ASOIAF: King of Winter

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Chapter 28

Robb Stark

He lifted his bow upwards, aiming for one of two boats drifting away on the Tumblestone.

Notching a flaming arrow, he lets go of it, letting it fly through the air with a whooshing sound, finally landing on his target, and putting it aflame.

Another arrow is shot to his right, this one hitting the other.

The air was somber, as funerals were wont to do, and it was filled with the sounds of his mother's sobbing, her face smushed into her uncle's chest, who softly held a hand on her shoulder.

Many men who fought in the rescue attempt received their last rites today, yet only two were important enough to do so with such aplomb.

Edmure Tully, who perished against the Kingslayer, buying the reinforcements enough time to halt their efforts. And Hoster Tully, who finally succumbed to his illness once news of his son and heir's death reached him.

'What a cluster fuck.' Robb thought.

It is in moments like this that he cursed his and 2nd's lack of affinity for powers of foresight, it is only his force sensitivity and skill that allowed him to even glimpse hints from the force, but that's all they were, hints.

The force had warned him, in its own way, ever since he marched toward Riverrun it made him feel this nagging feeling, like a taut string about to snap.

2nd's experience dictated that only the truly masterful in the arts of foresight should blatantly trust their visions, as only they are skilled enough to distinguish between falsehoods and truths.

So, he followed the general rule when it comes to visions, prophecies, and future signs, which is to basically use your brain to prepare for whatever may come, and hope for the best.

 And the best he could do is a letter. Again, he is skilled, but his abilities, force or otherwise, are mostly specialized in personal combat and general emphatic capabilities. Any future knowledge he has comes from 1st, which becomes more and more useless as he changes the outcome of the old timeline.

His thoughts at the time were that a simple warning would suffice, it didn't matter what the Imp's plan was, as long as they had enough bodies guarding the hostages, it would be enough.

He was right, it seems, Edmure had made enough precautions that the hostages and their friends were quickly overwhelmed, with the Blackfish himself recapturing the Kingslayer –even having to be held down by others so as not to kill him out of grief for his nephew- and many other hostages.

'What I didn't expect.' Robb thought. 'Was for Edmure to be brash enough to put himself in danger, when he could have simply retreated.'

He glanced at his mother, she was distraught, extremely so. She was smart enough to realize her involvement in the matter; after all, if those guards didn't have the pretext of her regular visits, they would have been suspected and held before they could enter.

'Tyrion truly got himself acquainted with my mother during his days of captivity.' He muses. 'He knew her exact weakness.'

Robb, meanwhile, was quite ambivalent toward the whole thing. He was somewhat sad, of course, but he neither knew his uncle nor his grandsire well enough to have any emotional connection to both. Any measure of sorrow he felt was only due to his mother's own grief.

After all, what son could bear to see his mother cry?

*-*-*

Robb awkwardly put a hand over Catelyn's shoulder.

"Have some rest, mother." His voice is as cold as ever, despite his efforts. "Please, just rest."

She looks up at him with a red face and a runny nose, and the moment she does, her tears flow once more.

She throws herself at him, hugging him tightly.

"It was my fault, Robb." She cries. "You were right, it was my fault!"

He strokes her back gently.

"You love your family." He says. "You love us enough to do things other mothers won't, it may bring consequences sometimes." He puts a hand over her cheek, wiping a tear with a finger. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

'The blame doesn't fall entirely on her hands, this time.' He thinks. 'She cannot be fully condemned for her actions, the guards shouldn't have been allowed to be switched, the sentries guarding the hostages should have been more cautious, and Edmure should have just let his men do the work. It wasn't like no one was aware of her actions, in fact, Edmure explicitly allowed it, with Brynden not objecting to that decision.'

There was no need for another verbal redress from his part, he could see –even without Force Empathy- that her guilt would be enough to stay her hand next time. She is emotional, yes, maybe exceedingly stubborn too, but not stupid.

He'd expect her to metaphorically walk on eggshells from here on out, and that she'd think twice and consult someone –preferably himself- next time.

'I'm more worried to lose any good idea she might have, at this point.' He thinks. 'Judging by the depth of the remorse I feel from her, it'd be a miracle if she did anything of her own volition for a while.'

