Thoughts Of A Dying Wolf

Robb Stark stood amidst the chaos, a dagger buried deep in his heart. The hall that had been filled with music and laughter moments ago was now a cacophony of screams and clashing steel. Blood soaked the stone floor, mingling with the spilled wine, and the stench of betrayal hung heavy in the air.

Always the Boltons, he thought bitterly, as pain radiated from his wound. Opportunistic bastards, every one of them. Maybe Karstark was right. For all my military strategy and might, I lost the war. To be killed at your uncle's wedding by heathens who spit on age-old traditions. What a pathetic end.

His vision blurred, but he could still see the smug satisfaction on Roose Bolton's face, and the cold, calculating eyes of Walder Frey. Walder Frey, oh how he hated that weasel, a glorified gatekeeper too big for his britches. One of his brood as the Lady of Riverrun, Olyvar his own squire, and all of that was not enough for the old greedy mongrel.

He was betrayed by those he had called allies, slaughtered like a lamb for the feast. Regret gnawed at him as he thought of his family. His mother, fiercely protective and now screaming in anguish. Looking at his mother hurt, and all the thoughts, what-ifs, what if he himself had brokered the alliance between the Freys and Starks?

What if he himself had gone to Renly?

What if he had declared for Stannis and not become the King in the North?

And his siblings, scattered and in danger. Sweet Sansa, still in King's Landing, tortured or probably worse in the hands of that incest-ridden spawn of that vile, cruel bitch Cersei. Arya had escaped King's Landing thankfully, but where was she now? Who was escorting her? Is she even safe? Alive?

Talisa...Oh, his Talisa. For all the wretched things to happen in this war, she had been the one shining light that had kept him sane. He still remembered helping her with the boy who lost his limbs. So confident, so much in control. He had fallen hard and fast and, unfortunately, had forgotten the word given to the weasel Lord Frey. And now she lay dead with their unborn child. So much left undone, so many promises unfulfilled.

As darkness began to close in, Robb's mind drifted to happier times. The sound of his father's voice, the warmth of Winterfell, the camaraderie of his bannermen. He had fought for them, led them, and now, he had failed them.

With a final, shuddering breath, Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, fell to the ground. His last thought was not of victory or defeat, but of home, and the hope that his death would not be in vain.