Robb XIII

The death of King Joffrey brought everything in King's Landing to a standstill. All movement in and out of the city had been halted by royal decree until after the funeral, and the once-celebratory atmosphere had turned to one of suspicion and fear. Cersei and Tywin Lannister were consumed by rage and grief, leading investigation after investigation, each more ruthless than the last. Yet, despite their relentless efforts, the truth of what had happened to the young king remained elusive.

The city buzzed with rumours, each more outlandish than the one before. No solid evidence had emerged, and no formal accusations had been made, leaving everyone to speculate. Some whispered that it was Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey's uncle, who had sought revenge after their heated argument at the wedding feast. The tension between them had been palpable, and Tyrion had never hidden his disdain for his nephew. Others claimed that a vengeful whore, sent to excite the King before the bedding ceremony, had lost her temper with him.

Still others believed the dark magic of Stannis Baratheon's Red Woman was to blame. They murmured of shadowy figures and sorcery, saying Melisandre had slipped into the city unnoticed to carry out an assassination on her master's behalf. These whispers grew louder in the days following Joffrey's death, feeding on the fear of those who had long dreaded Stannis' turn to the red priestess.

And then there were the conspiracy theorists, who speculated that the plot had come from within—some of the most radical voices even pointing to Queen Margaery, suggesting that she had sought to rid herself of the boy-king. Yet, the young queen's tears and public mourning had convinced many of her innocence, at least for the moment.

With no clear culprit and no one willing to act openly, the city remained trapped in a state of limbo. The shadow of suspicion loomed over the capital, and every noble, guard, and servant knew that until justice was served, no one would be allowed to leave. As Tywin Lannister pressed the City Watch and the Kingsguard for results, the weight of his wrath hung heavily over the city, promising that when a suspect was finally named, they would face a swift and brutal end. The 2 Kingsguard that had left the King unprotected had already been sent to the Wall as punishment.

Meanwhile, in the Red Keep, whispers grew louder with each passing day. Trust was eroding, and the tension in the air was almost suffocating. The once-grand halls now felt like a gilded prison, where every glance was filled with suspicion, and every whisper seemed to carry a deadly secret.

Robb Stark wasn't sure what to believe about Joffrey's death. It could have been Stannis, Tyrion, or even someone else entirely. All he knew for certain was that he felt no sorrow for the king's demise. If anything, he was only mildly disappointed that he hadn't been the one to do it. As much as Robb despised the Lannisters, a part of him felt a grim sense of satisfaction knowing Joffrey would never sit on the Iron Throne again.

The morning of Joffrey's funeral, Robb woke early, as he often did, and made his way to Greywind. The direwolf was a constant reminder of the North, of the home he longed to return to. With Joffrey dead, Robb knew convincing Tywin Lannister to honour his promise of men and provisions would be even harder now. Tywin was no doubt feeling more vulnerable than ever, surrounded by enemies, real or imagined, in the capital. But Robb no longer cared. After the funeral, he would seek an audience with Tywin and demand that he grant them leave to go home. He'd had enough of court politics and the endless manipulation that came with it.

The North needed him, and he had grown tired of playing these dangerous games. If Tywin refused, Robb resolved that he and Roslin would leave for Winterfell with or without Lannister reinforcements.

As he descended the stone stairs of the Red Keep, his thoughts shifted to Sansa. She had suffered far more than anyone else at Joffrey's had, and he had done everything in his power to shield her from further harm. He'd secretly sought out a herbalist in the city to provide her with moon tea, unwilling to trust any of the maesters who served under Pycelle. Robb knew that if word reached Pycelle, it would have found its way to Cersei and Joffrey, and the consequences for Sansa could have been dire.

But despite his best efforts, the tea hadn't worked—or perhaps it had been brewed improperly. Either way, the truth remained: Sansa was carrying Joffrey's child. It was a cruel twist of fate, one that weighed heavily on Robb. He had failed to protect her from the monster who had tormented her for so long. Now, she would live with that burden for the rest of her life, raising the child of the man who had caused her so much pain.

Yet, even in this tragedy, Robb found a sliver of solace. Joffrey would never lay a hand on Sansa again, and the child would grow up free of the cruelty that had defined its father. That small comfort was all Robb could cling to, but it wasn't enough to quell his growing resentment toward the Lannisters and the corrupt city they ruled.

As the bells tolled in mourning for the dead king, Robb hardened his resolve. He would see this funeral through, and then he would confront Tywin. One way or another, he would bring his family home.

As Robb entered the stables, he noticed a young boy, no older than twelve, carefully brushing down one of the golden-haired stallions. The boy was so focused on his task that he didn't notice Robb approaching. Not wanting to startle him, Robb cleared his throat gently and addressed him, "Good morning, Your Grace."

