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They tell him about the invasion first. Perhaps because they think it’s more important. Perhaps they hope it will make him too angry to care. To Robb’s shame it just about works – the moment he hears of the ironborn taking Moat Calin and attaching the North, he’s intensely focused on the map spread out before him, the previous subject at council of how to maximize the victory at Oxcross from the day before derailed. He doesn’t even fully process who is attacking his lands, only that they are being attacked.
Then the Blackfish clears his throat. “There’s one more thing, Your Grace.”
Robb looks up. His uncle’s face is unreadable but the rest of his bannermen fall silent. Karstark looks irritated at the interruption; Glover – impatient, but neither of them speaks. The grave look on Lord Umber’s face that borders on pity sets Robb on edge. “Yes?”
“There was a bird to Riverrun. We were unreachable by raven in the field, which is why it went there, I suppose.”
“I don’t understand.” Confusion is only making Robb more anxious and he straightens to look his uncle in the eye. “A different bird?”
Robb has a strange feeling of déjà vu – the Whispering Wood and the day after flash before his eyes in a nauseating warning. Great grief to follow a great victory. Robb watches his uncle’s face, resignation settling into the pit of his stomach as he prepares himself for the loss. Mother? Sansa? Have they finally found Arya?
“Theon Greyjoy is dead.”
Everything stops all at once. Robb hears the words but can’t seem to understand their meaning. For a moment, his mind struggles to process the implications, to understand. A strange numbness settles over him, the feeling of dread that had coalesced in his stomach spreading through his body, making his limbs heavy. He glances down at the map. The Iron Islands, like so many shattered pieces of a raft at sea, stare back at him mockingly, and the burning guilt nearly melts the ice of his stupor.
He hadn’t even considered… No, worse. He’d considered something very different.
“How?” he asks, barely managing to keep his voice from breaking. He can’t let him bannermen see how much this affects him.
From their deep silence, it’s obvious they already do.
“Riverrun could not warn us of the invasion by raven while we were in the field. The bird would not know where to find us. Nor could Winterfell. But they knew much sooner. It’s the only reason Deepwood Motte did not fall and Torrhen's Square could give battle at the Stony Shore instead of riding into an ambush.”
Must his uncle make him come to these conclusions himself? The room is too hot. It’s hard to breath. “They had forewarning.”
“Theon sent a raven to Winterfell to warn them, likely knowing you were no longer in Riverrun. He then tried to abandon the Islands, slip through the blockade. Apparently, it did not go as he’d planned.”
“I always told Ned that if anyone killed that boy, it would be his own father by being a piece a shit.” Lord Umber grumbles.
No, Robb thinks dully. I’m the one who killed him. It’s my fault. He’s still staring at the map but none of the words make sense. It’s like he’s forgotten how to read.
“My lords, I—” Robb breaks off. He swallows back the bile at the back of his throat, tries to force himself to focus.
The Blackfish comes to his aid. “My lords, I think this is a lot of news for one night. It’s clear that there will be no alliance with the Greyjoys. It’s also clear that we cannot stay in the West for long now and must march back immediately. Hopefully before Lord Tywin can get to the Golden Tooth and seal us in.”
Robb nods, relieved. “Yes, Uncle, agreed. We will start back in the morning.”
“Abandon the entire campaign?” Lord Karstark starts, indignantly. “Just when we—”
“The North is under attack, my lord,” Robb snaps. “We must go back. Council dismissed.”
He retreats to his own tent as quickly as he can, gives orders to not be disturbed unless absolutely necessary. Gives orders to his squires for the night and following morning, dismisses them as well. Undresses to retire.
And then there’s nothing.
Nothing to keep his mind from eating itself up with the only thought that has any meaning at the moment.
Theon Greyjoy is dead.
Robb drops to sit on the edge of his cot, covers his face with his hands. He should sleep, but he knows he won’t be able to. He’s afraid the darkness will only make it worse.
He still barely understands. It feels like a nightmare he will wake from any minute.
When they’d given him news of his father’s death, he’d felt anger and sharp grief. But he’d believed it without a doubt. I’d been waiting for it, he realizes. They all had been, because when he’d showed up in Theon’s tent with the letter still clutched in one hand, the other gripping the hilt of his sword, Theon had known without having to ask.