It seems his words calmed her down, somewhat. So, he had some maidservants lead her to her quarters.

"Look after her, will you?"

The handmaiden gives him a pitying smile, curtsying with a soft "milord", and gently leading his grieving mother toward her rooms.

"Granduncle." Robb turns to the Blackfish. "May we speak, privately?"

*-*-*

As Robb sits on a comfy chair, Brynden closes the door and turns toward him.

He takes a moment to observe the man; the knight puts on a brave mask, a solemn look on his face, one free of the tears that one could expect from someone who lost both a brother and a nephew in a short amount of time.

But his force abilities painted a different picture, Brynden Tully was grieving, as anyone in his position would, but he was also angry, almost apoplectic, even.

"You know that I will have to take advantage of this, right?" Robb says.

"… I know."

"Traditionally, a brother does come before a daughter, but before a grandson, however." He continues. "That makes my brothers and I technical heirs to Riverrun and the seat of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

"I know."

"Unless you'd be willing to marry? If you do that, I'd be willing to grant you the seat and clean my hands out of the matter." He notes. "But I don't think you'd enjoy that."

"I know."

"As for the Kingslayer, he'll have his due." Robb says. "But not now, he needs to be kept alive, until such a time arrives where he's no longer useful."

"I FUCKING KNOW, GODSDAMMIT!" Brynden picks up a stray chair and throws it at the wall.

He stares at the broken pieces left, breathing heavily as his façade finally broke. It didn't get to the point where he shed any tears, but an expression of a mix of anger and sadness painted his face.

"I know…" He lets out softly.

Robb stands up and slowly approaches the veteran and puts a hand on his shoulder.

"You may not be able to get revenge on the Kingslayer." He says. "But there are other men involved."

Emmon Frey and his sons, specifically. The second son was the person who tricked his mother, and it was their gold and involvement that allowed this scheme to pass.

He may not be able to punish the Kingslayer, but those mutts are fair game.

Brynden looks at him with shock, he had forgotten entirely about the others, supposedly due to grief, but now that he had a target for his wrath, he seemed eager to cut some heads.

"But I need you to do something first." Robb continues. "Lords are going to clamor for the Kingslayer's head, which needs to be stopped before it starts. So I want you to approach the Riverlanders, tell them that we'll only be willing to trade him on the surface. Tell them that I have no intention of letting him walk alive. Can you do that for me?"

Brynden huffs. "Not my strong point." He says. "But I can pull that off."

He turns to Robb, an unfamiliar, dark gleam to his eyes. "I'll execute those fuckers this day."

Robb figured he had no choice but agree.

*-*-*

"Please! I had no involvement in Lord Edmure's death!"

Brynden, in full sight of the many lords and smallfolk watching, didn't give Emmon a chance to speak another word.

He swings his sword swiftly, and before they knew it his head was chopped off.

The common men and lords cheer and applaud his death, but their voices die when they notice, Brynden wasn't satisfied with the man's death.

The Blackfish screams with rage as he swings the sword again, and again, and again, hitting Emmon's corpse. His blade seemed more like a club, as the man's cadaver became more and more deformed, blood spattering his surroundings, including Brynden's face and body.

But the last male Tully didn't care, he continued for what seemed like a very long time, and by the time he stopped the Frey's remains were cut in many unrecognizable parts.

When he turned toward his shackled sons, and other assorted men, bloodied face and ragged breaths, their faces turned as white as the purest snow.

What he did to the others was much the same, as Brynden made sure to brutalize every single person involved in his nephew's death, including several other hostages deemed unimportant enough to get rid of, even beyond their death. He ignored their claims of innocence, their pleas, and even other's requests for mercy, his resolve unchanged and his fury unsated.

They say even when everyone left, despite the warm southern rain drenching the yard, Brynden Tully stayed, swinging his sword at dead cadavers, as if they were still alive in front of him, taunting him with his nephew's death.

They say that even the downpour couldn't wash the blood off of him, his soaked figure seeming like a red ghost in the night.

By the morrow, he'd already received a new nickname.

Brynden the Red.