Lord Robb Stark
A box had come from somewhere, a box that contained the pelt of his brother's direwolf Ghost, and half of his brother's face. A letter had been attached, a letter that stated that this had been carried out on the order of Aegon Targaryen. Robb had been blinded with rage, his brother was dead, his brother had been mutilated, and now it was up to him to get revenge, if he had to kill his father to get that he would. How father could still fight for that man he did not know. He didn't know anything anymore; all he knew was that he wanted to fight and he wanted to kill and so when the King had come to him asking him to command a force to deal with the rogue Stormlords who had left to make for the Stormlands he had agreed.
He had said goodbye to Margaery embracing her and promising that they would marry when he returned, whenever that might be, and she had given him her favour, then he had ridden off. His uncle Lord Edmure, and the rivermen were with him and the remaining northmen, fighting off the anger at the desertions of Locke and Flint, and so they were marching. The Valemen had been left in King's Landing to help protect the city from any rogue fighters. Onward they marched, preparing for the inevitable fighting to come. His heart beat a steady rhythm, and he knew he was ready to fight, there was nothing he wanted more than to fight. To feel someone else die, to cause someone else the pain and anger he was feeling, that was all he wanted. And so he marched, his men and the rivermen marching behind him, they would have revenge.
The Stormlords fly the banner of the false King and the Baratheon bastard he legitimised, Robb had urged the King to recognise Tommen Baratheon as lord of the Stormlands, but the King had refused, stating something about precedent, Robb did not understand that nor did he care. All he cared about now was killing the bastards before him who had dared turn their back on the man they had sworn an oath to. If that included his father, then so be it. His father had lost the right to being avoided when he had continued to support the false pretender after Jon's death. Robb sees the army approaching, draws his sword, roars a challenge and begins charging down toward the enemy, his men at his side. The rush of blood causes him to sing aloud, shouting something he does not know, but knowing it keeps him alive.
The men before him fall to their knees the moment he and Grey Wind arrive, he knows men are terrified of him in battle, and they rightfully should be, he is not a man when he fights, he is a beast. He will destroy anyone who gets in his way. His sword sings as more and more men fall to their deaths. Blood splashes onto the ground, Grey Wind rips the throats out of boys no older than Jon would've been when he died, the thought keeps him going, he keeps killing, everyone who dies revenge for Jon, he sees the image of his brother's head, half of it anyway, eye staring unseeing, he remembers his horror the grief, all of it, he remembers all of it and he keeps fighting. His body takes hits, some big, some small, it does not matter, he keeps fighting. His sword leads him through the pain, through the areas where there is darkness, he knows he will not remember this in the time to come, he does not care, he keeps fighting.
A blow comes, to his chest, to his helm, to his legs, there are blows raining all over him, he does not know where they come from, he cannot see properly, but he knows they are coming and they are coming quickly. He swings his sword, using it to deflect blows and possibly lessen the strain he is under. Greywind is nearby biting and tearing chunks out of the growing army around him. Robb does not know where his own men are, he cannot hear their distinctive shouts and cries, he just hears the enemy, and that frightens him. He pushes through his fear, swinging his sword, determined not to let it break him, he cannot allow it to break him. He keeps going, swinging his sword, roaring challenges, barking orders, hoping against hope that someone, anyone will hear them and comply. He knows it might be a forlorn expectation but he has to do it.
There is a small batch of men hovering near the back of the army, he can see them through the slits in his helm, he knows without having to guess that this must be Edric Baratheon, formerly Storm. If he can get to the boy, he can kill him and end this, shatter their resistance and make it for good or for ill. What the boy is doing so close to the front he does not know, most likely, the boy had some foolish urge to be like his father, something Robb has found is not a good thing. He smiles, calls out, hoping his men will come to his aid should things get difficult. He raises tired arms up and begins the assault anew, swinging his sword with passion, cutting through the enemy, and ensuring that they do not come close to him. The guards of the boy see his plan, but they are hopeless, soon enough he closes in.
There are men closing in, he does not care, they blur before him, and he cuts them down, his blade singing as he does so. He is so close, so very close, he roars a challenge, one is roared back at him and he swings his sword, cutting through the gauze of armour and sleet that is falling, snow, winter. It all blurs in his head, but he moves, his horse stumbles, then rights itself, he keeps going. He comes to the boy, and in two strokes has killed the boy. As he dismounts he holds the boys head up and he roars. "Father! Is this what you wanted father?!"