embrace the world in grey

by TheTenthSunrise

Two Wolves are sent North. Deep in the North, beyond the Wall, a lone Wolf survives the cold. A Young Wolf lies in the dark, and waits for rescue. Winter draws ever nearer (or, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives)

4. THE YOUNG WOLF I

CHAPTER FOUR: THE YOUNG WOLF I

A boy survives a massacre, and finds himself the prize of a lion. Kept away in the dark beneath two castles, he dreams of his Wolf, running wild in the Neck.

---

It is said on the streets that, deep in the cells beneath The Red Keep, there lies a wolf. The Young Wolf, he was called once, but now he is a wolf in a cage, a wolf in the dark to the world around him. His father was here once, and it ended with his blood running down the steps leading to a holy place, it ended with a war that gave him a crown. There is no crown in these cells. There's just…the dark.

And his anger. And the memories. Those haunt him night and day. Every time he closes his eyes, he's reliving those moments, even when he tries to push them down, they do not obey. There are no kings in the dark, no king but the king of memory and of pain, a king who has made his castle in the wolf's brain. He holds court day and night, drives him closer to the edge of sanity with every replay.

No matter how many times he relives it, when the first arrow hits, he's never fully there, never fast enough to save them. His mother is yelling at Roose, and then he whirls, and Talisa is screaming, a knife in her belly, and everything he loves is burning up at his feet. He rushes to her, Walder Frey's laughter ringing in his ears, but something collides into his side, arms around his waist, taking him down. His mother keeps screaming. His mind is screeching. The world is ending, and he can do nothing to stop it.

They press him to the floor. Frey is gloating, he thinks, watching the man's mouth move, and he doesn't think he's ever hated as much. This is the anger that keeps him alive in the dark, but it's the sight that follows that keeps him awake. One of the Frey boys grabs his mother by her hair, and before Robb can call for her (always her little boy, always needing his mom) the knife cuts her throat.

This is where it goes black the first time.

"And now the rains weep o'er their halls," someone sings, every so often, from down the hall. He cannot see them, cannot tell if they are a prisoner like him or some guard with a twisted sense of humour. The common folk call it the Red Wedding, but he does not hear that moniker. He hears that song though. He remembers how it sounded, in that hall. "And not a soul to hear."

No soul but the Young Wolf, beaten down and broken. But he has no soul in this dark place. His love was killed, his unborn child too. His mother was killed, and yet he is expected to live for a time without him. His death is coming, most certainly. Just not yet. Just not today. Maybe the lions intend to let him rot himself to insanity down here, and then throw him to the crowds when his insanity has taken what few things he has left from him too.

His name. His family. His head. His mind turns to his father's greatsword, Ice, shimmering like a spike of moonlight, larger than life. It dripped with his blood. The streets should have run with blood when Ned Stark's blood filled the canals, the Gods should have sent down a storm that washed all of King's Landing away. He thinks of the ocean, and stops, because that wound is still raw.

Winter is coming, he tries to think, keep himself together through the maddening dark. Hours come and go. He thinks of his sisters, mostly. He tries to imagine them saving him like he wanted to save them, but there is no safety in this world, there is no justice, there is no saviour who will guard against the Night. Bran and Rickon are dead. Arya is gone. Sansa is trapped in the jaws of a lion.

Jon would guard against the Night, but Jon is a lifetime away, and he doesn't want The Lannisters to know about his brother. I, Robb of House Stark, first of my name, King of The North and Lord of Winterfell, hereby name Jon Snow, to be Jon of House Stark, legitimised in the sight of Gods and Men, a Prince of Winterfell, and my heir apparent.

If they know what he did, if the wrong ears hear…Jon dies with him. The Wall will be stained with blood from the massacre, but Jon will die, the Lannisters will make certain of that. He cannot be Robb's Knight, his saviour. He must be his hope, but not his salvation. There is none of that waiting for him, he knows. And if he lost Jon to a slip-up, if he lost Jon like he lost his mother and Talisa, there will be nothing left of his heart to know.

So, a Young Wolf, a disgraced king, sits in the dark, and waits for his death. He hopes it's quick, he hopes it comes when he needs it to. He hopes Sansa will be okay, because if Joffrey made her watch Father's death, she will be forced to watch his too. He hopes that his words have reached her, his desperate pleas to the dark, to the one thing that may give his sister some peace, some parting scrap of him.

He thinks of Theon. He thinks of summer snows, dark hair with snow in it. He thinks of how Theon looked, when he sent him home, that look in his eyes he should have known was the end of it all. He thinks of years gone by, a youth that was ripped from his hands, a youth that will always remain behind him. He thinks of Bran and Rickon, and he feels nothing but an empty hole in his heart where they used to be, where Theon used to reside.

And maybe Winter is Coming. Maybe the dark will swallow them all. Maybe he will die as his father did, maybe the world will end all over again. But nothing could ever hurt like that betrayal does. A youth spent in stone and snow, laughter ringing through the halls, brightening the rooms. Swords clanging in the yard, dinners near the heat of a fire. All gone, forever. Winterfell is gone. The Boltons ripped it from him. Walder Frey should have just put a knife in his heart and been done with it, but he got his orders from other places.

The singer takes up the tune again. He closes his eyes, resting his head back against the wall, and tries to get some rest. The images consume him. "In a coat of gold or a coat of red, A lion still has claws—"

---

Robb Stark's world goes black when the knife bites his mother's neck, but when he opens his eyes, it only gets worse. The nightmare just keeps going on. He is shorter, somewhat, and then he looks down, and he knows he's…Grey Wind. He is a wolf. His heart hammers in his chest, and he rushes the doors to his cage, over and over again, to no avail.

And then the doors open. He growls, thinking it a trap, but then he sees his rescuer. A slight child, with big dark eyes, short, shaggy hair. A girl, he thinks as she approaches, and something rings in the back of his mind, but he is a wolf, and all he can smell is ash and fire, all he can hear is screams. All he can hear is…her voice? "Grey Wind," she breathes, reaching out to pet his snout, and oh, he knows this girl.

Arya! Grey Wind barks loudly, and she smiles for the briefest of moments.

But their joy is short-lived. "Go!" She cries, and the wolf takes over the boy, and he's rushing forward, dodging soldiers, ignoring the bites of blades that try to grab him, the whistling of arrows. Some part of Robb wants to stay behind, rip every throat out he can find, but his wolf is smarter than he is, clearly. Grey Wind had been apprehensive from the start, that's why he'd shut him away. If only he'd listened to his damned wolf!

The wolf dream fades away as soon as Grey Wind hits the forest, but when Robb Stark peels his eyes open, it is day. He does not know how long he's been gone, but his body aches with bruises and cuts, and he's bound and gagged on a horse. He squints his eyes and sees Lannister Red and Gold all around, swords and bows ready at all moments. He smiles grimly, and bows his head.

He is alone, he quickly realises. He doesn't know who survived, but he is clearly being taken somewhere different from them. And he's certainly missed some of the journey, with his arrow wounds being somewhat healed, and his bruises not as nasty as he feels they should be. He clearly missed some moment of brief lucidity, with those wounds, though, but everything after…his mother being killed, and Grey Wind, is a blank spot in his mind.

His heart aches as he thinks of his mother, and it takes a concentrated effort to not cry. She'd been the best advisor he could have asked for, and he'd thrown her aside, for what? She was right to release the Kingslayer, He thinks. Not that he'll give me my sisters back. Not that he cares. But they should have been my priority from the start. At least Arya lives!

Her memory is a sweeter one. He doesn't let himself think about why she was there in the first place, or if she still lives. If she'd lived this long, she'd have gotten out of there. Maybe Grey Wind has found her wolf and Sansa's, and she'll run into them, be guarded by them. He has to believe that she is safe, if but for his own damned sanity.

Two days later, and he realises where he's been taken to when he sees Harrenhall in the distance, complete with the Isle of Faces, glimmering in the noonday sun. I'm being taken to King's Landing, to face Joffrey. I am going to die there. His heart sinks, and it only gets closer to his feet when the Lannister Sigil Breaks, and he sees a man riding closer. He thinks he knows who it is even before he's dragged off his horse and thrown in front of the man's feet.

"Robb Stark," The Kingslayer says, sounding perfectly at ease. Robb turns his gaze up to him, and gathers every inch of strength and hatred he has left, meeting Jaime Lannister's eyes. The Kingslayer whistles, but seems uncowed as he continues, "I must say, this is a frighteningly familiar situation. If a little…reversed."

