery. After a deep sigh, she added: "But 'fat and foolish child' is also true. But he's sweet and an innocent. I would have no harm come to him. Not ever."
"Of course not," Olenna retorted. "My only concern is getting that insufferable shit, Joffrey, well away from you, my dear. Nothing more. What comes next is up to you."
"Thank you, Grandmother." Margaery genuinely appreciated her concern. Sometimes, it felt like her mother and Grandmother, Loras too, were the only ones with her real interests at heart. And she had been happy to help her father to advance the family's fortunes for their sake. But now it had led her to two loveless marriages, this time to a boy described as a monster.
She couldn't see what came next. She could only see this wedding and the banquet that followed. Standing again, she moved to the rood screen and glanced over the panelling and out into the congregation. Lady Sansa had arrived, standing stiffly and blank-faced alongside her husband. The two of them looked ridiculous together.
Sansa wore a gown of silver satin and a cloak trimmed with vair. Her auburn hair was neatly arranged beneath a silver hairnet. When she turned her head. the amethysts winked at Margaery, a bright purple that caught the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. Of course, she was wearing the hairnet.
Just then, Joffrey caught her eye. Golden haired and emerald eyed, his smile was pure malignance. 'Now, I've got you,' he seemed to be saying.
After days of marching away from the Twins, suffering every step of the way, Robb was now being marched straight back the way he came. All through the night, his captors made him walk, pulling him along by the rope bound at his wrists. He collapsed twice. The second time, he wasn't even aware of what was happening. The ground simply got closer, while his head swam and his mind went blank. He woke up face down in a ditch, covered in wet mud and filth. A yank on the rope, a kick up the arse, and he was somehow back on his feet.
"You sound suspiciously Northern to me," one of them said, accusingly. "You sure you're not a wolf?"
A real wolf answered, howling into the dusk a full day after his capture. The guard's companions laughed heartily as if the beast had answered the question on Robb's behalf.
"You sure you're not a cunt?" Robb snapped back. It was childish, but it was all he had.
His answer was a smack in the mouth so hard he tasted blood. Reeling from the blow, his captors pulled him along again, yanking hard on the rope so that he fell on his knees. Another kick up the arse and a lashing with the horse whip soon pulled him too. The trees rustled, branches clashing against each other. Somewhere, another wolf howled and animals darted through the undergrowth. Afraid of the wolves, probably. Even the guards looked worried as the howling grew louder.
What felt like a thousand years ago, he and his mother had come to a rest at the tomb of King Tristifer Mudd, the Hammer of Justice. It was there that he had legitimised Jon and made him his heir and sent the document North. He wondered where it was now. Had his messengers made it past Moat Cailin? Were they stranded in the Neck? Had they sailed on the Myraham or was it returning to Oldtown? Robb could barely remember now. But he remembered the Hammer of Justice. Was this justice that he was facing now?
He recalled what Septon Meribald had said to him about the war and the suffering of the people. Was this the price he had to pay now? For the lands burned and the women raped, for the men put to the sword in his name. He looked upwards, but could only see the impenetrable canopy of trees overhead.
However, it was then that something heavy and large dropped from the overhead branches. Simultaneously, something equally large burst out of the ground as if he had materialised from thin air. Other men, the gods alone knew where they had been hiding, sprang out from the sides with weapons drawn. Before Robb could even sink to the ground, arrows were whistling past his head while the guards drew their swords. But already, one of them had taken an arrow to the eye. He hit the ground with a wet splash, landing in a muddy puddle.
"Nice one, Anguy!"
A bright light cut through the darkness as a sword burst into flames, illuminating the weather-beaten face of a man with an eye-patch. Another sword took flame, showing Robb a man in faded red robes.
The flaming sword got to work on the remaining guards, the air ringing with curses and the sound of steel on steel.
"Fuckin' Brotherhood scum!" Robb's captor shouted. It was followed by a grunt as the man's insides spilled from his belly.
Still bound at the wrists and secured to a horse's saddle, Robb could only duck down behind the animal and protect himself as best he could. But the fight scared the horse, causing him to rear up violently, almost kicking him in the head. Robb rolled away just in time, but then the last guard standing made sure to give the beast a good kick. Robb could only cry out helplessly as the animal charged, dragging him along the ground with him. He crashed through bushes, smashed into trees and bounced through puddles for what felt like an age. It was only a man in a dirty and patched yellow cloak grabbing the reins and soothing the horse that calmed it again. Robb wanted to kiss the man, but could only whimper in pain.
