King in the North. The Young Wolf. A rping blog for the boy who grew up too fast and died too young. "If Robb was frightened, he gave no sign of it." (sidebar cred: virginiaauaugustus background cred: shireens)
gif request meme : souffleauxpommes asked:
             game of thrones + favorite familial relationship
âNothing will happen to you. Nothing. I could not stand it. They took Ned, and your sweet brothers. Sansa is married, Arya is lost, my fatherâs dead ⊠if anything befell you, I would go mad, Robb. You are all I have left. You are all the north has left.â
âYou were born in the long summer, youâve never known anything else. But now winter is truly coming. In the winter, we must protect ourselves, look after one another.â
A starter for a rp that ended before it could even begin. It was an AU where Robb would have lived because of the Hound and Arya coming to his rescue, but itâs not as happy as it sounds.
It happened all too quickly. One minute, he was watching his uncle and his new wife being carried out of the hall as their clothes were being carelessly tossed to the floor. The next minute, Rains of Castamere silenced the lively party with its chilling tune and brought upon death and horror. Within half a heartbeat, his bannermen were slain, arrows were shot through him and his mother, and a Frey stabbed his wifeâs belly well over a hundred times. They all fell to the floor with a thud, and the dying screams of his bannermen filled the hall as that damn song continued to play. The Starks had no friends nor gods within these halls.
His motherâs pleads to Walder Frey were drowned out behind him as he crawled towards his dying wife. Helplessly kneeling over her body, tears stung at his eyes, threatening to spill. He was only a boy in the end. He was losing the North, his comrades, and now his wife and the son that never even made it to this world all in one night. âTalisa..â He whispered faintly as he glided his hand over her wounded belly. Resting it upon the exposed soft red flesh, her blood ran over his hand as dying gasps of air flew from her thin lips and eventually dissipated as her body became lifeless.
A sharp pain traveled through his body in seconds, it felt as if ten more arrows had shot at him at once. An instinct of unexplainable dread washed over him when he realized it was not his body that was in pain. âGrey Wind..â The name escaped from his lips without much thought. He was gone. He felt his presence leaving this world, off to join the other wolves they have lost.
His mother heard him and looked over, âGo to him. Get out of here.â His mother ordered him.
âNo..â He grabbed onto the edge of the nearby wooden table as he forced himself to stand, âMother.â He called out to her absent-mindedly as if all hope was lost in his voice. His mother turned to face him, her hostage still in her arm with his motherâs blade at the young wifeâs throat. He wanted to tell her to stay calm, thatâd be all over soon.
But she turned her back to him once again as she swore to him, "On my honor as a Tully," she told Lord Walder, "on my honor as a Stark, I will trade my life for Robb's."
âNo..â He murmured. Robb couldnât allow more people to die for him. He never heeded his motherâs words and now, this is the price he must pay? To lose his mother? He lost his wife and his wolf--He could not bear to lose the woman who gave life to him. Who knows what they would have done to her if they chose to take her as a hostage. As he stepped towards her, a familiar face appeared him. âLord Bolton?â He thought to himself when his once-thought ally appeared before him, one blade in his hand, and the other gripping onto Robbâs shoulder to steady him as he readied himself to aim. With a remorseless smirk he said, âTywin Lannister sends his regar--â
âArya?â His mother called out, whipping her head in the direction of the entrance. A horseâs carriage crashed through the barrier of the giant wooden doors. Jars of pig parts and entrails spilled onto the floor and the Frey men backed away, some were caught under the carriage, and laid there with their broken bones. âGet off my brother!â The young girl shouted. She was as fast as a cat, leaping over and under tables, knocking over plates of food, dodging the slow reaching hands of the Freys, she grabbed onto the hilt of her sword and slashed at Lord Boltonâs back. Unfortunately, his layer of chainmail had protected him from such a weak attack. He turned his body towards her, his hand gripped the blade of her sword and threw it to the other side of the room with ease. Ever relentless, she threw herself at him, dagger suddenly drawn in her hand as she attacked him like she was armed with a claw.
âDonât just stand there. Hit her. HIT HER!â Lord Bolton commanded as he wrenched himself free from her grasp and threw her off him. He was covered in scratches and cuts, rage boiled inside him and he was redder than the flayed man sewned onto the doublet of his bannermen. Arya quickly sprung back to her feet after hitting the ground. She was as stubborn and resilient as ever as she made another attempt to lunge at him.