Robb attempts to lunge for him, but his captors are quick enough. They haven't been too hard on the beatings, probably afraid of what ire that will get them from Joffrey or Tywin Lannister, but he also won't admit to being the most cooperative of prisoners. They're used to it now, and he's wrenched back before he can throttle Jamie Lannister like he should have the second he captured him.

The Kingslayer regards him carefully for a moment, and Robb knows it's coming before his mouth curls and those words come out. "For what it is worth, I am sorry about your Mother. She was a good woman. Spirited. Proud." The man sounds almost genuine, but Robb doesn't give a shit about his genuineness, or whatever misplaced sympathy he has.

A low growl escapes him, and he tries for the other man again. The Kingslayer shakes his head, opening his mouth to say something to Robb, hanging between two of his captors, a shaky breath in his throat, but another voice cuts him off. "That is enough," a cold voice that Robb somehow knows says. "Leave us." Robb is dropped to the ground, still bound, and a shadow falls over him once more.

Robb meets Tywin Lannister's eyes for the first time on his knees, his anger and his grief making him shake. The old lion regards the man who had opposed him so cleanly, so proudly, for so long, and Robb knows that what he sees is in some part, some genuine respect. But this is the man who killed his mother and Talisa, who gave Roose the prize of the North. That betrayal stings, but not the same way.

"Robb Stark–" Lannister begins, but is cut off by Robb spitting at him. He raises a brow, opening his mouth to say something, but Robb has things to say, suicidal as they are. Maybe he can get this man to kill him here and now, get him to finish him before Robb finds a way to do it himself.

"Fuck you," he growls, and he feels his anger flare, feels the Wolf's Blood coursing hot through him. His brashness doesn't seem to surprise Tywin, to little surprise, but he looks at Robb like he's seeing something new, something that interests him. Tywin frowns, briefly, and then sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. The Kingslayer is noticeably quiet at his side, and Robb resists the urge to poke at the obvious thread of discontent between the two.

"You are going to be brought in front of the King, boy," Tywin says, voice cold. "I warn you not to say such foolish things to him. Your sister is still in King's Landing." Robb's eyes widen, and he lunges at Tywin again, but the man is walking away, and there's only the Kingslayer left, only the man his mother let go. The man who grabs him by his shirt and meets his eyes with a ferocity that shocks him into silence.

"Stay smart and you might just keep your head," The Kingslayer warns, before new arms grab Robb, and the march starts anew.

And less than three days later, he's being thrown in front of Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Or, that's what he says he is, but all Robb sees when he looks at this so-called king is an incestuous, usurping, bastard, with his golden hair and cruel eyes. He looks no more lordly than he did at Winterfell, all those years ago, even with his crown of gold, fashioned into the antlers of his supposed lord-father's house.

What right does he have to be king of the First Men? Robb thinks angrily, looking at Joffrey's golden hair and sun-warmed skin of The South, at his Southern looks and finery. It's all so frivolous, the silks and the brocades, the jewels and the pointless finery. He looks like a doll, done up to show wealth, but as King, Robb dressed for power, for practicality, for battle. They say he cowered during The Battle of the Blackwater.

"Robb Stark," the boy gloats, and Robb bows his head, biting his tongue so hard he thinks he draws blood. At least he stands on his own two feet. He will not bow to this king, he will not let this king think he, the lion, can tame the wolf. He will not let the foolish boy—who put a sword through his father's neck and started this whole damn affair because of his arrogance—steal that from him.

He'd imagined putting his sword through this Bastard King's throat over and over again, but now that wish seems like no more than a distant dream, a dream of Spring in the depths of Winter. He'd imagined killing Joffrey over and over again, but now Joffrey is going to kill him, when this all comes to an end. Just like his father. "I have something to show you!"

And then, there she is, and all thoughts of his pride are gone like warmth in the darkest night of Winter.

Robb feels suddenly aware of every bruise and cut on his body, aware of his mangy hair, the dirt on his face, the amount to which he looks beat down, defeated. He'd dreamed of the day he came into the Red Keep and brought his little sister home again time and time again. In all those dreams, he was a shining knight from her stories, proud and tall, a king coming to destroy his enemies. Now…what is he? A beaten, broken down, boy.

His little sister, his Sansa looks nothing like the girl who he last saw at Winterfell, but exactly like her all the same. He'd expected her to be dressed up like a Southern Lady, with their odd, elaborate hairstyles, but her hair looks more Northern than anything else. Her dress is Southern though. She has the same flame-red hair and blue eyes that she always has. His vision doubles as he sees her, and in one of the images, he sees the girl she'd been, all those years ago.

He presses forward, trying to say something around the lump in his throat, to no avail. He's wrenched back, finally falling to his knees, and getting a swift kick to the stomach for his trouble. He groans, but bites his tongue, trying to be strong in her sight. I was supposed to be her Knight. I was supposed to come in and sweep her into my arms and bring her home.

"Look at your brother!" Joffrey croons, and Robb feels hatred unlike anything else swell up in him. He forces himself to look up, to let Joffrey see his fury and his anger, but all he sees is Sansa. She's been moved so she's right in front of him, and her face is a picture of horror, her eyes shining with unshed tears. But she will not cry, he knows, deep in his heart. She is of The North, and water freezes where they are from. She is as cold as The North, even if no one here quite knows that.

Sansa meets his eyes, and he finds the strength to gather his own emotions, to take a step back and try and put ice back into his back. I am of The North. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I will not bow. He repeats to himself, over and over again. Joffrey speaks up again, and Robb hates him and hates everything that brought him here. "Go to him."

Sansa looks back at him, eyes wide with horror. Robb's stomach drops, and he tries desperately to meet her eyes, but she is looking anywhere but him. Joffrey waves her forward, and for a long moment, Sansa seems torn between one thing or another. But then she straightens, and for the briefest of seconds, Robb sees his father in his sister, sees nothing but The North, standing tall and cold.

"Robb Stark is a traitor to the realm," she says, and it's a knife in the heart. But her voice is all wrong, all practised. The understanding comes in a moment later as he remembers her letter. Sansa's writing but Cersei's words. His sister has had to survive, just like everyone else. It just looks different. He grits his teeth together, and tells himself to breathe around the pain in his heart.

"Go to him," Joffrey hisses though, and Robb realises this isn't him testing her. This isn't him playing with her loyalties. This isn't anything more than him wanting to see his two biggest enemies in this court both beaten down, both on their knees for one another. He wants to see the King in the North blown over by the Winter Beauty. He wants the Red Wolf to kill the Young Wolf with her love.

Sansa goes to him. They do not exchange words at first–for, really, do they have anything left to say? He is wrenched back as she comes, still on his knees, his hands behind him, but back straight. He tilts his chin up and remembers what it was like to wear a crown, and what it was like to lead. He wears no crown today. But maybe he can still carry himself like he does. Sansa reaches out and cradles his face for the briefest of moments. Her fingers are a ghost of a touch against his skin.

He wants to tell her so many things. The words are right there on his tongue. All that he can say is a weak, pathetic, "I wanted to be the one who brought you home," on the exhale of his breath. Pain crosses her face, but she beats it down so fast. She pulls away, but the memory of her touch stays with him. He doesn't remember the last time he could touch one of his siblings, that they were in reach.

Was it…was it when he left Winterfell? Left it to Bran and Rickon? He hugged them both. Theon killed them. The ache in his heart opens wider. But what about his other siblings? Arya isn't in King's Landing, he knows that without a doubt, now. He'd hugged her before she left. Sansa too. And Jon. Gods, the thought of Jon is painful. Alone on the Wall. Robb's wish never reached him, did it? Probably for the better. If he lost Jon to the Lannisters too, it would spell the end of…everything.

Sansa pulls away. Their eyes meet for one last moment, and then Joffrey calls to drag him down to the cells, and suddenly, all the words come to his mind finally. He scrambles forward, getting out of the grips of the Kingsguard, but he's caught before he can go barely three feet. Sansa's face is pained, tears in her eyes. But all water freezes in Winter, and–

"Sansa!" He cries, voice breaking on the cadence of her voice, the loudest he's spoken since he got here, since everything fell apart. He can count how many words he's said since then if he really tries to. Her eyes turn to him, wide and wild, and he knows what he needs to say, and the words fall onto his tongue with ease. I am a Stark of Winterfell. I guard our words. His voice breaks as he shouts the words he was raised on, "Winter is Coming!"

The words wash over her, and he wonders when she last heard those words genuinely said as he sees the expression that crosses her face. Father was most certainly the last person who said those words to her with true sincerity, not mocking and cruelty like most Southerners likely have. And then, he sees her shift, ever so slightly, and she looks like their father, the proud and tall Eddard Stark, again.

