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It's bright.
Way too bright, and it hurts. The sun hurts.
He topples over, knees and hands meeting the moist soil first, dampening the fall. The mud greets him like a long-lost lover longing for his touch. It clings to his palms like a second skin, not yet ready to let go of him, coating his cold fingers with its smells of rotting egg and rain.
It makes a disgusting squelching sound, when he lift his hands. Don't leave, the mud seems to say. "I have to", he wants to reply, tries but fails. His tongue feels too big and strangely heavy in his mouth like a foreign body, as if it were not part of him. And he is so tired.
It's too bright. And cold, is it winter yet? It can't be.
A thin trickle runs down his neck, warm droplets roll over his collarbone and down his chest where they seep into his tunic. His collar is brown and sticky. The mud, he thinks, ignoring the metallic scent. The smells overlap and mix, they make it hard to think straight. Why is he here again? He will be late for the wedding. He can't miss the wedding.
Good bye, the mud says as he slowly straightens up, come back soon. He can't come back, he'll miss the wedding.
Walking is hard, but he forces his legs to keep moving. One step after the other, slowly and carefully balancing the weight on top of his shoulders, he makes his way toward the castle. He can't see it yet but he knows it's there. He smells it.
The wetness in the nape of his neck is near driving him insane. He lifts his foot in an attempt to… to what? He reaches for his neck and pats clumsily at the wetness. His hands are still muddy. He forgot. There is no rain so it must be sweat trickling down his body, tainting his tunic. It's a pretty one he donned for the wedding, his uncle's wedding. Did he miss it? I have to hurry, he tells his legs but the wet soil is laughing at him, at his feeble attempts at walking.
But he is determined. He gave his word to be there and he won't make the same mistake twice. He must not besmirch his father's legacy. Not again, says the voice in his head. It sounds like his mother's. What's a broken promise against the honour of a maid? He had done the right thing after the Whispering Wood, the honourable thing. For her.
The Twins aren't far, just a few hundred yards away. The churning of the river spurs him on. Go. Keep walking young wolf, you're almost there. Almost. Robb wants to laugh and out comes a a gurgling sound. Oh right, the large tongue, he almost forgot about it. His head feels mushy and he can't help but feel like he's missing something. Did he forget something?
He tries to remember but his thoughts keep getting distracted by the stench of the river. The overbearing stench of murky water from the river that used to be green, used to be—but now it's gotten an unusual yellow tint. So does everything around him, to be fair. The grass, the trees, even the rosy tint of his skin has lost its vibrancy. Yellow. Blue. That's all he can see and the smells… gods the smells. Something has died a few miles away. A deer maybe or a wild boar and now his carcass is polluting the water. Not that it would make a real difference, even before that he would not have drunk from the water. It is much too boggy and mossy.
Finally the two towers appear on the horizon. Like two giant stone twins chained to each other by an arched bridge they tower over the margin of the mossy river guarding the crossing, preventing evil from entering or leaving. Robb approaches carefully. There is a good view from the Twins and his gut is telling him to avoid being seen at all cost. It's so quiet. Staying close to the edge of the woods, he hopes he won't be seen from above. Chances are high he'll go unnoticed if they aren't expecting him and at least his fur isn't white like his brother's. But they are expecting me, he thinks. It's his uncle's wedding. Has it begun already? It can't have, it's way too quiet. Have they been waiting for him to begin the feast?
No, he realizes, something is wrong. There are no banners, no music, no voices, no movement along the walls. A wedding should be loud. Drunken. Alive.
Instead, the Twins stand silent, watching.
Waiting.
Robb swallows, or tries to. His throat does not move the way it should.
"Hello?", he calls.
What leaves him is not a word but a tearing sound somewhere between snarl and choke. He tries again, forcing the shape of the word with that heavy, useless tongue. The sound echoes faintly off the water and stone like something is pretending to speak but fails. What's going on? Against his better judgment Robb walks up to the towers and the moat surrounding them. He hears his blood rush in his ears and he smells the metallic smell on his collar and then he reaches the edge. He has to look, he knows he does and yet he can't bring himself to peek at the reflection waiting to meet him. A strange feeling bubbles up in his throat.
Go on, the water urges him, face yourself. The ripples on the surface beckon him closer. See the truth, they say. Do it. Now!
His hands are sweaty and he is so tired. So very tired and his legs are heavy but he knows he has to oblige. He must face the truth. As he is about to lean over the edge of the grass, movement catches his eyes. Two figures standing just beyond the edge of the trees, half-hidden where the path bends toward the crossing.
