It felt as if his spirit had been crushed. While he was never as close with his father as he was with his mother, this felt like their family had been torn apart, and, despite the fact that the Vale was backing them, nothing felt right. He was supposed to show his face with his mother at the protest, but Robin didn’t know if he had the strength to do so. All he wanted to do was to lock himself in his room and cry. His father wasn’t a murderer. Why had Uncle Ned been let out, but his father was still there? Robin had absolutely no authority to speak on who he thought killed Balon Greyjoy, but, in his mind, it was absolutely not his father.
Sitting at a coffee shop in the furthest corner from the door, Robin cupped a hot chocolate close to his chest, head bowed. He couldn’t handle being approached by strangers anymore, and he was still trying to figure out which was better - feeling suffocated at home or being touched by people who knew nothing about him in the first place, offering condolences as if Jon was dead. It was enough to make him dizzy; all that Robin really wanted at a time like this was a friend.
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