She looks almost like a King of Winter with how she stands, as cold and tall as The Wall that their ancestor built. Sansa may have Southern colouring, but she looks like Winter in this court, looks like home. Her hair is the colour of the Weirwood trees, and their tears, and blood. The blood of the First Men flows through her, just as much as it flows through Robb, more than anyone else in this room. We are Starks of Winterfell, and we have been here for longer than anyone else in this room. We are the Kings of Winter. We have always, and will always, rule The North. We are The North.

Even when the blow comes to the back of his head, sending him careening back into that endless, inescapable, darkness, all he sees is Sansa, his little sister. A wolf, just as much as he, and surrounded by lions and roses and Southern fools who see only a bitch, a puppy, a weakling suckling at her mother. But their mother is dead, and Winter is Coming. They have no idea what they have amongst them. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

---

He wakes up in a cell, and has just enough time to realise that it's so dark he can only be in one place, before the darkness is being broken. He squints, raising his hand to shield his eyes, head pounding, vision swimming with images of his sister, of her face, carved from the ice that has hardened the North, her hair stolen from the flames of the South.

"My, Lord Stark," a far too familiar voice for Robb's comfort says, and he feels every bone in his body tense up. "You look far worse than when I last saw you. It was in Winterfell, no? You were the Lord of Winterfell, then, a green boy. Now you are King in the North." His companion pauses, and Robb can finally see the man properly. He sends a pointed look down at the chains that bind Robb's hands. "And a prisoner."

"What do you want, Tyrion Lannister?" Robb snarls at him, spitting his surname out like poison. Damn him. Damn them all. He inhales sharply as Tyrion draws closer, glancing at the torch with wide eyes, uncertain as to how the man got down here in the first place. Robb scooches as far away as he can get, glaring openly at the man. "Come to gloat, I suppose? That's all your brother and nephew have done. Your father, as well, I'd say, but I really can't tell."

"Can you blame them?" Tyrion asks with a shrug. "You have been quite the nuisance, Robb Stark. The Young Wolf. The King in the North. No one can get The North behind them quite like a Stark can, and as soon as Winter comes like you Starks always promise it will, there'd be no force in the world that could root House Stark or the North out of your frozen lands. You see the dilemma, no?"

"They broke the laws of guest rights," he spits. "Walder Frey took me and my men into his home, allowed us to eat his bread and salt, and massacred my men. They killed my wife, killed my unborn child. They slit my mother's throat to the bone, my lord Lannister," he spits the title out with derision, and the man, to his credit, does seem to wince at his words. "There is no dilemma. There is only cruelty and deception."

"You seem to be surrounded by that, Lord Stark," Tyrion muses. "First that Greyjoy boy, and then one of your most loyal Bannermen, and the man whose family your uncle wedded into. Poor Edmure Tully." Robb glares at him, shaking from the weight of his anger. Tyrion looks at him for a moment, and then softens, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. "Your uncle lives, Lord Stark."

"I don't care if he lives or dies," Robb spits. "He'll be your prisoner until the end, either way. No amount of your reassurances brings my mother back, or my father, for that matter. No amount of your apologies and your promises that you had no hand in this brings back Talisa or Grey Wind, or my unborn child. "

Tyrion looks at him oddly. "Your wolf is yet to be captured," he tells him, sounding genuinely relieved to be able to give Robb some good news. Robb stares at him for a moment, and then deflates, looking away, trying to not let his relief show. He's had no sense of his wolf, but maybe that's less a sign of him being gone, but him being smarter than Robb, and being out of the reach of any man.

"And for what it's worth, I am sorry. Truly. What happened there was wrong. Your mother and wife did not deserve to die. Nothing I say will bring them back, but truly, I had no hand in what happened at The Twins. Your sister–"

"Do not talk about my sister," Robb snaps, suddenly remembering his relation to this man. He'd named Jon heir because of the news. He'd wanted her to be his heir, but… "You married her. You bedded her, I presume, and as soon as you've made an heir off of her, she'll be killed, and that child will inherit our home. A Lannister will rule Winterfell." He spits on the floor. Tyrion grimaces. "I'd sooner burn Winterfell to ash than see your offspring there."

"I have not once touched your sister, Robb," Tyrion says wearily, running a hand over his face. The use of his name startles him into silence, and Tyrion continues on. "Much to the ire of my father, but I suppose I had some sense of her older brothers, and how they'd take that. Your sister and I have not…well, I suppose you know. I do not intend to touch her until she is ready."

"And if she never is?" Robb snarls, panic rising into his throat. Tyrion knows about Jon. He is not likely to have forgotten the Bastard of Winterfell like the rest of them. "And if she would sooner die than be touched by you? What then, Lord Lannister? You're as conniving as the rest. Surely some part of you would like to rule Winterfell in some capacity. Get the inheritance your father denied you?"

Tyrion's face scrunches up, and when he meets Robb's eyes, there's a hard mettle to them. Robb feels his entire body tremble, angry and afraid for his siblings. "Then I will never touch her. And now my watch begins, I said, on the night of our Wedding. I visited The Wall, with your brother, Jon. While I do not ever intend to take the black and spend the rest of my life miserable in the cold, I suppose their words are fitting."

"Is The Watch a joke to you?" Robb asks, aware that it's unfair to try and find fault with everything Tyrion says, but too angry, too hurt, to care. They're dangerously close to the matter of Jon, all the way at The Wall. Depending on what happened to his bannermen, Robb might well be the only person who knows of Jon's legitimisation. Heirship…he shakes the thought away for later.

"You sound like your uncle," Tyrion grouses, but Robb's mood only grows more sour. Jon's last word of Uncle Benjen had not been good, and thinking about his uncle reminds him of his father, and…there's no use of any of that. When Robb doesn't say anything, though, Tyrion speaks again. "No matter. I am not here to argue. I'm here to give you a chance."

"What chance are you speaking of, Lannister?" Robb says, gesturing around at the cell. "I am a prisoner, slated to die. Joffrey's wedding is coming soon, no? I suppose my death will be the grandiose finale to the day? The grand showcase of the strength of Joffrey Baratheon? Or should I say the product of your sibling's incest?"

Tyrion does not rise to the jab, a darkly serious look in his eyes. "I can get word to Sansa," he says, and Robb straightens immediately. "I took a risk, coming down here, I hope you know. But…I do care for your sister, in whatever way I can. For better or for worse, I am her husband, and I would like to do right by her. By your father. He was a good man, till the end. You are right, you are to die within the week."

That soon? Robb thinks with a twist in his stomach. Tyrion continues. "And Sansa will no doubt be forced to watch. But if I can give her some words from you, if I can do anything to tame what is coming…I would like to. So, do you have anything to say to her?"

Robb gapes at Tyrion Lannister for a long moment, everything shifting under his feet. A thousand inane phrases cross his mind, each more desperate than the last. Do you remember what our father said about Lone Wolves? There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I was gonna be your knight. Winter is Coming. Winter is Coming. Don't…

"Tell her I love her," he croaks, because what else is he supposed to say? She is his little sister, now and always, and if he lets himself die without her knowing that his heart has ached for his family, for all he's lost to The South, he's dying wrong. Tyrion nods somberly, not even a hint of mockery on his face. "Tell her I'm sorry I didn't save her. Tell her I wanted to, more than anything. God– tell her I love her. If you tell her anything, tell her that. Tell her it's going to be okay."

"I will," Tyrion says, dipping his head. Robb's vision swims with tears, and after a moment of apparent deliberation, Tyrion reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eyes. "And I will try and protect her, as best I can, Lord Stark. For you. For your parents. For all you lost."

And then he is gone, taking the light with him. Robb stares into the darkness for what might be hours, and feels the tears slowly pour out of him, feels the knot in his chest get bigger and bigger until it's pressing against his lungs, demanding all that he has left to give of himself. Before he can try and stop it, he's sobbing soundlessly, shoulders shaking. Why didn't I die there? Why must it be now?

He tries to think that the darkness will let up, but it does not. Tyrion had said that he'd be dead in a week, and while he doesn't fully trust the rotations of meals, what he's pretty sure to be a week comes and goes without incident. Maybe that fool King is playing with me. Maybe Tyrion lied. The former seems more likely, to him, but deep in the dark, it's nigh impossible to know.

Nine days after his waking in the cells and speaking to Tyrion, the Darkness is broken again. This time by a face that is not a comfort, and Robb fights every instinct in himself when he sees Tywin Lannister appear out of the gloom, looking haggard, looking furious. He stops in front of his cell, and looks down at Robb with a dark expression that has Robb's interest almost instantly.

