The Weight of the Crown

Chapter 49 – The Weight of the Crown

298 AC - Riverrun

Robb Stark had always known that war demanded sacrifice, but he had never imagined that his mother would be one of them.

Lady Catelyn sat in the great hall of Riverrun, her face pale but composed as her son, her king, stood before her in judgment. The loyal lords of the North and the Reach filled the room, their voices hushed, waiting for his decision.

"You freed Jaime Lannister," Robb said, his voice carefully measured. "Without my command, without consulting my council. You went against my war, Mother."

Catelyn's chin lifted. "I did what I thought was right."

"What you thought was right has cost me the Karstarks," Robb said, his anger barely contained. "And soon, it may cost me the loyalty of half my army."

Lord Rickard Karstark had stormed from the hall the moment he heard that the Kingslayer had been freed, and his men were not far behind. Robb had barely held them together, and now the worst had come to pass.

Two Lannister boys, the sons of Kevan Lannister, had been murdered in their sleep by Karstark men. In vengeance.

Robb had no choice.

---

A King's Justice

The Karstark men knelt in the muddy courtyard, their hands bound behind their backs. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and blood.

"My lord, they were only boys," Edmure Tully murmured.

Robb ignored him, his eyes fixed on Rickard Karstark, who stood before him, his face twisted in rage.

"They were lions," Rickard snarled. "And lions killed my sons. I only repaid the debt."

Robb gritted his teeth. "You repaid it with the blood of children."

Rickard laughed bitterly. "You killed my sons too, Stark. When you let that Kingslayer go."

Robb's grip tightened on his sword hilt.

His mother had tried to plead for mercy, but he knew he could not spare them. Not without looking weak.

Not without losing the North.

"You betrayed your king."

Rickard spat at his feet. "The King who lost the North."

Robb's expression did not change. He stepped forward, gripping Ice, the greatsword of House Stark, and raised it high.

The execution was swift, but it did not feel like justice.

It felt like another loss.

---

The Queen's Comfort

That night, Robb sat alone in his solar, his hands stained with the blood of men who had once been his bannermen.

"You did the right thing," came a soft voice.

Robb turned, finding Margaery Tyrell standing at the doorway.

She stepped inside, her presence warm, steadying.

"Did I?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his face. "My mother sits in chains, my bannermen rebel, and I just executed the most powerful lord of the North."

Margaery crossed the room, sinking gracefully onto the bench beside him.

"You are king," she said simply. "And a king cannot afford to be weak."

Robb let out a humorless laugh. "You told me to spare them."

She tilted her head, studying him. "I told you to consider mercy. But I knew you wouldn't take it. You had to act as you did. You need to show them that you are still in control."

Robb turned to face her fully. "And do you think I am?"

Margaery smiled, reaching out to take his hand.

"You are Robb Stark," she said softly. "The Young Wolf. And if I have learned anything about wolves, my lord, it is that they do not break easily."

Robb exhaled slowly.

In the weeks since their betrothal, he had found comfort in her presence. At first, it was simply political necessity, but now—he found himself seeking her company, listening to her advice.

She understood the game.

She understood him.

And when she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, Robb let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was not alone.

---

Betrayal in the North

But peace was fleeting.

A raven came in the morning.

The North had fallen.

The Ironborn had sacked Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy had betrayed him. Bran and Rickon—his brothers were dead.

Robb stared at the letter, his body numb, his mind refusing to accept the words.

"It can't be," he whispered.

Margaery was beside him in an instant. "Robb—"

He stood abruptly, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

"Theon was my friend."

His hands clenched into fists, the parchment crumpling in his grip.

"Winterfell is gone. My home is gone."

Margaery reached for him, and this time, Robb did not pull away. He let her arms wrap around him, let her whisper reassurances he barely heard.

He felt anger, yes. But more than that, he felt guilt.

He had been here, planning a war, while his brothers were murdered.

He had failed them.

---

A King's Decision

The next day, he called his war council.

Mace Tyrell, Garlan Tyrell, Edmure Tully, and the lords of the North and the Riverlands filled the Great Hall.

Robb sat at the head of the table, his expression like stone.

"I will take back the North," he said, his voice cold, unyielding. "I will not let the Greyjoys hold my home."

Mace Tyrell frowned. "Your Grace, the war in the South is not yet won. If you leave, you risk losing everything you have gained here."

Robb's blue eyes burned. "What use is a crown if I cannot protect my own kin?"

A silence fell over the room.

Finally, Garlan Tyrell spoke. "Then we march north."

Robb nodded.

"I will take my army. Most of it. The Riverlanders will remain behind, under Edmure's command, to defend Riverrun. Mace, you will keep the Reachmen here and ensure the Lannisters do not march west."

Mace hesitated, but he had little choice.

Robb turned to the Blackfish, his great-uncle. "You will come with me. And Edmure will ride with us to the Twins. We must speak to Lord Frey."

They all knew why.

Robb had broken his oath to Walder Frey by marrying Margaery.

If he was to march north, he needed to ensure the Twins would let them pass.

The war had taken him far from home.

Now, he was going back.

And he would reclaim the North—or die trying.