They were going to see that those who betrayed the North would be destroyed. With the Freys getting picked off one by one by someone with an equal amount of blood thirst made it easy for the young wolf to decide who his prey might be. He would see to it that winter came early for the Boltons and whoever dared stand in his way. The Lannisters would see that house Stark hadn't be eradicated just yet, and that the wolves that remained did not fear the lions and the allies they had won themselves.
The battle raged all around him. Men bellowed their battle cries and screamed from pain. Steel met steel and shields and armored bodies clattered to the floor. The scent of blood was strong in the air-- the stench of death even stronger. The wolf blood was in him, as his father had oft called it. All of it spurred the young wolf on to keep fighting. Robb found himself facing a heavyset man whose armor was rusted and dented. The boiled leather jerking he worse was in no better shape. The sigil embroidered on his arm marked him as a Whitehill. The smell of ale was heavy on his breath and Robb knew he must have drank for courage.
❝Turn back, boy. S'nothing for you left here now.❞ He swung his sword at Robb with a clumsy stumble. Blocking it was easy and Robb immediately worked on pushing him back. ❝You've already lost all that there is to lose!❞
❝Shut up!❞ Robb brought his sword down with enough force to work the Whitehill down onto one knee. The man struggled to fight back, unable to block every blow that was dealt. Yet he refused to bite his tongue, provoking the young wolf further. ❝Your sister's already been had. You can't help her now.❞ he sneered, getting back onto his feet ready to block. Too late. With a grunt Robb drove his sword trough the man's belly and twisted.
Sword now bloody at his side and a fresh corpse before him, it was the sound of feet scurrying around in a nearby room that drew the Stark's attention. If it was a craven-- or someone who hoped to jump at him when Robb least expected it they had another thing coming. Approaching the adjoined room, Robb held up his sword, ready to defend himself if need be.
Surprise was what made him lower it.
Robb found himself frozen in place, sword hand trembled, jaw clenching. His expression darkened considerably at the figure before him. This couldn't be Theon; always proud and cocky, even in his most insecure moments. The person that lay trembling before him was someone else entirely. Nothing but the shadow of a man he had once called friend. The Gods were good to bring him to the one traitor Robb had wanted to find most.
He stepped into the room, now properly blocking the only exit. He would speak to him, if Robb could think of words to say.
You have no right to be alive.
It is because of you my brothers lay dead.
None of that seemed right for this moment. Robb had expected his anger to be worse. To burn hot and fierce and spill from him the moment he lay eyes on the turncloak who had dared to destroy his home and slaughter the last children of his house. He would have driven his sword trough Theon's belly and watch him bleed to death before his anger cooled. Instead his hatred for Theon was like ice-- silent, cold, and deadly.
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