The boy turned quickly, and Robb saw the familiar face of Tommen Baratheon, Joffrey's younger brother. Tommen looked shocked for a moment, but then his face softened, though still marked with a hint of anxiety. "Oh, good morning, Lord Stark," Tommen replied, his voice small and uncertain. "Please don't tell my mother I'm here. Ever since Joffrey... she doesn't let me out of her sight. I just wanted ten minutes on my own before the funeral."

Robb gave him a reassuring nod, sensing the boy's need for solitude. "Of course, Your Grace. You have my word." He glanced across the stable where Grey Wind was being kept, the direwolf watching quietly from his pen. Robb approached the stall next to Tommen. "I'm sorry about your brother," Robb said, offering the sentiment he knew was expected, even if it felt hollow.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," Tommen said, though the words seemed rehearsed, as if he had repeated them countless times since Joffrey's death. There was no real emotion behind them. He hesitated before adding in a quieter voice, "Sometimes I think maybe... Joffrey... Well, I don't know if he was a good king. Mother will miss him, and Margaery too, but... he was never kind to me. Or to you. Or your wife." Tommen's gaze fell to the ground, guilt etched in his features. "I think I'm supposed to cry at the funeral, but... I don't know if I can."

Robb regarded him with a soft expression, feeling a pang of sorrow for the boy who so greatly reminded him of his own brother, Bran. Tommen, like Bran, was far too young to bear the weight of such responsibility, thrust into a world of politics and power that no child should have to navigate. "It's okay," Robb said gently. "Everyone grieves differently. There's no right way to mourn, and no one can tell you how you should feel. And besides, you're a King now, they'll think you're strong for holding it all together for your mother's sake. That's what they'll say—that you're brave and strong, carrying this burden."

Tommen looked up at him, his eyes wide with uncertainty. "I'm not King yet," he said. "Grandfather says they'll announce it after the funeral, and then my coronation will happen in a few months when everyone has grieved for Joffrey... but I don't think I want to be king."

He knelt beside the boy, speaking more softly, "It's a heavy thing, being a king. But I'll tell you a secret, Your Grace. I think the men who truly want to be king are the ones least fit for it."

Tommen's brow furrowed as he considered Robb's words. "Joffrey wanted to be king," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "It's all he ever talked about. He didn't even cry when Father died. And now... now everyone weeps for him, but I... I don't think I can."

Robb's heart ached for the boy. In Tommen's eyes, he saw the innocence of a child already slipping away, consumed by the weight of a crown he neither sought nor understood. "There's no shame in feeling what you feel," Robb said. "Your brother was... difficult, and it's not easy to grieve someone who made things hard for so many. But the people love you, Tommen, and I think they will find comfort in your kindness. You'll be a different kind of king, a better one. And that's something worth more than tears at a funeral."

Tommen's lips quivered, and for a moment, Robb wondered if the boy might cry. But instead, Tommen nodded, the weight of Robb's words sinking in. "I'll try to be a good king," Tommen said quietly, almost to himself. "But I don't know how."

Robb stood, resting a hand on Tommen's shoulder. "You'll learn. You have a good heart, and that's more important than anything else. It will guide you when the time comes."

Tommen gave him a small, grateful smile, though the anxiety in his eyes remained. Robb felt a deep pang of sympathy for him, knowing how difficult the road ahead would be. Tommen was just a boy, caught in a storm far beyond his control. But there was little time to dwell on that now.

Robb and Roslin ascended the stone steps leading to the Great Sept of Baelor, their footsteps echoing in the early morning quiet. The contrast between today's grim procession and the riotous revelry of Joffrey's wedding just days before was stark. The same lords and ladies who had been adorned in gold and crimson now wore black veils and somber cloaks, their faces shadowed with mourning—or what passed for mourning in King's Landing. Most of them had indulged in too much wine at the feast, and now shuffled along, bleary-eyed and heavy-hearted, whether from grief or from the lingering effects of the celebrations.

Robb walked beside Roslin, his arm resting protectively around her as they climbed the steps. He had tried to broach the subject of Joffrey's death more than once, curious about her thoughts. With so many rumours swirling about what had happened to the young king, it seemed everyone had their own theory, from whispers of poison to assassination by unseen enemies. Yet, whenever Robb asked Roslin for her opinion, she deflected his questions with vague, noncommittal answers.

"I wonder if the Lannisters even know who did it," Robb mused quietly as they reached the top of the steps. "Tywin must be furious, losing control like this."

Roslin gave a small nod but said nothing substantial, her gaze fixed ahead on the imposing doors of the Sept. Her face, framed by the dark veil she wore, was unreadable, a calm mask that betrayed nothing of her thoughts. She had been like this since the news of Joffrey's death, distant in a way that unnerved Robb. He tried again to draw her out.