"My Grandson is dead," he says, voice flat, and Robb barely has time to register that, before Tywin continues on, voice growing colder with every second that passes. "Tyrion has been implicated in the affair, along with your sister. She, conveniently, has disappeared from the castle. The last person you spoke to was Tyrion. So, tell me, boy, did you have a hand in this?"

"No, but I fucking wish I did," Robb says, fighting to keep the smile off his face. Sansa, out of the capital! Joffrey, finally dead! Although he'd have liked to put his sword through the lion's fragile throat, he supposes his death is good, no matter who did it. Tywin seems to notice his glee, and scowls deeply at him, looking so furious it gives Robb a brief pause.

"You passed on messages to your sister," Tywin accuses, and Robb just smirks at him. If Tywin truly believed him guilty, he'd be over and done with already, if not by his hand, but by Cersei's. But here he is, alive as ever. "Through Tyrion. Tell me, what did you say? What plots did you sew into her head, what scheme did you enact?"

"No scheme," Robb says, still fighting that grin. "Not that you Southerners will understand that. I told her what any older brother in my position would tell his little sister. I told that I loved her, and that I was sorry I never saved her like I wanted to. Your son and I argued a bit, over inheritance, marriages, and the like, but…no schemes. Just honest truths."

Tywin grits his teeth, but keeps his composure beyond that. "Where is your sister, then? Surely you have some mind for where she could have gone, or are you a bigger fool than you seemed?" He asks, looking at Robb with those sharp blue eyes. But there's something behind the anger, and Robb realises not a moment later that some part of this must be Tywin wanting to get better stock of the man who repelled him so strongly that he was forced to turn to deceit and treachery of the highest kind.

"There are loyal men everywhere," Robb says with a shrug. "If you know where to look. My father and mother were both well-loved, and no true Northerner would turn away one of their children. You better get to looking, Lannister. The North is large, and well, Winter is Coming. Soon, no force will be able to pass North of the Neck, and she will truly be free from you and Cersei."

Tywin regards him even closer then, and Robb knows he's not imagining the burgeoning respect in the man's eyes. What was it that The Kingslayer had said? You think my father's going to negotiate with you? You don't know him very well. And he'd told the man the truth, right after: No...but he's starting to know me. Not many people can claim to have held back the might of Tywin Lannister time and time again. Not many people could say they won every battle, but lost the War, either, he supposes.

"I will find your sister, Stark, and you will both die traitor's deaths," he warns him, and Robb does admit to feeling some bare scrapings of fear. He is willing to die, but is he willing to take Sansa down with him? Could he ever look at himself the same if he did so? He will die for The North, die for them, but taking them down with him…"You should have bent the knee when you had the chance."

"And your grandson should have not put a sword through my father's neck, and your two eldest shouldn't have fucked each other, but here we are," Robb sneers up at him, delighting in the twist of the eldest Lannister's face, the crack in his façade. Tywin has probably done all in his power to ignore it, but he is no fool. One good look tells enough, really, but if he admits to it, all he's done to ensure power and stability is ripped from his hands. Robb hopes to be there the day he is forced to watch it all crash and burn, even if he's a ghost.

"You're too much like your father, boy," Tywin says with a shake of his head, turning to go, but not before sending one last look back at Robb. "You have the same weakness: your family, your house. I have done everything for my house, but I know when to cut and burn. You hang onto the worst of your House, and together, you all drag yourselves down."

And then, without another word, Tywin Lannister is gone. Robb stares, or really just glares, into the dark from which he came and went for a very long time, emotions bubbling to the surface. Fear for Sansa. Grief, ever present, and he's not sure who it's even for anymore. But satisfaction too, the image of Joffrey dying a grim comfort, a sign of some goodness being left in this world. The False Stag is dead, he thinks, and his laughter bubbles out of him before he can stop it. Gods, I am going mad already!

His laughter keeps him warm for some time, and he spends the next few days curled up in the corner, staring at the dark, trying to make out anything he can. He thinks he's getting used to the dark, getting used to its oppressive existence, but then he'll open his eyes and find nothing changed, and he hates it all again. He thinks of Jon, a lot, staring at the Dark, and wonders if it's true that sometimes it gets dark for nearly all day at The Wall and in the Deep North during the depths of Winter.

Really, thoughts of his family are the only things that keep him going, keep him from starving himself, from finding a way to end it all, to scream until someone comes running, to beg to just finally be put out of his misery. It's the memory of Arya, through Grey Wind's eyes, that he pulls on when he thinks too much and too long on Talisa. He can still remember his lips against his, remember how hot his heart had burned for her. How it felt to watch her die and be able to do nothing. He's going to have to live the rest of his life without her. Without his mother. That wound hurts too much to even dwell on.

After who knows how many days that could very well be weeks, she comes through the dark, and Robb finally finds himself surprised. She is dressed in mourning black, her hair done up but not in a complicated manner, and while she looks as smug as ever, there is something angry, something hurt behind it all. Robb feels his heart start to hammer loudly in his chest, and he grits his teeth as she comes to stop in front of him, stop and look down upon him.

"My father is dead," Cersei Lannister says, voice tense, and whereas the news of Joffrey's death came very close to making him happy, this news makes his stomach bottom out. "My brother killed him, and now he runs free. My brother, who conspired with your whore sister to murder my son. And you claim to have no hand in all of this, last I heard? Is that true? Or did you tell your bitch of a sister to murder Joffrey?"

For a single, awful moment, he imagines what it would be like to kill this woman like Talisa was killed. Wonders what it would be like to watch her die, too, wonder what it would be like to watch her world burn. He calls his sister a whore and a bitch, like she's not the one who laid with her own fucking brother. But Cersei exists in a world where she believes herself to be above all else. Robb will not sweep down to butchery to dismantle a woman who thinks herself Queen of All.

"I told her I loved her," he replies, keeping his voice as even as possible. "But, oh I wish I did. How I wish I got to see your face, how I wish I got to see your monstrous son die. I wanted to put my sword through his throat. I wanted to coat my blade with his blood, just like he coated my father's sword with his own blood. I wanted to kill your incestuous bastard son, Cersei. I wish I told Sansa to kill him, truly. I wish I got to see it. But I didn't, on both counts. I just told her I loved her."

"How sweet," she says, smiling a sickly sweet smile down at him. He squares his jaw and just glares with every inch of hatred he can muster up at her. Her smile falters for a moment, but she covers it over well, folding her hands in front of her. "But I'm afraid it will not save her. She will be found, sooner rather than later, and she will die. Until then…I'm afraid your stay here will be coming to an end."

"Oh, are you finally killing me, now?" Robb asks, letting a sharp grin grace his features.

Cersei's smile drops, and he has no doubt she doesn't like how blasée he is about the concept of his death. But he accepted that it might be an end when he called the banners, when he let himself be crowned. His father faced death too, and Robb will not cower in its face, not while the Stark name still sits on his shoulders. If I must die, let me die like a Stark of Winterfell, like a King of Winter.

"No," she says, though, and that does surprise Robb. But something about it, something about how almost frustrated she sounds at the whole ordeal, makes him keep his grin. Cersei is the Queen Mother, yes, but without Tywin around, throwing her weight around will not be as easy as it once was, he reckons. There is no King for her to marry. Her own son outranks her, and from all Robb's heard, Tommen is no Joffrey, in all the best and worst ways.

"The Small Council has agreed that your presence here is…not needed, for now," She says. "And with my brother and your sister having both escaped King's Landing, too many people with sympathies to you and who know you are here run amuck. You will be sent to Casterly Rock, with your bannermen, where all of you will await Trial. And it will come, as soon as Tommen's throne is secure."

He gapes at her, for a very long moment, and then bursts out laughing again. Her cool mask drops, revealing some truly breathtaking anger behind that calm demeanour, but Robb just keeps laughing. Her hand balls into a fist at her side, and he manages to calm himself, laughter fading out as he gathers himself and finds his voice again. "You send me to my loyal men? Do you think you're clever, Cersei?"

Her jaw twitches, and that's answer enough. "Tywin Lannister with Teats!" He crows, aware of the fact that if his mother heard this, she'd slap him upside the head and lecture him until he was begging for her to let him go. But his mother is gone, and there is no one here to quell his bad habits. "You send me to my men. You send me away, out of your claws. But if you go back now, you look weak."

