Lord Robb Stark
Winter was here, it had come in a flash, and Robb was not sure how to feel. He remembered the brief winter of his youth-how funny, he was still young, but he did not feel like he was- and how the snow had fallen in a light patch, here and there, and how they had played in it. With father and mother watching on smiling and laughing. This time, winter had come, snow was falling, but there was no laughter, there was only a sense of grimness. There was going to be a fight, a fight that would end either with his death or his father's death. That was a terrifying thought, but he knew it had to be done. Tarly had come with his men, the butcher of the Dothraki, dressed in his armour, commanding and imperious, and he had deigned command to Robb, and so they here they were, sat and saddled on their horses, near the streams of old, waiting.
The sound of drums echoes in the sky, filling him with both confidence and nerves, Greywind is at his side, as always, his friend and ally, he knows what needs to be done, he just finds himself wondering if he will be able to do the deed when the time comes. He hopes so. He does not want to drag things it out for longer than needs be. One of them must live and the other must die, he has come to accept this, and yet that does not make it any easier for him. He sits there, waiting for the sounds of war to begin, as the drums get louder and louder, he knows what needs to be done, he just hopes that it becomes easier, and that regardless of what happens, that his family can forgive him. The war begins then, and he moves his horse into action, slowly but surely, he moves, and his army moves with him, the beat of the drum, lures him into the rhythm.
Swords are drawn and men fight, awooo, goes the beat of the drum, and the horns that sound. Robb feels as though he is being lured into a trap, but his heart is hammering, and he knows that he cannot stop now, so he keeps going, swinging his sword, hacking away at those who would try and bring him down. His father is somewhere here, he knows that. Knows that his father will always lead from the front, and so he keeps going, pushing through the throng of men and bodies, his horse rearing once or twice, but not causing too many issues, used to blood as it is. They keep going, the swords moving, the bodies falling, sweat falls from his face in his helm, gathering more and more of the pressure that seems to be growing. He keeps going. Pain, there is pain in his hands and he does not know how, but he keeps going, more and more men fall, pain grows, but he keeps on it, moving trying desperately to ignore what other things happen.
Boom, boom, boom, go the drums, and his brain echoes with them, the sounds of impending war and gloom, he does not know whether to laugh or cry, but he keeps fighting. Sweat trails down his face, blood is staining his armour, and his gauntlets. There are men lying on the ground, buried in ash and snow, but still they keep fighting. Tarly is somewhere out there, fighting, hacking away, barking orders, the rivermen and his remaining northmen are there as well, Greywind is out there somewhere, they keep fighting. His brain hurts, he hurts, but still he keeps going, to stop fighting now would be a crime, it would be treason, he knows what he promised his King, and he will not stop until it is done, even if it means giving up his soul. If he even has one left, Robb thinks he might have given that up long ago, when he killed his first man, he became less pure, and more of a savage, the very thing his father would've hated. Ironic that, for his father is now the very thing he hates, a coward and a craven, a traitor. There is anger in him now, his strokes become more savage, his slashes break through steel and through armour.
Young men no older than Jon are cut down, older men are cut down, all men are cut down in the end, he supposes that is the bitter pill they must swallow in the end, that no matter their achievements in life, at the end of it all, they are just one more cog in a wheel that has been turning since the dawn of time. Nothing they do matters, nothing they are matters, and so he keeps fighting. The direwolf howls, and he howls. The men scream, and he screams. His rage is moulded into their rage. He feels nothing, he knows nothing. All he wants to do is sleep, sleep and never wake up again. He can see his wife's eyes, looking at him with love, he wants her, but she is dead, gone, killed because of his indecision, and he screams. Another man dies, and that is when he sees him. His father charging toward him, they move toward one another. His father tries to say something, but over the roar of his heart thumping in his ears, Robb does not here him.
Their swords clatter against one another, blows are exchanged, neither of them is fighting to their true potential, they are both tired, so very tired. He keeps fighting though, his rage fuelling his every move, his anger, fuelling his desire for revenge. They swing, armour falls, they keep fighting, hacking away at one another, their horses break from tiredness, they dismount and they fight, they keep fighting, both of them knowing one another, they keep fighting. He keeps pushing himself, through it all, tired and alone, he fights his father, his father fights him. They fall to the ground, their helms break, they break, then the dragons roar.