âArya, no! NO!â Robb screamed, almost pleaded. But it was all too late, the sound of another arrow flying from a crossbow cut through the air. His sister stopped mid-swing. She stood very still like there was a pause in time. Robbâs eyes fell upon the arrow that pierced right through her heart. How was it possible for her to hold her stance? Her gaze fell upon the terrible wound, a horrified scream seemed to be caught at her throat. She bought her shaky hands over the mortal wound, the blood dyed her brown leather shirt a darker shade. Her lips trembled as her eyes.. Her eyes, they were the color of ice much like their fatherâs, but now they melted into pools of water and tears were watering down her cheeks. The spark was lost in them, flickering once as she met Robbâs gaze. âRobb..â She said as she dropped to her knees. This canât be happening.. No, she was only a child. Half his age nearly.. They were only children playing a game made for kings and lords, Robb only made himself believe to be a player. âI never wanted to play. I just wanted to go home. But not like this.â He ran to her, catching the small girl in his arms before she hit the ground.
His motherâs wail boomed throughout the great hall like the mourning howl of their direwolves. The shrilling sound was enough for his bannermen outside to try and come for his aid. They were dying like flies instead of wolves. His sisterâs body grew cold in his arms, as her life was ripped away from her.
âRobb! You have to leave. NOW!â His mother yelled in desperation. He snapped his attention towards her at the sound of her command. He shook his head defiantly, muttering, âNo, no, no..ââ. He cradled Arya in his arms, rocking back and forth like a scared child.
Cruel japes from the heartless Freys were made towards him. âThis is who they chose as their king? I told ya a boy king would fall.â Mocking laughter shook the hall as they jested. Heartbreak and loss had made Robb weaker. He tried to be strong, to stand like a king, but it was all too much. His wound made him too weak to stand, and Talisaâs blood grew dry and cold on his hand much like his sisterâs body.
A familiar knight with a burnt face had rushed in, sword in hand, or was he there the whole time? Robb could not say nor did he care. His will to live was fleeting at this point. There was violent hacking and slashing and more blood stained the floor once the knight had burst in. With a closer look, he observed it was Joffreyâs personal guard, he only saw him a few times at Winterfell when he was a boy. Everything became a blur and the screams had been drowned out as he held his sister close. It was only then, his motherâs shouts of his name had snapped out of his sorrowful trance. He looked up to where she stood, her hostage still weeping in her arm. He almost wanted to tell her to not kill the poor girl. She was innocent and of his age, not like the men who stood around them with blood-drenched swords and daggers in their hands as they mocked him for his loss. And yet, he could not find the words to convince her to let the poor girl go.
âDonât let us die in vain.â His mother said as she pushed the blade further against the young girlâs throat. The girlâs eyes began to water and the Frey sons stood behind his mother like she was their prey.
âNo.. Mother--â He forced himself to step forward, wincing at the pain from the arrow that impaled him.
Her shouting seized him from taking another step, âI wonât lose more children! You are my only child. You are all I have left. Do as I say for once, Robb!â She demanded not so much with anger, but with desperation, âPlease, please, Robb!â
âI wonât.. Iâll save you. Weâll leave together!â A strong hold was on him suddenly, halting him from reaching his mother, âLet me go!â He demanded as he struggled in the Houndâs grip, âThereâs still a chance! We have to come home together! Please, mother, I canât do this without you.â
âYou can and you will.â His mother tried to say calmly and firmly, but the knife trembled in her hand and tears spilled down her cheeks. She sliced through the throat of the young wife without any further hesitance, succumbing to the fate and sacrifice she had made. It was selfish of him to want her to stay with him, she had lived the life she wanted, but Robb still needed her.
âMother! No!â
A small smile appeared on her face, a smile that only meant goodbye and easy acceptance. She mouthed something to him. âI love you?ââ.. Was that what it was? Or was it âGoodbye, Robbâ?
The bannermen flooded in like the raging sea attacking the underbelly of a sinking ship and the the riot began. He never saw his mother again after that.
âYou should be thanking me for saving your brotherâs life,â Theon Said. âWhat if you had missed the shot?â Robb said. âWhat if youâd only wounded him? What if you had made his hand jump, or hit Bran instead? For all you knew, the man might have been wearing a breastplate, all you could see was the back of his cloak. What would have happened to my brother then? Did you ever think of that, Greyjoy?â Theonâs smile was gone.
Let him grow taller, she asked the gods. Let him know sixteen, and twenty, and fifty. Let him grow as tall as his father, and hold his own son in his arms. Please, please, please. As she watched him, this tall young man with the new beard and the direwolf prowling at his heels, all she could see was the babe they had laid at her breast at Riverrun, so long ago.