Robb curled up on the ground, aching all over, unable to vocalise anything more than a strangulated groan. Blood was pouring from his nose, mingling with dirt as it dribbled into his mouth. His head, too, felt like it had been split open. Then strong arms encircled him, picking him up bodily and hoisting him onto another horse. He was too weak to sit up and slumped along the horse's back, his face resting in its mane.
"Is it him?" someone asked.
One of the men, the bandits, lifted his head. Through the light of the flaming swords, Robb squinted at his new captors.
"Could be. It's hard to tell."
His face was familiar. Very familiar. But no… he was dead. He went south with his Lord Father and never came back. He was sent to bring justice to Gregor Clegane and met his end. But he looked so familiar…
"Harwin?" Robb's voice rasped.
The man smiled. "It is you, isn't it? What name did you give Meribald?"
"Cley Cerwyn," Robb answered, relief washing away his pain. "Harwin, is it you?"
The man swiped at Robb's face, rubbing away the blood and the dirt. He doesn't recognise me, Robb thought. The flaming swords came closer. Eye-patch was scrutinising him, while red-robes kept his distance. The archer, Anguy, stepped forward with a dirk.
"Shave that beard off him," he suggested.
It seemed the gods had stopped punishing him, as the man he thought was Harwin smiled brightly. "No need, Anguy. This is him, lads. This is Robb Stark, King in the North."
Robb could have laughed at hearing himself being called that. But when he tried to correct them, he spat blood down the horse's flanks and passed out cold.
Time stood still, every face Margaery could see was momentarily frozen as if they'd all been turned to stone. Incomprehension and disbelief etched in every expression. In this moment of suspended animation, all she could see was Joffrey turning purple in the face, the blood trickling from the corners of his mouth and his wide, bulging bloodshot eyes as he choked his final breaths. He had clawed at his throat and cried for his mother, gargling on vomit and bile. All the while, she stood there transfixed by the horror unfolding before her.
It is all for the best, she tried to tell herself. He was a tyrant causing misery to the realm, tearing up the land without even intending to. Even if he did have a mind of his own it'd only make him more dangerous. Joffrey twitched and frothed, his mother screaming at everyone and no one in particular, Tyrion stood rooted to the spot clutching the cup and Margaery herself, unable to move, unable to think straight. She thought that she would have to feign horror, but it came easily now. This was horror; this was hell.
"Seize him!" the Queen mother screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. "Seize him!"
Who? Margaery wondered. The spell broke and guards descended on Tyrion. The guests stirred back into life and all hell finally broke loose.
Margaery's head spun like a top, the ground pitching beneath her feet. She had to grab on to her father, who'd climbed to his feet beside her before she fell down. Lord Mace held her back, a father comforting his panic-stricken daughter.
Sansa! If they were arresting Tyrion, it was only logical that they arrest his wife as well. The hairnet. The bastard hairnet. Recalling that moment in the sept, she remembered the poisoned amethysts winking in the morning light. They had to get that hairnet back before Sansa was marched off to the black cells. Margaery pushed away from her father, stumbling in a daze through the crowds. Tyrion was still there, being wrestled by guards who so easily overpowered him.
"What's happening?" Margaery called, but no one was paying attention to her now. "Please, someone help my lord husband!"
Joffrey was beyond help now, but she needed to put on a show all the same. She wound through the crowds, teary eyed and white in the face, feeling sick to the stomach. All the while, her keen golden-brown eyes sought out the Stark girl.
"The Stark girl!" a man's voice boomed over the commotion and she turned to see Tywin towering over the panicked mass. "Someone find and secure the Stark girl!"
Margaery had to get to Sansa before he did. She hitched up her skirts and ran back through the throne room and out into the keep. If she could find Sansa she could get the hairnet back and possibly even get the girl to safety. She headed for Maegor's, thinking Sansa – in a blind panic – would have headed for her rooms to barricade herself in.
She took the steps up Maegor's two at a time, until she reached Sansa's room only to find the door wide open and the chamber within in chaos. Bedsheets were strewn across the floor, the bed upturned. But her clothes were gone. Sandor Clegane's old kingsguard cloak was gone. The one Sansa had kept and dyed a deep green colour and stitched in a hood. She had told her about it, once.