She leaves before he can say anymore. Robb smiles after her retreating form, laughter coming a few more times. He's still laughing when the guards come, and if he looks insane to them, who the fuck even cares anymore? Maybe I am insane, he thinks, as they bind his hands behind his back and hoist him to his feet. Well, there's worse ways to die.

---

The Goldroad, Robb quickly learns, is not nearly as interesting as The King's Road proved to be on the road to War. Well, of course, there are far fewer castles on the road, and it's only real claim to fame is that it's the only way to get directly to Casterly Rock from King's Landing and vice versa, but after the third day of the same sights, Robb is getting…well, a little bored.

He feels obnoxious, getting bored by green fields and easy weather, never mind actual prolonged exposure to sunlight again, but he is a Northman. He's used to his rides being marked by the stray fall of snow, tumultuous weather ever on the horizon, a cool breeze in his hair. Laughter too exists in all his memories, mainly from Jon as they raced, but he has memories of riding with nearly all his siblings, save for Rickon, of course.

He thinks of the Wolves, mainly, though, running free in the wilds, the ground a blur under them. He remembers what it was like to see the world through Grey Wind's eyes, to be a wolf, to have that piece of him ever at his side. He was Grey Wind, and Grey Wind was him. It was no chance that there were three boys and two girls in that brood of pups, nor that one boy, the colour of a bastard Stark's wolf, was found too, a ways away from the rest.

He doesn't think he misses anyone nearly as much as he misses Jon, really. He misses Bran and Rickon and his parents, but it's a different kind of ache, because it's mourning, really, wishing for what he's never going to get back. Sansa is free, and while he wants her back, he'd rather see her free than anything else. And Arya…he hopes she's running wild, terrorising everyone who is foolish enough to spark up a conversation with her. He misses her, but he has a strange sort of hope for her.

But Jon…gods, Jon. He should have begged him to stay behind, he should have run to The Wall and dragged Jon from it himself, with his own two hands, heedless of Jon's complaints. He should have never let Jon leave Winterfell. He should have been at his side from the start. Maybe it would have stopped Theon. Maybe it would bring Talisa and Mother back. Or, maybe, a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers, He would have died with them.

Then the dream comes, two days out from The Rock, from his new prison. It takes him a very long moment to realise what he's dreaming of, and then he catches sight of himself in a creek, and his heart soars, in the chest of a wolf. A true Wolf Dream, after too long. The wind is in his fur, the moon hangs silver in the endless black of the sky, and the grass is so very soft under his paws.

He lets Grey Wind prowl for a long while, and then he catches sight of a familiar landmark. His wolf stills, and he can smell himself, an odd sensation, but a welcome one once he realises what it means. Grey Wind must be within spitting distance of him, and he knows what kind of havoc a direwolf can cause on the unsuspecting.

Grey Wind prowls closer. Robb can feel his excitement rise and rise, the closer he gets. He can see the fires of the men on watch, and in the shadows, he can even see where his body lies asleep. Grey Wind growls softly, going unheard by the men at the fire over their laughter and chatter. Fools, he thinks, Don't they know–

He's ripped out of Grey Wind with an agonising rush of pain. Not a moment later, he's being shaken awake, and even as he's still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, they're dragging him to his feet. The night is alive with the sounds of howls and barks, and he realises his mistake not a moment later.

The man in charge of Robb's transfer, whose name he had not bothered to learn, nods at the men behind Robb as he's dragged in front of him. But Robb isn't looking at him, he's looking at Grey Wind, who has a single bolt in his shoulder, and is growling at the men who are slowly encircling him, chains and ropes at the ready. Robb gasps softly.

"We caught sight of your beast a day ago," The Man tells Robb. "Now, we can't have him terrorising us or helping to spring you. So, you are going to do me a favour, boy. Calm your wolf, and let us take him in for our own purposes. Forget was here, and we move on to Casterly Rock. Easy as that."

"Fuck you," Robb spits. The man takes a single step forward and punches Robb straight in the nose, sending him sprawling. Grey Wind makes a noise of pain, barking loudly. I know, I know, Robb thinks to himself, gritting his teeth as he forces himself to his hands and knees. Then, and only then, does he meet the man's eyes.

"That wasn't a request," The man says, and Robb wishes he still had the strength to fight. But he doesn't. He couldn't save his sisters, he couldn't save Bran or Rickon, and he couldn't save his parents. He'll never get to see Jon again. He'll never be able to go back and keep Theon from going, he'll never be able to go back and keep his family at Winterfell, where they belonged.

Robb drags his gaze to Grey Wind. His wolf is almost as silent as Ghost, looking at him with those gold eyes of his. His wolf is a part of him, and Robb thinks he understands. "Stay, boy," he says, voice cracking on the word, and the soldiers slowly encircle his wolf. The chains are wrapped around him, binding him in place, and only once they're pulled taunt does Grey Wind howl in pain.

Robb looks at the man, and feels that age-old hate bubble back up when the man just grins at him. "Take the beast away."

"Please," he gasps, and he makes an agonised noise as Grey Wind whines loudly, the men holding the chains grunting as they try and counteract the massive wolf on the other end of the tether. But the leader of this charge does not say anything, does nothing but meet Robb's eyes with a sort of cold satisfaction. "Let him go! Don't touch him, let him go and forget he was here!"

"The Lannisters want you, and they won't say no to the Wolf," The man finally says. "Give the boy Milk of the Poppy. I don't want him yapping on while we deal with the beast." The soldiers move in an instant, and Robb can't say another word, so he just screams as he's torn away from Grey Wind, torn away from this scrap of himself. Torn away from his last chance at having his home back.

The Milk of the Poppy leaves him dazed for the second half of his journey, looking out at the world like a ghost. He does not dream through his wolf, rather, he dreams of fire and blood and of the day his world ended. Talisa screams his name, reaches for him. Arya gets caught in the madness. Sansa is there, his mother is there, their throats running red. Bran and Rickon, so young and small, are burned. He hears Jon, but when he turns, his brother's face is red with blood, and a knife is in his heart.

He screams. His heart slams against his ribs so hard he thinks it will break. They yell at him to shut up, and it doesn't get through him until he's gasping for air in the mud, tears in the corners of his eyes. I am a Stark of Winterfell, he tries to tell himself, but the old comfort of those words is gone. The Starks are Wolves, and his own foolishness got his stolen from him.

His heart does not ease, his heart does not stop beating loudly and constantly in his ears. Grey Wind is caught, he thinks numbly, and he tries in vain to fall back on the glee of learning of Cersei's plan, but nothing comes. Grey Wind is caught, and I will lose him too. They'll make me watch him die, maybe they'll make me do it myself.

Casterly Rock looms in the distance. The world is grey, the world is burning around him. What good is he to anyone like this, really? He's being dragged to his bannermen, and he has no doubt that Cersei wants him to be thrown in with them, just so she can get word of what they say. He doesn't even know who's even here, but it doesn't matter, because nothing matters to him if Grey Wind is gone.

There had been no Wolf dreams in the dark beneath The Red Keep, not at first. But he thinks they may have come in flashes, in glimpses, in single breaths. Wind in fur, blood in his mouth, the ground beneath him. The barest hints of existence beyond captivity, the barest glimmer of something resembling hope in the darkness of despair. And then he'd been Grey Wind, for a single, shining night.

The journey to the cells is long, but simple enough. Cersei is the Lady of the Rock, but she is busy in King's Landing, so the castle is run by some other simpering Lannister who takes one look at Robb's murderous expression and hurries them away. At least there are no Black Cells here, he thinks. At least I will be able to see some light.

And then he hears a loud cry of his name, from a far too familiar voice. He looks up and sees The Greatjon Umber, looking a little worse for wear, but as tall as ever. He has a single cellmate, who Robb recognises a moment later as none other than Dacey Mormont. A smile, breathless and more relieved than ever, crosses his face, and not a moment later, he's being thrown in, hands released from their bindings. For a moment, he stands there, staring at Dacey and Jon.

And then his head spins violently, and the faces of Dacey and Jon blur, and suddenly, he's careening to the floor, and they're shouting. Strong hands catch him before he can kiss it though, and then he's being carried between his two bannermen, dragged to a cot in the back of the cell. He's sat down as his vision finally begins to clear again, and he becomes suddenly aware of a warm hand, rubbing his back through his thin shirt.

"You're alright," a gruff voice says, and he coughs as he's offered water, taking it with shaking hands. The hand at his back comes to rest on the back of his neck, cradling as he drinks slowly, hands trembling with the overwhelming emotions and the headache that slams in the corner of his mind. "You're alright, Your Grace. Take a breath."