"Do you think it was someone in the city?" he asked, lowering his voice as a group of noblemen passed by them. "Or perhaps... an enemy from afar? Stannis? Even Tyrion?"

Roslin glanced at him, her eyes flickering with something—was it discomfort, or something deeper? "I don't know, Robb," she replied, her tone even but lacking the usual warmth. "There are many enemies of the crown. It could have been anyone. People hated Joffrey, even those who pretended loyalty to him."

Her words felt rehearsed, and Robb could sense the distance between them growing with each passing moment. She was avoiding something, but what? He couldn't shake the feeling that she knew more than she was letting on, yet she was careful to give him nothing but empty, safe answers.

As they entered the Sept, Robb felt the weight of the oppressive atmosphere settle over him. The enormous space was filled with candles, casting flickering light on the somber faces of the mourners. The Seven pointed down from their towering alcoves, as if watching silently over the proceedings. In the centre of the room, laid Joffrey's body, wrapped in Red and gold.

Roslin moved closer to Robb, clutching his arm as they made their way toward their designated seats. Robb couldn't help but feel the unease creeping into his thoughts, the tension simmering beneath the surface of the day's ceremony. The young king was dead, and everyone in this hall knew that his death was only the beginning of something far more dangerous.

For a fleeting moment, Robb glanced down at Roslin, wondering if she felt the same undercurrent of uncertainty. She had always been composed, perhaps too composed, since the chaos began. Though he wanted to trust her completely, something in the back of his mind kept whispering that there was more to Joffrey's death than anyone had let on. And as they sat in silence among the lords and ladies of the realm, Robb couldn't help but wonder if the truth would ever be revealed—or if some secrets would be buried alongside the fallen king.

As the High Septon recited the funeral rites, his voice echoing solemnly through the vast Sept, Robb's eyes drifted toward the royal family. Jaime Lannister stood tall and rigid in his pristine Kingsguard armour, his golden hair gleaming under the candlelight. His face, however, was expressionless, as though he had resigned himself to the role of silent sentinel. This was the third king Jaime had sworn to protect, and the third he had failed. That weight seemed to hang over him like an invisible shroud, though the infamous Kingslayer gave no outward sign of guilt or grief. He was a man long practiced in keeping his emotions buried.

Cersei sat next to Jaime, her posture stiff, her face a mask of cold detachment. Yet, her eyes—glazed and distant—betrayed the depth of her loss. She stared straight ahead, unmoving, as if she were trying to will herself into another world, one where her son still lived. To Robb, it seemed that the formidable Lioness of the Rock had retreated inward, unable or unwilling to face the finality of the moment. Even now, at her son's funeral, she did not weep. Instead, she gripped the armrests of her seat with white-knuckled hands, refusing to break.

Beside her, young Tommen sat, a boy far too small for the weight now thrust upon him. Robb watched as Tommen, with trembling fingers, reached out and gently took his mother's hand, offering her the only comfort he could. Cersei squeezed his hand in return, though her gaze never left Joffrey's body. She seemed to see nothing and everything all at once.

Then there was Tywin, seated just beyond his daughter and grandson, his expression harder to read. Yet Robb saw it—the unmistakable look of disappointment etched across the old lion's face. It wasn't the grief of a grandfather, but the cold dissatisfaction of a man who had lost his prized tool. Joffrey's death wasn't a family tragedy to him; it was a failure. The boy he had groomed, the king who was meant to secure Lannister power, was dead. Tywin's mind, Robb knew, would already be calculating the next move—preparing to salvage what was left of their ambitions. Robb almost pitied him, though the bitterness he held for Tywin Lannister quickly drowned any sympathy.

The High Septon's voice called for the royal family to come forward and say their final farewells. Margaery was the first to rise. Dressed in the black veil of a widow, she approached Joffrey's body with dramatic flair. She wailed over his body, loud and heart-wrenching sobs that echoed through the chamber. Her grief seemed so exaggerated, so perfectly timed, that Robb couldn't help but wonder how much of it was genuine. Was she truly mourning the loss of her second husband? Or was she lamenting the loss of her second chance to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?

Loras Tyrell, her brother, had to peel her away from the body, guiding her back to her seat as she continued to weep into her veil. To everyone watching, she appeared the perfect widow—heartbroken, devastated. But Robb saw something else in her eyes, something colder, calculating. Margaery might have lost her king, but Robb doubted she was done with her ambitions for power.