Just on the off chance that Sansa had left the hairnet behind, she had a quick look through the things that had been left behind. An old book of romance stories, a history book, some sewing needles and other bits and pieces. Nothing even remotely resembling a hairnet. She cursed softly as she looked about the abandoned room, before closing the door gently behind her.
"You shouldn't have run from Septon Meribald." There was a note of admonishment in Harwin's voice. "The night you woke up and he realised you were a Northerner, he came straight to us. No one knows the land like us and Meribald, so he knows where to find us. And when he told us he had one Cley Cerwyn in his care, I was most curious. Last I heard of him he'd been killed by the Ironborn. So, I thought, either Cley is alive somewhere in search of his family, or someone's using his name to hide their real identity. And if stray Northerners are hiding their identities, I make it my business to know why."
Harwin looked into the fire as he spoke. After letting Robb bathe in a river, the Brotherhood had cobbled together some clothes for him and brought him high up a hill to the cave they were in now. A makeshift bed had been prepared, from blankets and furs, in the back where he could rest without being disturbed. The opening to the cave was disguised by overhanging grasses that trailed the entrance like an awning. Even Robb hadn't noticed the opening until they were upon it properly.
They had fed him and given him clean water to drink. Now he curled up under the furs and wanted to sink into his own bitter self-recrimination again. Only Harwin, the last person in the world he expected to see, was talking. He was the sole survivor of the northern men who were sent to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. In the intervening year or so, they had added to their motley brotherhood to create a band of outlaws.
"Even if Meribald had told me he was sending the Brotherhood, I'd have run for my life," he said. "I had no idea you were part of it. Why didn't you come back and find me as soon as I took the Riverlands?"
Harwin laughed drily. "I'm rather pleased I didn't, with all due respect my lord."
Robb had to give him that. Rather an outlaw than butchered at the Twins.
"We had your sister, Arya," Harwin continued. "Beric and Thoros brought her in and I almost didn't recognise her. But, Gods forgive me, Sandor Clegane stole off with her and I haven't seen her since. I'll never forgive myself if he's harmed her-"
"No," Robb cut in. "No, Clegane brought her to me at the Twins on the night of the wedding. I'd have been cut down with the rest inside the hall, had they not showed up and called me away."
"So, that's how you survived," Harwin murmured. He looked up from the flames, meeting his gaze momentarily. "We found your mother, Lady Catelyn-"
Robb jolted, thinking his mother alive somewhere, that somehow she had escaped. But Beric cut in, saying Harwin's name in a manner that suggested he had said too much.
"Tell me," Robb said. "Where is she?"
"The bastards cut her throat to the bone," Harwin said. "Then they threw her body into the Green Fork. Your wife was killed. Dacey Mormont was run through with a sword. Manderly's sons were murdered the same way. Smalljon Umber's another among the dead. Greatjon and Marq Piper, along with your uncle Edmure, are all captives at the Twins."
They had been his personal guard and each name came like a punch to the gut. Meanwhile, Harwin came to Beric's way of thinking and stopped his talk of the wedding. They called it the Red Wedding.
"Get some sleep, my lord," he urged Robb. "Your father will rise from his grave and hunt me down should any harm come to you-"
Robb laughed bitterly. "My father would disown me now and well you know it. For how many centuries did the Starks hold Winterfell? And I am the one who lost it. I lost the whole of the North." He composed himself again, trying to rein in his emotions. "Arya was caught up in the massacre. Have you seen her since the wedding? I told Clegane to get her to Riverrun."
Harwin shook his head. "But if Arya's at Riverrun we'll soon find out. We'll take you the rest of the way ourselves. Have no fear now, my lord. The Freys won't be able to touch you, nor the Boltons."
Robb curled up under the furs, covering his shame and his face. For the first time since leaving Riverrun for the last time, he felt safe. All the same, it was a hollow feeling that only added to his guilt as he thought of the many dead. His wife and his mother among them. He knew he would never know another moment of peace again.
Thank you again for reading. Reviews would be welcome, if you have a minute.
Harwin was omitted from the show, but he actually was sent north to deal with the Mountain and ended up joining the Brotherhood. Just so you know his arrival isn't totally Deus Ex Machina.