Some other voices are calling, and Robb tries to see where they're coming from, who else is here, but his face is taken in Dacey's hand, and he is forced to look at her. Her gaze rakes over him, so much like her mother, so much like his own, so very familiar. She seems to be pleased by what she sees, though, and with only a single nod towards him beforehand, he's wrenched into a hug.

His brain short circuits for a moment, and then he's hugging her back, just as tight. He and Dacey were not close, he'd say, but he'd trusted her, and he'd caught a brief sight of the scars on her face before he'd tried to meet the floor. He has no illusions as to where they could be from, especially because the last time he saw her, before The Red Wedding, they were not there. And she is, most importantly, a Northman, and a friendly face.

"Thank the gods," she whispers, cradling his face as he pulls away. His hands rest uselessly on her arms, and she smiles sadly at him. He matches it as best he can, unable to hide his exhaustion in the face of trusted faces. They get a single moment more before the Greatjon seemingly gets impatient, and nearly shoves Dacey away to wrap Robb up into another, much more bone-crushing, hug.

"The Young Wolf lives!" He whispers as quietly as he can, which, with the Greatjon, is not very quiet. But Robb wouldn't have it any other way, and he's starting to recognise the calls that are coming over. Dacey is placating the rest of his bannermen, with her typical sharp tongue and reliance on words that would make even some knights blush. "First we finally get dragged from that damned Frey-infested castle, and now you come home to us!"

Robb grins at him, but doesn't say much. The Greatjon doesn't seem surprised by that, face sobering a bit as he too looks over Robb. Seemingly satisfied, he pulls away before any of the guards can say that he and the rest of them were too familiar with Robb, and kill them all as a result. Dacey sits next to him on the cot they'd deposited him on, while the Greatjon goes to the corner between the wall and the front of the cell, glaring out into the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I don't have any news," he whispers lowly to her, hand flexing when the soldiers who brought him in draw closer, seemingly having decided it's time to wrap the reunion up.

But Dacey smiles at him again, despite it all. And that smirk stays on her face as the Lannister soldiers enter the cell, and grab Robb, binding his hands once more. She tilts her chin up, sitting on the simple cot like it's a throne or the great seat of a House, and with a smile on her mouth and in her mouth, she says, a little loudly, "Don't worry about that, Lord Stark, please. You have returned to us. You live another day. That is good news."

"Aye," The Greatjon rumbles, and suddenly the hall is alight with cheers and hands banging on the bars to their cells. The soldiers exchange a worried look, and Robb has just enough time to exchange a grin with Dacey before a sack is procured and shoved over his head, and he's being led out, the cheers and cries of his bannermen echoing down the hall for many long seconds after they leave their block.

Soon enough, after the cries have faded, the sack is torn off his head, and he's being thrown into a cell, hands coming unbound a mere moment before the door is slammed shut behind him. Keeping on his own two feet, he turns to look at the two guards, sending them the coldest look he can muster before they scamper away with their tails between their legs. He watches them go with a self-satisfied smirk, but as soon as he's gone, feels himself deflate.

There's a single cot and chamber pot in this cell, and a cursory glance around the block he's in reveals him to be alone, save for a single guard at the other end of the hall. Sighing, he runs a hand through his messy hair, and sits on the cot, staring out at nothing like he did in the Black Cells. But he can see everything now, and there is no darkness to consume his thoughts, to give way to both dreams and nightmares of the highest kind.

Night crawls closer, and he tries to replay the memory of his bannermen, the sound of their voices, but all roads lead him back to The Red Wedding, to The Twins. At least he knows where his bannermen were brought, which is nowhere. They were kept by the Freys until recently, he'd hazard a guess, until Cersei and the Lannister Army told Walder Frey to hand them over or die. The old cunt would always choose to live, Robb knows well enough.

So, here they all are. Nearly all the Northern Houses are represented here, but the one man they will all answer to is kept away from them all. Maybe Cersei is clever, in some sense of the word, clever enough to know that if she put a wolf amidst his pack, they'd topple The Rock from the inside out.

As soon as it's dark enough to do so, Robb tries to sleep. But his dreams are troubled, flashes of pain, flashes of memory from the wedding. There is only a brief moment of lucidity, a solitary clear Wolf Dream, and all he gets from it is an overwhelming sense of longing for a pack that is miles away. Somewhere, deep within Grey Wind, the wolf knows that his sisters are making their way North, to their brother at The Wall, and he longs to join them, but he is trapped, just like his boy.

Robb dreams a distant dream of family, for the briefest moment, but it's enough that when he wakes up in the dark, and tears are on his cheeks already, he lets them keep coming. No one is here to see it, and he hates to say it, but the dark is a familiar comfort now. At least in the dark, no one can see him cry, at least no one can see him bend or break. The Dark tells no secrets.

He does not think of Grey Wind, he refuses to even try and feel for his wolf, afraid that he will find nothing where there was once an innate sense of the other. Grey Wind is a part of him, a part of who he is. If he loses him, does he not lose everything that keeps him tied to his home, tied to Winterfell, tied to the rest of his family? Jon and I found the Wolves on the Way back home. They were pups. We were racing home. The wind was sweet that day.

---

For a…long, long, moment, Robb and his new…visitor, just stare at one another, neither of them quite sure what they're supposed to say to the other. Robb hadn't heard the heckles, but looking at the man's face, he knows that his bannermen ran him ragged on his way down here. He also looks like he's hanging on the edge of some rapidly fraying sanity.

"Look, I–"

"What in the world do you want with me, Kingslayer?" Robb cuts Jaime Lannister off before he can start spewing whatever he so desperately needs to get off his chest. The Kingslayer winces, running a hand over his face, and Robb is not above looking self-satisfied, nor is he above gloating when he can get the chance, now. The man looks up at him from between his fingers, and sighs again.

"My sister sent me to–well, my niece–"

"Your daughter."

"Let me talk, goddamnit, Stark," Jaime barks back at him, and Robb raises a single brow at him, not unsurprised in the least. "My niece, Myrcella, was sent to Dorne. I was tasked with bringing her home, but I have learned that not only does she love it there, but she's also been attacked by some…enemy to the Martells, or another, and now she lies disfigured. I think you can guess how my sister will take that news."

"And pray, do tell, what does this have to do with me?" Robb replies, more than a little lost. "I don't know what you think went down during your captivity, but that does not make me your sounding block for whatever realisations you are having right now. I don't actually care. Your…niece, was nice enough I suppose, and that's bad, I guess, but I can't bring myself to care about a single Lannister."

"I don't blame you for that," The Kingslayer mutters, covering his fake hand with his real one. Robb stares at it for a moment, and when the man sees him looking, he sighs heavily again, looking aside. When he speaks, there's a vulnerability. "It was Bolton who did it. I…I know you don't want to hear it from me, but what happened was wrong. You were betrayed. Bolton was…I don't know when he turned on you, but he did. And I'm sorry for it."

"I'm sorry for it too," Robb says after a moment, and Lannister's eyes snap to him. He purses his lips, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the wall. "I realised, when I saw you at Harrenhal, that she was right. I should have made the girls my first priority, over everything, over revenge. I did want you back, then, but what Roose did…those weren't my orders. He was serving the other side for longer than I thought."

"Your father was murdered," Lannister says, a note of pain creeping into his voice. "God, the things I said to your mother…" he groans, hiding his face in hand. "He should have been kept alive, but Joff–that twice damned fool! Your father should have been allowed to live out his life at The Wall. Your bastard brother is there, no?"

"You're not here to apologise for my father or talk about Jon," Robb says tiredly. Lannister inclines his head in agreement, and Robb exhales noisily, staring at the wall again, reminding himself what will happen if he speaks too loosely about Jon. The Wall will run with Blood. That dream. Jon, a knife in his heart. Is he already dead? "So, what are you here for?"

"My sister is making moves. She has installed a new High Septon, and from what I hear, the Tyrell heirs have been taken into custody by The Seven. I hear he calls for all sinners to be brought to justice, and if Cersei can make that include you, she will. She is angry, and she wants to show her strength in whatever way she can. You are in the blast range, Stark."

"And why do you tell me this? Why do you warn me that I am to die? I know this already, it's not news to me." At Robb's words, the Kingslayer seems to suddenly deflate, looking small and almost…afraid. It's frightening. Once upon a time, Robb had wanted to be like him, be like the Sword of the Morning. Be a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. But duty came knocking. He saw the truth. And now, maybe Jaime Lannister is seeing it too.

