#robb threads

Robb had never carried any ill will toward the Tyrells, and yet here they stood as enemies; he had taken King’s Landing--by all means, he’d won the war--but this was not how or who he’d expected to conquer. Joffrey had been killed before he’d arrived, Sansa had fled, and by the time Robb’s armies took the castle, it was a boy king and his rose-wife they were unseating, not Jeffrey.

He didn’t need his mother’s whispers that the Tyrells were an unloyal bunch--they had switched sides so quickly after Renly’s death; but they were also a powerful house, a smart ally. And yet it was the boy king who worried him the most. Joffrey, at least, had been Robb’s own age, and though neither of them should have been crowned king so young, Tommen was a true child. Innocent. Kind. Scared. He reminded Robb of Bran, and seeing him on his throne, a kitten in his lap, had done very little to make him feel better about any of this.

And so he met with the queen. He had imprisoned Cersei and Tywin in the cells beneath the castle, but Tommen he had locked in his bedroom with a guard outside the door, the same to the queen and her family--at least until she was escorted back into the throne room.

He had been here now for a fortnight, that vision of golden Lannister hair crossing the keep day and night. Jaime had earned no love from the Northern people, and every day, Robb expected him to leave; his sister had, after all, forsaken them, and so the Lion roamed without an army, without family, without safety. And yet he’d stayed. As reports came in that the dead were upon them, that there may be no more than hours before the first attack came, the King Slayer had stayed. 

He expected her to have left by now. 

Sitting on the couch in the center of the living room, Robb watched blankly as Arya and Bran ran after one another, throwing something that was staining the walls green; Rickon huddled in a corner, drawing on a different wall with Robb’s art supplies, and Sansa had already come in twice to try and quell the noise and get back to her studying. Despite all of it, despite the yelling and the arguing, the bangs and booms, the house seemed so quiet without Grey Wind around. 

As Margaery let herself in, Robb got clumsily to his feet and met her halfway. He was still learning to walk with his new prosthetic, and it was becoming quite a long process, not helped at all by the fact that he’d stopped going to physical therapy. 

Protective Starters || Accepting || @winterskraken || Robb and Theon 

“Someone is always saying terrible things about me,” Robb said, taking a long inhale of his cigarette and blowing a ring out into the night air. He could pretend he wasn’t concerned, that it did not bother him, but Robb had grown up adored: the perfect, golden son. Even when he’d gotten in trouble, he’d managed to wiggle his way out of any real punishment, any real resentment. He had been smiling wolf, always taking after his Uncle Brandon, and life had been carefree and easy. 

He was having a harder time being hated than he was ready to admit. 

When Robb had had his eyes opened, when he’d begun to fight for their independence, when he’d realized that all his father’s work for the government had meant nothing, that they’d let him die like a dog in the streets, Robb had stopped being the perfect boy, had fallen from golden boy to rebel son. There were those that followed him–many, in fact–but there was just as many who thought he was going about things all wrong, that this movement was destined to fail, that he was doing to fail. 

Askbox Threads || @longmayshereignxcersei

The Witcher Starters || Accepting || @longmayshereignxcersei

Askbox Threads || @strengthfought

“I am.” He could not have justified a trip to Dorne without a greater cause, no matter how much he wanted to see her, no matter how many nights he’d dreamt of her, reached out in the darkness to find the place in his bed she’d once occupied, now horribly empty, the sheets too cold for the warm Southern sun. “I am here to garner an alliance with the prince.” Politics sprang easily from his lips–it had become a habit, the way of kings–but his eyes were on her belly, and they were full of love and emotion, not reason.

They had been--whatever they were--for months now. Satin spent his nights in Robb’s tent, in Robb’s bed, and in the mornings they dined together on whatever scraps either they or Robb’s armies had been able to hunt the night before. When the battles came, Satin was left with the women and children who had latched on to Robb’s camp during this long campaign. But their current battle had lasted for days, until finally, on battered horses and dented armor, they rode home, the tents and voices rising higher and higher above the horizon, and Robb could breathe again. 

After giving the last orders to feed and care for the horses and to bring the injured to the medical tent, Robb made a bee-line toward his own. “I need your help with this armor,” he ordered when he saw Satin, but the moment the tent flap was closed behind them and they were alone, Robb changed tactics at once, grabbing Satin by the cheek and bringing him in close for a hard and passionate kiss.