Next came the Lannisters, each of them approaching the body in turn, significantly less emotional than Margaery. Jaime placed a hand on the edge of the alter, his face unreadable, and muttered a brief, private farewell. If he felt any deep sorrow, it was hidden behind the facade of his Kingsguard duty. Tywin stepped forward afterward, his goodbye more of a formality than anything heartfelt. He spoke softly, his words lost to all but those closest to him, but his tone carried no warmth, only the weight of expectation. Robb wondered if Tywin was already thinking of Tommen's coronation and what political maneuvering would be needed to secure the Lannisters' continued grip on power.

Cersei was the last to step forward, and her farewell was different. She lingered, her hand resting on Joffrey's cold, lifeless one, her lips trembling but no sound escaping. She stood there for what seemed like an eternity, her grip tightening as if holding on to him could somehow bring him back. Her eyes, once fierce and full of venom, now brimmed with a pain so raw it almost broke through the iron will she had maintained throughout the ceremony. When the time came for her to step away, she hesitated, her face contorted in anguish as she struggled to let go. For all her faults—and there were many—Robb could see that in this moment, Cersei Lannister wasn't a queen or a manipulative schemer. She was just a mother, grieving the son she had lost.

The crowd watched in silence as Cersei finally let go and returned to her seat, the weight of her sorrow etched into every line of her face. The High Septon resumed the final rites, but Robb's mind was elsewhere. He glanced at Roslin beside him, her face as calm and composed as ever. The truth about Joffrey's death lingered like a shadow over the entire court, but the real question remained—who would dare step forward and reveal it?

And what would happen when they did?

The final rites were nearing their end, and the atmosphere in the Sept grew heavier. Robb could feel the tension in the air, though most tried to mask it with solemnity and reverence. Joffrey's murder had cast a shadow over every corner of the court. No one dared speak of it openly, but whispers spread like wildfire, accusations hovering just below the surface.

Robb's thoughts returned to those whispers. Who would be blamed for the king's death? The obvious target was Tyrion, of course. He had openly defied Joffrey at the wedding, and the tension between them had been palpable. Robb had heard the rumors circulating—Tyrion was the monster in everyone's story, the dwarf who resented the crown and had finally lashed out. But Robb doubted it. Tyrion was clever, yes, but killing Joffrey so openly seemed reckless, even for him. Tyrion and Sansa were sat in this hall somewhere though Robb hadn't seen them yet, he wondered how they were coping, he mostly thought about Sansa and who she would feel being forced to mourn her rapist.

Then there were the whispers of the Red Woman—Stannis's shadowy priestess. Some claimed she had infiltrated the capital, using dark magic to strike down the boy-king in vengeance for Renly's death. It was a convenient rumor, one that fed on the fear of the unknown. But Robb wasn't convinced. There was no proof, only fear, and that made it easy to dismiss.

And what of Margaery? Robb glanced at her again, sitting in her widow's veil, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her wails of grief had been so loud, so theatrical. Could it all have been an act? Was she capable of plotting Joffrey's murder to secure her own future? She had lost two husbands now, both of them kings, and yet Robb couldn't shake the feeling that her grief was as carefully orchestrated as her rise to power. But if she had a hand in Joffrey's death, she was playing a dangerous game—one even her cunning grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, might struggle to control.

Finally, his thoughts turned to Roslin. His wife had been distant lately, withdrawn in a way he couldn't quite understand. She had always been gentle, even kind, but something had changed since Joffrey's death. There was a resolve in her that he hadn't seen before and she had sworn to kill him after what he did to Sansa. Could she have done it? Robb pushed the thought aside. It was impossible. Roslin wouldn't have the means, nor the heart to commit such an act. But as he looked at her again, he couldn't help but wonder—what if she wasn't as innocent as she seemed?

The High Septon's voice drew Robb back to the present. "May the Seven welcome King Joffrey into their halls," the old man intoned, his voice heavy with ceremony. "May the Mother give him peace, and the Warrior grant him strength."

Robb suppressed a scoff. Peace. Joffrey had known nothing of peace in life, and Robb doubted he'd find it in death. As the rites concluded, the crowd began to rise from their seats. The royal family moved first, leading the procession out of the Sept, their faces still cast in mourning. Robb and Roslin followed, blending into the sea of nobles as they exited the grand hall and stepped out into the open air of the courtyard.

As they made their way back to their quarters, Robb leaned close to Roslin. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly, searching her face for any sign of distress.

She nodded, offering him a small smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm fine, Robb. It's just…a lot to take in."

Robb studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "It'll be over soon," he assured her. "Tonight, I'll speak to Tywin and leave for the North. With or without his men."

Roslin's smile tightened, and she gave a small nod. "Yes," she agreed. "The North."

They continued walking in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. As they reached the doors to their chambers, Robb felt a growing sense of unease settle in his chest. Something was coming—something that would change everything.

And though he didn't know it yet, Joffrey's death was only the beginning.