He’d known, and I spent the night crying in his arms.
And now?
He doesn’t think he could cry if he wanted to. He’s too stunned; the room is spinning slowly.
He remembers Theon’s eager, hungry expression before he’d left for the Islands, his joy and relief at going home that he’d tried to hide and couldn’t quite manage. He’d wanted that alliance as much as Robb – it had been his idea. Everyone had been skeptical. Everyone thought Theon was worth more as a hostage. Everyone saw that they were fools to hope it could all be so easy.
But Robb had ignored them and sent Theon into an unwinnable situation.
He hadn’t seen it then. He sees it now. Can imagine Theon sitting at a writing desk, his candle flickering from the cold breeze from the sea, only two choices before him: betray Robb or betray his family.
He chose me and my first thought when I heard of the invasion was not of him.
Could I have done it? Made that choice?
Robb falls back to lie sideways on the cot, staring up at the dark ceiling of the tent. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the stillness. “I swear I didn’t think it would go this way…”
The memories crowd in unbidden: Theon shooting archery targets in the Winterfell yard, turning around to give Robb a cocky smirk every time he bulls-eyes five shots in a row.
Going hunting and swimming together in summer – Theon could always swim better, hold his breath for longer.
Sparring in the yard, on the staircases, jumping from haystack to haystack, tumbling on top of each other in the grass, the press of Theon’s body against his, warm and exciting and terrifying all at once.
The night of Bran’s fall – Theon staying up with him, carrying him back to his rooms when he’d dozed off in the hour before dawn. Theon kissing away his tears the night they got news of Robb’s father’s execution.
Theon’s face at executions. When they were younger, Robb thought he saw fear in his eyes, but he hadn’t understood. When they were older, Theon laughed and made uncouth jokes, and Robb rolled his eyes in frustration and pretended he didn’t understand.
Theon whispering inappropriate things in his ear at the most inconvenient times and Robb trying to act like he’s annoyed, but nearly always bursting out laughing in the end. Talking about girls together and imagining what it would be like to be in place of one of Theon’s many conquests.
Theon telling him he should call the banners, serious and solemn. Maester Luwin is unsure, Robb had said, hiding his own insecurity by the reference to someone older and, ostensibly, wiser. Theon – very seriously – saying, I believe in you.
Theon’s face in the wolfswood after saving Bran, betrayal hiding behind the indifference in his eyes. Robb had felt so ashamed later, but never managed to work up the courage to apologize. He wouldn’t get the chance now. Jon was right about you—
Theon kissing him goodbye the night before he left for Seaguard, smiling that way that Robb knew was real, soft and affectionate. Robb had been in council the next morning when Theon rode out. They never actually said farewell aloud.
—I should chain you up in the yard.
When they’d told him of the invasion, there was a small subconscious part of him that feared Theon had betrayed him. He’d almost asked if Balon’s heir was leading one of the assaults, and couldn’t make himself do it.
Theon Greyjoy is dead.
The world tilts dangerously and Robb rolls to the floor. He kneels, retching, until there’s nothing left, and he’s left coughing and breathing raggedly, feeling like his body has just tried to flip itself inside out.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Grey Wind pads over to his side, whining miserably, and begins to lick his face. Robb wraps his arms around the wolf and buries his nose in Grey Wind’s fur. “I’m sorry,” he says into the empty silence, not bothering to hold back the tears, the shattered dam on his self-control not coming back up any time soon. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I never told you how I really felt.” You were always so much older, so untouchable, so confidant. I was so scared. I was so wrong.
Forgive me.
Grey Wind licks at his face and wines. He’s the only Stark direwolf who had actively liked Theon.
“He died for me. He betrayed his family for me,” Robb tells the wolf. Grey Wind stares at him, distraught at sensing Robb’s misery but without actual understanding.
Would anyone understand? The grief, the guilt, the shame? How much we loved each other?
Robb doesn’t know. He feels like he doesn’t know anything anymore.
Except that he wants to be worth it. To be deserving of that kind of sacrifice.
Robb falls asleep with Grey Wind curled protectively around him. He prays to all the gods that he dreams of Theon.
He wants to say goodbye.