"I love Cersei, I admit it," he says, shaking his head. "I will never not love her. But I know…" He pauses, and hesitates, like he's not quite sure what he's trying to say. "I know I swore an oath to your mother that I would see her daughters safely returned. I know that you could have killed me, but you didn't. I know that there is blood on my hands, but if Cersei has her way, there will be even more on hers than there ever was on mine. I know that if my father was killed like yours was…"

"Your sister said your brother did it," Robb says, flatly. He thinks of Theon again, and everything just hurts. He's tired of being hurt. He's tired of losing. Lannister's face flashes with pain and regret, and suddenly, Robb finds himself wondering what role this man had in his brother's freedom. Cersei had said both Sansa and Tyrion had escaped the Red Keep, no?

"And I let him go," Lannister says, smiling bitterly. "She's…I think you can imagine how she is. How she took that. But I– For better or for worse, I love her, and loved Tyrion. He was innocent. Your sister was innocent. And you've made your fair share of mistakes, but I–fuck it, I don't think you deserve to die. If Cersei spills more Stark blood, I can't begin to imagine the hell that reigns down."

"You know a lot about making mistakes," Robb says.

"I do, don't I?" Jaime Lannister asks, laughing bitterly. "But…no one ever thought to ask why. Not your father, not Robert, not my father, or even Cersei. I was there, watching Aerys grow madder and madder. I had to choose between my duty and my house. And then…He told me something. He'd rigged the city to blow with Wildfire. I–I could not sit idly by and let even more die."

"You let my grandfather and uncle die," He says, defensive. "That didn't break your spirit? That didn't lead you to kingslaying? The sight of a man choking himself to death as his son burned wasn't enough to sway you towards the right side? It was the ravings of a madman–"

"They were not ravings," Jaime Lannister snaps, and Robb goes silent as the man looks at him with a wild look in his eyes. "I don't…I am not a good man, I know that. I've made more mistakes than I can count, but I want to start making better choices. I have played a role in your house's crippling, and for that I am as sorry as I can be. I don't think you deserve to die in whatever way Cersei conjures up for you. I don't think more blood needs to be spilt."

"Well, aren't you pious?" Robb drawls. Jaime Lannister turns to go then, and Robb laughs without humour under his breath. The Kingslayer sends a single glance back, and Robb knows there's so much that went unsaid, so much more they should have said. I should have brought up Bran, he thinks, suddenly remembering his mother's accusation. But…he didn't.

"What's this?" Lannister's voice drifts down from the hall, and Robb frowns as he hears the reply.

"Some other visitors for the Stark Boy," Comes the gruff voice of the guard at the end of the hall. "Say they got permission from your sister herself, and got proof of it. Can't say no to that."

"Alright," Lannister replies after a stretch of silence, and before Robb can try and figure out who is coming to speak to him now, a group of men appear, and Robb's confusion worsens.

There's five men in black robes and short hair, clinging to the shadows. Robb catches a glimpse of what looks like something carved into their foreheads, but his attention is drawn away as the man at the front unlocks the door to the cell, and enters with a respectful smile towards Robb. His eyes widen as the door is opened, but any thought of escape is quickly dashed as the man makes quick work of getting in and out, closing the door behind him.

Robb stares at the man for a long moment. He is barefoot, white-haired, and dressed in worn-down clothes. The Guard had said that Cersei sent this man, but in what world would she connect herself with a man like this? Robb stares openly at him as he sits next to him on his shitty cot.

Uncomfortable, Robb stands up not a moment later and goes to the corner, crossing his arms over his chest, back to the junction of the two walls. The man laughs softly, as if amused, but unsurprised by Robb's actions.

"Tell me, do you know who I am?" The man asks, and Robb rakes his gaze over him once more. The same raggedy clothes, mussed white hair, kindly face with something lingering beneath, same bare feet. That same look in his eyes, the strange men in black behind him, hidden in the shadows with their strange carvings of something he still can't make out on their brow. But now he sees it.

A sort of strength, a sort of power. Subtle, but there. It reminds Robb, inexplicably, of Jon. Robb narrows his eyes at the man, and straightens a bit, meeting his eyes again. The man dips his head at him, and Robb remains silent, but he seems content that he's gotten what he wanted. "I am the new High Septon, child. Some call me the High Sparrow. The men behind me are members of The Faith Militant."

Robb stays silent, even as two of the men in black come forward to guard the door, allowing Robb to see the carving in better light. The Seven-Pointed Star, he realises with a twist in his gut, curling his fingers into a fist as the High Sparrow smiles again at him, standing up. Like dogs circling, Robb goes swiftly back to his seat on his cot, not wanting to be too close to this strange Septon.

"Why are you here?" Robb asks wearily, raising his chin as the High Sparrow comes to stand in front of him, looking down on him for the briefest of moments. Then, to Robbs's surprise, the man sits down right in front of him, heedless of the dirty floor or the dangerous look in Robb's eyes. I suppose I can't blame him, he thinks, glancing at The Faith Militant. He has the numbers. I am a solitary, beat-down, Northman.

"I am here to learn more of the man they called The Young Wolf," he says simply, and Robb feels his breath hitch in his chest again. His bannermen had called him that, proudly, that first day, trying to get him to find his strength, but the title just feels like a slap from this strange Southerner. From his bannermen, it was a comfort, their reassurance of his friends, his allies. Of Dacey and the Greatjon, especially, but from this…High Sparrow…

"You are uncomfortable with the title?" He asks, no doubt seeing how Robb's expression twists. He's good, Robb thinks darkly, regarding the man carefully. "Or is it just that you dislike it from me? I suppose I get it. Men are given titles to either enhance or put down. That title was given to you by your man as a show of strength, the pride of the North. I am not Northern. Is it different from me?"

"It is," Robb says, voice rough from disuse. The High Sparrow nods, looking satisfied at having gotten Robb to speak. Give a man an inch, and he'll take a mile. Robb, after a moment of deliberation, decides to give him a few more inches. "But Starks have been called things like that for a while. The Wild Wolf. The Quiet Wolf. The Young Pup."

"Your uncle, your father, and your other uncle, yes?" The High Sparrow says. "The mythic Northern Starks. But you are not all that, are you?" Robb stiffens, looking at him with a cold expression. "You are Northern, yes, I do not deny that. But you are the son of Catelyn Tully of Riverrun as much as you are Eddard Stark of Winterfell's son. The North and The South married together in you. You were raised in The Light of the Seven, no?"

"I married my wife in the custom of The Seven, yes," he says softly, and the memory is fond, gentle. That is the one memory he does not think can ever be tainted. Shaking his head, he continues. "My siblings and I were raised under both The Old Gods and The New. When we returned home to Winterfell, Talisa and I planned to renew our vows in the Godswood of Winterfell. They both mattered to me." He meets the man's eyes again. "What do you want from me?"

The man laughs at that, but Robb finds no humour. "Blunt, are we? But I suppose I cannot say I did not expect it, nor was I not warned of it. I may never have been North, but I have heard plenty of stories…" He trails off, and scans Robb head to toe, as if looking for something. "All stories have merit, child, do they not? They all come from somewhere."

"Yes, they do," Robb says after a moment, thinking of Old Nan and her stories, of his Uncle Benjen and his great tales, and ignoring the other part of the Sparrow's comments. The South can think what they want about Northerners, in his mind, because nothing will change their ideas of what his people are. "Stories come from some truth, I'd say."

"There were a great many stories about you, The King in the North," The Sparrow muses, and Robb pauses as he comes to realise what this man may be after. Robb thinks he knows what exactly his wolf dreams mean, and he knows that they would be considered heresy in the Light of the Seven. Unnatural. It would only damn him further into depravity to them, on top of being a rebel and a traitor to the Throne. And the guard said he was here at Cersei's grace… "I wonder which of them are true. Where does the legend end and the man start?"

"There's truth in every story," Robb says, echoing his words from not a moment ago. The High Sparrow nods, and Robb feels the sudden urge to continue, sighing as he does. "I know what they said, what they called me, what they said my Wolf did, what he made me. I can't say in any way if those stories are true or false. I don't know what's true or not myself. But I do know I was made a King. I know my wolf is as much a part of me as my heart."

"Yes, you were prideful enough to take the crown," The Sparrow says, sounding suddenly much more accusatory. "I don't blame your anger at what happened to your father, child, but The Seven teach us humility. Did you not think to wonder why I dressed like this? When we spend all our life worrying over luxury, we miss true suffering." I did, Robb thinks sharply, but I wasn't raised without manners, as you Southerners always seem to think is the norm in the North.

