8th Month of 299 A.C. Crownlands
Lord Robb Stark
A year of fighting had brought them here, to this pivotal moment. King's Landing was before them, the gates of the city were visible in the distance, alongside the weapons that adorned the walls. His father had died there, the knowledge of that was like a sting in his back, Robb was determined that he would get justice, but Joffrey was dead, slain when Renly Baratheon took the city, Tommen and Myrcella were dead, as was their mother, they'd tried to escape and the King had ordered their deaths as a result. It was dirty, but necessary, and their ghosts were just added onto the already growing pile of ghosts that were tormenting both Robb and the King at night. Girls with fiery hair, and girls with brown hair were already haunting his night, the knowledge that the north was still not safe, chipping away at his sanity as time went by. He knew what needed to be done, but that did not mean he liked it any more than he had to. Thankfully, the King was on the same page as him, determined to get this business sorted so that the threat in the north could be dealt with, that was what mattered to Robb.
Mathis Rowan and his army had borne the brunt of Robb's anger, the King had allowed him to take the northern army into the field and they had wreaked all hell on Rowan. Rowan had mounted knights, but they'd been nothing for the anger that Robb and his men had felt. They had roared their challenge and Rowan had ridden forth with his knights and his archers to meet the challenge. Rowan had died, as had his commanders, but Robb had not been sated by their deaths, the wolf inside of him had needed more, had craved more. The Tyrells and their allies were the reason he was not at home, they were the reason he could not return north to deal with the false Stark and to hold his wife and child. They had paid for that. Ice had sung with the blood it had shed, and Robb, Robb had felt alive, so very alive. Men had come at him and he had destroyed them, fighting like a beast more than a man, and Greywind and he had been one. It had been something else. At the end Rowan was dead, his commanders dead, and only slight army left, who had all been questioned, the words they had given matching with what Caron had said.
Caron, that was one man Robb would never trust, there was far too much about him that wreaked of the south, of lies and deceit, there was not anything honest about him, Robb despised the man, but saw the use he had. They had mined the man for more information, determined to get to know all they could about Renly Baratheon and the puppet that was dancing to his tune. As they had thought it had been a ruse, Caron's army that was, Rowan had come, and his army had been destroyed, but amongst the men of Rowan's host was a fat boy, who was the same age as Robb and the King, a boy named Samwell who had come to make notes, he had been too craven to flee, and they had questioned him as well. The fat boy had been Renly's secret weapon, someone there to observe and report back, but he had not escaped in time. Robb had wanted to kill him there and then and send his head back to Randyll Tarly, but the King had disagreed, had come to know the fat pig, and soon they learned more. Robb did not trust the fat man, nor did he trust Caron, but he knew that the King was getting to know them, so he let it slide.
The King had been gracious enough to allow Robb to take his army out once more, leading the charge for the fight for King's Landing. The plan was simple enough, Robb at the heat of the northern host would bombard the northern gates, with rams and fire, and when they managed to get over the walls and had dealt with the men on them, they were to spread through the city, and open the rest of the gates. The gates come closer into view, and Robb holds a hand up. He thinks over what to say, something momentous and memorable, but his blood is soaring, the fight is coming soon, and he finds he cannot be bothered with memorable, he just growls out. "For the King, kill anyone who gets in the way!" Ice is drawn and the men roar. The archers, trained from the lowlands of the north move forward, there is no wind, but they have clear view with which to extoll the arrows. Robb waits, and then nods, the command is given, and arrows whir to life. They create a nice illusion amongst the night sky, no stars, but they create a nice picture, something moving forward, he can hear the grunts of men on the walls as their arrows connect. He waits and then barks a command, they move backwards, as the men on the walls fire their own arrows in retaliation, missing, the arrows landing on front of them. "Grab those arrows." Robb roars, his archers run forward, eager to get their job, they grab the arrows from the ground before them and fire back.
He is impatient, desiring to move forward, but knowing that this is a necessary part of the ritual, knowing that without this they will be fodder for an advance out of the gates. Robb does not think Renly Baratheon would do that, but he cannot be too sure, he needs to make sure all possible enemies on the northern gates are dealt with before moving forward. Bran and the Riverlords will be following him into the city, so he must make sure everything is safe for his brother beforehand. At his side, Greywind mimics the frustration he feels, pacing backwards and forwards, as they watch the arrows firing backwards and forward, eventually the firing stops. Robb looks toward Theon, who replies. "I think it is safe to move forward." Robb nods, trusting his friend, and so he gives the command, and the army moves forward, a slow moving snake, slithering towards its final destination. The closer they get to King's Landing, the more bodies he can see, men bearing the Stag and Rose of Baratheon and Tyrell, their bodies lying motionless and face down in the mud before them. Robb knows that they will need to burn the bodies once this is done, but as his men either begin hammering away at the gates, or climbing over, he sits and waits, content in the knowledge that none will come for now.