Robb squints. Faces blur, then sharpen. They're familiar.
One shifts his weight, glancing toward the woods with the nervous habit of a squire who has been told to watch but does not know what for. The other stands straighter, older, his hand resting near the hilt at his belt.
Then he recognizes Perwyn and Olyvar Frey, his squire and they're waiting for him. Of course they are. Relief surges through him. What about the wedding, he wants to ask, am I early? But the words won't come out right, he knows his tongue is not able to produce the right sounds and he wants to scream but all he manages is a growl. It rolls across the water like something alive.
Both men stiffen. Fear flashes across their faces before they turn toward the sound.
Across the water he can hear their words clearly.
"Did you hear that?" Perwyn asks, his hand immediately grabbing the pommel of his sword. Olyvar mirrors his movement immediately. His head whips around, face tight with anxiety and his eyes scanning the surrounding.
Robb tries to duck away, suddenly scared of what his squire might see, but it's too late.
"Do you see anything? I can't it's way too—", his breath catches, "Monster!"
Monster?
Robb looks down.
On the surface of the water, between the identical stone towers, a grotesque reflection stares back at him.
Royal garments hang heavy from his shoulders, ripped and caked in mud. His collar is stiff with dried blood. But where his face should be, there is the head of a wolf mounted on top of his neck. Its yellow eyes burn in the dark water, jaw slack, tongue thick and heavy between cruel teeth. Upon its head sits a crown of iron, jagged and misshapen, glistening darkly with blood.
Grey Wind.
Across the water, the two Freys hesitate. Perwyn is the first to move closer, one careful step after another along the bank, as though approaching a wounded animal that might bolt—or bite. Olyvar follows more slowly beside him, his face pale in the gloom.
"Gods…" Olyvar breathes. "Perwyn… look at the clothes."
Robb’s head jerks up sharply at the sound of their voices. Bones crack unpleasantly with the movement. The world narrows at once onto them.
Both boys freeze. For one terrible heartbeat, nobody moves. Then Perwyn’s eyes widen with recognition.
“Your Grace,” he says faintly.
Olyvar stares at him in horror. “It’s him.”
Robb takes an unsteady step towards them.
“Easy,” Perwyn says quickly, raising both hands as though soothing a frightened hound. “Easy now, Your Grace. We know you.”
"He’s hurt bad", Olyvar whispers.
"I know." Perwyn swallows hard. "Your Grace—Robb? Can you understand us?"
Robb tries to answer. Another growl tears from his throat.
Olyvar flinches despite himself.
"It’s all right,” Perwyn says at once, though his voice trembles. "It’s all right. Nobody’s going to hurt you."
The brother exchange worried glances. "We have to put him out of his misery", Olyvar whispers. "So his soul can rest"
Put him out of his misery? Robb realizes they are talking about him, about killing him.
"No", he tries to say. Please.
The sound that comes is soft, small, like a wounded animal's plea.
Perwyn’s jaw tightens as his sword comes free in a clean, practices motion."I’m sorry, Your Grace."
And Robb doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t know how.
The first strike is clumsy—not for lack of skill, but because the body it meets is wrong. The blade bites into flesh that does not react as it should, meeting resistance where there should be none, sliding where it should catch.
Robb jerks, a sharp, startled motion.
He looks down at the blade, half-buried in his chest.
Oh, he thinks.
The second blow is cleaner and more certain.
Perwyn steps in, driving the sword deep, angling upward. The blade sinks into his chest, just barely missing the heart. Did he puncture a lung? It's suddenly so hard to breathe. Not too early, he realizes, too late.
Robb slumps together.
"I got you, Your Grace", Perwyn says, catching Robb's straining body. He holds his king gently, watches the young man breathe out his last breath, the life finally leaving his direwolf's muzzle.
His brother crouches down over the body breathing heavily. With careful precision the stitches connecting Grew Wind's head to that of his king are severed. "I never meant to abandon you, Your Grace", he whispers to the threads. "Forgive me"
At their feet lies what remains of their king.
The stitches are gone now. The cruel work of their own House undone and Robb’s body looks so much smaller now. The flesh around his neck is ragged where the thread had bitten deep. Dark, clotted lines circle his throat like a second collar. His tunic—fine once, chosen for a wedding—has turned stiff and black across the chest. Grey Wind’s head rolls down Perwyn's lap and the mud greets it with a soft kiss.
Separate again.
As it should be.