"This continent is corrupt," The man continues, rising to his feet and clasping his hands behind his back as he starts to pace. Robb watches him walk with wide eyes, feeling more on edge than ever. "The Great Houses vie for power, push and pull for it. House Stark pretends it is above it all, but you seized the power as soon as you could. You usurped your rightful king. You are as guilty as many others who participated in this war of Pride, and I do not intend to let Sin help run this country. You will be tried in the Light of the Seven, and your sins will be brought to light."

"Everything I did, I did for the North," Robb defends. "For my father. For my sisters, for my brothers, for my people. And the king… fuck him. I don't ever intend to bow to the man who put a sword through my father's neck. And sure, we're proud, I don't deny that one. But why shouldn't we be? The North has stood alone, unmolested, for centuries. We were conquered, yes, but without blood. And what do I care about the Seven, anymore?"

That seems to surprise The Sparrow, and he meets Robb's eyes curiously. "You said you married your wife in their light. Your father famously built a Sept for your mother."

"Did The Seven save my mother? Did they save my wife? No. I am a Northman, same as my father. Ours is an older way, he told me and my brother when he took us to our first execution. We were ten, if that. The only gods that have ever helped, that have ever saved me, who have ever listened to me were The Old Gods. The Seven let everyone I love die. The Old Gods have sheltered my house since before The Andals brought their gods here."

"The Old Gods didn't save your father, either, child, did they?" The Sparrow says, and Robb feels his anger rise again.

"I am not a child," Robb cuts him off. "I may be called The Young Wolf, but I am no green boy, not anymore. I was a King–I am a King, The Lord of Winterfell. My men would not follow some child into war. But the Eldest Son of Eddard Stark? Yes. Yes, they would follow him. I was crowned in the sight of The Old Gods, Sparrow. The North is my home. Their gods are mine. "

The Sparrow presses his mouth into a thin line and continues, voice terse. "They did not keep your father from straying from his marriage bed and fathering a bastard. Your father was a good man, child, but as prone to sin as the rest of us. He committed treason. He fathered a bastard outside the realms of his marriage, a creature of deceit and lust–"

"Speak one more word about Jon Snow," Robb warns, but is cut off by the Faith Militant tensing. He squares his jaw and glares at The High Sparrow. "You do not know what you speak of, Sparrow. You keep your Seven, you keep your Southern Sins. But Winter is Coming, and you know nothing of the North. You said it yourself: I may never have been North." The Sparrow nods, looking neither chastised nor afraid, but rather intrigued. Gritting his teeth, Robb manages to rise shakily to his feet. He's taller and bigger than this little sparrow, singing his song. A Wolf. The Young Wolf lives!

"You call me proud, you call me arrogant, you call me a sinner," Robb says. "Maybe to The Seven, I am. But they have not served me, they have not done anything but demand the blood of my house. My father was murdered on the steps of the Great Sept, my mother prayed every day and was murdered by her house's bannermen. And you expect me to love The Seven still? You expect me to not go to the Gods of my Father, the Gods of my Home?"

"Tell me, child, why do you protect your bastard brother so fiercely?" The Sparrow asks him, coming to stand right in front of Robb, so close Robb would barely have to raise a hand before they'd be touching. "He is The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, last I heard, and courting Stannis Baratheon and his Red God at Castle Black. What do you say to that? Do you not fear what Stannis could offer, what price this Jon Snow would pay for his own gain?"

Robb gapes at him. Jon, his brother and his best friend, Lord Commander? The thought is both entirely absurd and perfectly sensible. His shock turns into a laugh after a moment though, but he tampers down both quick enough. What do I have say to that? He wonders, a sudden nervousness creeping into him. But not about what Jon is doing. For Jon. He's heard the stories about Stannis, and if Jon is as stubborn as always, it's going to be like oil and water up there.

This sparrow seems to think that Jon will usurp Robb, but never once has he feared that. His mother did, and in the end, she was right when it came to Theon, but on the other hand, Jon is…Jon. His best friend, the man who he would have fought tooth and nail to bring back to his side, but who is now in the one place he can still be safe. I legitimised Jon, Robb thinks, I named him my heir. And no one should ever know, lest the Wall run with blood and I condemn my sole remaining brother to his death.

"I say that my brother is a smart man, and will do what it takes to uphold his oaths, no matter the cost," Robb says, after a pause. "I will say that many have overlooked him simply because he is a bastard, but that's what makes him so dangerous. I will say that I love him, that I miss him even, and that I do want him to come home to us and be by my side again. But Jon is a man of the Watch. His honour will keep him at the Watch. He forsake all ties when he took his oath."

Is that not why he legitimised Jon, made him his heir, the selfish need to have someone he could unconditionally trust at his side again? He thought it was Theon, but he was wrong, but no matter what his mother might have thought, he's always known Jon is different. He wouldn't betray me, Robb thinks, chest aching. Gods above, what I would do to see him again. To hear him laugh, to feel his back against mine, to just hug him one more time.

"The Night's Watch is a band of reapers and ravers," The Sparrow says with a shake of his head. "What honour is there in serving that, in committing yourself to the end of the world? They have no gods, they have no family, they have nothing but themselves. The Faith Militant does much of the same with their own families and houses, but we have our faith," The Sparrow says, and Robb's stomach twists this time as he sees their black robes.

The South mocks The Night Watch at every turn, the Faith calls them heretics and criminals and the lowest of the low, dismisses every word out of their mouth. And then they turn around and model themselves after the Black Knights of the Wall, the silent and unforgiven guardians of the realm. The Thankless, The Watchers on the Wall. And Jon leads them now. Jon will ever guard an eternally thankless population, who beat him and his men down, who ignore their cries. He was never quite blind to how weary his uncle got, towards the end of things.

If I ever see him again, if I ever go home, I will fix that wrong. I will do all in my power to restore the Watch to what it once was, to see it garrisoned with enough men to last a hundred lifetimes more. I will not let Jon rot, I will not let him be forgotten at the end of the World.

"Although, I suppose there is more commonality between The Faith and The North than you or I may know." The Sparrow says after a brief pause, tilting his head slightly.

"There is no commonality," Robb says hotly. "The Men of the Watch truly guard the realm. All I see when I look at you are men grasping at power, and decrying everyone who does the same. You claim to not want Sin, and yet you arm the Faith. You claim to be holy, to be a good man, and yet you decry a man you do not know because of the name he carries. Where is the Holiness in that?"

The Sparrow smiles at him, soft and coddling. Robb grits his teeth and sits down on his shitty cot again, glaring at The Sparrow and his Faith Militant. "You will see it someday, Robb, when you stand in the Light of the Seven. Justice comes for all men, for all people. No one is above the law, not even The Lord of Winterfell. The Tyrells weren't, either, and now Margaery and Loras face trial. You will face one too, someday. Let's hope The Light of the Seven is just on you."

"I don't care what light shines on me," Robb says cooly. "I care about my people. You do too, in your own way, I'd say. Everyone has their own way of caring for their people, for waiting out a storm with them. I intend to do right by my people, to my house, to my brother, until The Lannisters remember I'm here and kill me like they killed my father. Until then, I wait."

"For what?" The Sparrow asks, hand on the half-open door, looking at Robb very carefully.

"Winter," Robb says simply. The Sparrow's eyes narrow at him, and Robb doesn't dare fight the smile. Let this man see The Young Wolf. Let him see the man who resisted Tywin Lannister. Let him see a living King of Winter, with nothing left of The Seven in his heart. "What else?"

---

notes:

-Robb is Straight Up Not Having a Good Time, as you all can tell. The survivors guilt in him is INSANE, and his entire world view and life has basically been ripped from him. A lot of his arc in this is dealing with what happened to him, and learning to live beyond it. He's not very much in the mood to be alive right now, lets be honest.

-Aggressively Northern! Sansa, my beloved 3 Robb's final words to her in the throne room being 'Winter is Coming'. UGH. It's important that's what he says here, and that's the stark words he manages to say directly to her, and the only thing he really manages to get across to her. I pull back on those common sayings a lot (winter is coming, must always be a stark in winterfell, lone wolf dies pack survives, he who passes the sentence, etc...) A LOT, but I promise there is a method to my absolute madness.

-Speaking of words said to people, both of the Jaime and Robb interactions are fun, but GOD, that Tyrion one was a treat. Tyrion obviously has a very interesting perspective here, but part of the fun is seeing it ONLY from Robb's POV. I imagine it's also almost *easier* in a way to say these very important, personal things for Sansa, through him, because he can barely handle seeing her.

Next up, Benjen would like a nap!