The gate closest to him flies open, and Robb hears his men roar in approval, Ice in his hands, he spurs his horse on by digging his spurs in, his horse sets off at a canter, Greywind following at his side. They ride through the gate untroubled, and Robb sees the reason why in the bodies piled up against the ground, their bodies laden with arrows, it is a grim sight, but he acknowledges it and the rides on, he has more important things to do. They ride onwards, and come toward one of the many streets that he knows are within King's Landing, he knows where they need to go, but they need to get there first. Men wearing the green cloaks of the Tyrells come into view and Robb feels his blood begin to boil. He says nothing, he merely charges forward, sword drawn, he swings, and cuts down one man, injures another, Greywind takes out one man and then another, more men come forward, and as they come forward he cuts them down, revelling in how that makes him feel. Ice bathes itself in the night sky and the blood that her owner is shedding for a cause, a cause that his father might well have been proud of. The fighting continues and Robb roars his charge, his men swarming around him, taking out those he misses. They move through the street and onto another one, leaving behind a mess of Tyrell bodies, a notion that fills him with a lot of happiness.
He finds himself wondering just what is becoming of him, he didn't enjoy killing when they fought those first few battles in the Riverlands, or in the Westerlands, but now, now he thinks he is beginning to enjoy it, the feeling of controlling someone else's life in his hands, in the way he swings his sword, it is a terrifying feeling, but one he knows that he can control. As he swings Ice, he thinks about the distance to the Red Keep, and he finds himself wondering, will the usurper within the Red Keep try running as his siblings did, or will he fight, will he come out wearing Baratheon armour and wielding a hammer, or will he shit himself and run? Either thought would be hilariously fitting, but for now he needs to get back to the events before him. The fighting continues unabated, Robb swings his sword, cutting through men, his arms beginning to ache, but still he continues, determined not to sag down in weight or in tiredness, on he goes, pushing himself beyond all that should be possible. He is a Stark, and his family is beyond the possible, and so he keeps going. Men are fighting him, but they are not beating him, his armour might be dented in places, but he keeps going, feeling whole and undamaged, he knows that when this is all done he will feel the blows, but for now, for now he keeps going.
The streets of King's Landing all look the same to him as they are now, filled with Tyrell soldiers, green cloaks, and Baratheon men, men who are all there to die. He knows there are more elsewhere within the city, being fought by his brother and the Riverlords, as well as those crownlords who had rallied to the King's banner. As three big shadows darken the city more than it was already, Robb knows that the King has decided to join them, soon enough the roaring of dragons fills the air, and Robb merely needs to listen to know where not to go, he does not much fancy being turned into a statue or a burned crisp of a man. He moves forward, pushing himself and his men forward, they continue through the slaughter, the streets becoming wet with blood, slippery red, he's got an itch in his eye that he wants to rub, but he can't exactly stop now, so he instead he merely blinks a fair bit, and hopes that none try to come at him now. Luckily for him, it seems that most are either dead or otherwise engaged, the dragons flying over the city attracting a lot of attention, from the men and from their arrows it seems. Briefly, Robb hopes that the King is okay, mainly for Sansa's sake, he does not want his sister growing up a widow.
Aegon's High Hill comes into view, the Red Keep, the place his sister will call home at the end of this, comes into view with it, and Robb finds himself wondering whether the King will keep his dragons in the Dragon Pit or in that hill, in that castle that stands before them atop a hill. His attention is diverted when he finds men steaming toward him, all of them wearing the Baratheon sigil, he swings his sword, delighted to be met with a challenge. One of them goes down easily enough, the other, the other keeps fighting, it takes both himself and Greywind to bring the man down, ripping away any dignity the man might have professed to have. More men come forward, willing themselves to die, and Robb cuts them down as well, laughing as he does so, the rush of the battle firm within him. They move closer and closer to Aegon's High Hill, the base of which seems to be guarded though he does not quite understand why it would be. It does not matter, he keeps pushing forward, driving the men down and fighting out of difficult situations. Onward they go, pushing and pushing, until there are no more men to fight, only one man and his Kingsguard, the false King stands before Robb, wielding a hammer, and wearing silver armour. The true King lands before them, and dismounts, his armour black and red, Blackfyre in his hands, and the fate of Westeros waits with bated breath.