Savages - LolaStark

Chapter Twenty-One

[Robb]

The field was littered with Lannister dead.

The castle grounds burned with heated flames, wild in the winter winds that blew in from the North mixed with the salty winds from the sea. Snow had yet to find it's way to the Westerlands but Winter had come. Crows flew down from their great heights in the sky to take advantage of the abundance of death whilst the Northern men rummaged through the bodies to look for their own.

But there were few.

The North had prevailed and with only minimal loss, it seemed. The siege at Casterly Rock had ended with the capture of Tywin Lannister who had yet to say a word as he sat quietly in his cell. Robb had taken the fortress and had put heavy guard on the man's cell, deep within the dungeon. There was nothing more pleasant than the sour look on the older man's face when he handed his sword to the King in the North.

Even now, as Robb paced the man's study in the tall tower, he pictured the reluctance in the man's eyes. Tywin had been so impatient to strike down the Wolf king that he had fallen straight into Robb's trap. After he rode out to the lines, it was then that he was taken. And it was Robb who had been the one to place his sword against Tywin's neck until the man fell to his knees in defeat.

The Lannisters may have had their child king on the throne, but they were undoubtedly defeated. With no more Lannister gold, it was only a matter of time before the Tyrells sought out a better plan than marrying off their recently widowed daughter to the yellow-haired bastard of the escaped Kingslayer. All Robb had to do was wait.

And he had nothing left but time.

A knock on the door caused his pacing to stop. He looked up at the large wooden structure, the grandiose of it's ornate inscriptions. The lions that were engraved into it seemed to be looking down at him with contempt.

"Enter," he said quietly and the door slowly opened to reveal a wide-eyed and very out of breath Olyvar.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice shaking as he fumbled with a bit of parchment, looking behind him at the guards who waiting for the news to be read, whatever news his squire held, Robb was unsure. "A rider has come, from - from Wendish Town," Olyvar told him, leaning slightly against the column in the middle of the room, the one that was engraved with the names of the former lords of Casterly Rock.

"Wendish Town?" Robb asked, furrowing his brow. "Wendish Town was destroyed by Lannister men months ago. No one lives there."

"Yes, I know Sire - but they came all the same, the guards said the rider was sent by Robin Flint."

Robin? Robb thought. Robin was meant to be at the Twins, keeping the castle under control with the others until he was able to return there, that had been the plan. What was he doing in Wendish Town, a half days ride south of there?

"Who is the rider?" he asked then and Olyvar shook his head as he closed the door per Robb's request.

"I know not, Sire. I did not see them but the guard said - it was a woman."

"A woman?" Robb asked, curiously. "What news has this woman brought from Robin?" he asked and Olyvar opened the parchment.

"I am afraid, Your Grace, the news is grave. News of the wedding," Olyvar replied. "It was a short letter, but long enough to report that it seems our efforts have failed us."

Robb was not looking at Olyvar as he spoke, he was more concerned with the fire in the fireplace that seemed to burn quite fiercely the longer that he staired. But when he looked up at his squire, the seriousness in the young man's face matched the tone in his voice.

"What has happened?" Robb asked urgently and Olyvar sighed, his breath shaky as it left his lungs.

"My father has deceived us. Our ruse was successful, Rowan Magnar was able to convince my father to send my brothers to Harrenhal before the wedding and Robin says that my sister, while at first reluctant, eventually went along with the plan and helped convince my father that Rowan was in fact you. But the letter is short, it doesn't delve into details which leads me to believe that Robin is perhaps wounded."

"Wounded how?" Robb said urgently. "What happened at the Twins?"

"Your Grace," Olyvar said slowly. "It was a massacre."

Robb was breathless as the words left his squire's mouth. Massacre. There was no room left for interpretation with a word like 'massacre' said in the way that it left Olyvar Frey's lips. The young squire did not say it like a man who mourned the loss of his family. Robb trusted Olyvar with his life and Olyvar, in turn, gave Robb the impression of his utmost loyalty. Therefore Robb knew when the word left his squire's tongue, that it was not in their favor that this massacre had occurred.

"I do not know the details in full, Sire, but somehow, my father was prepared to slaughter us all. The wedding was a ruse in itself. We had not anticipated this. The men would have been taken unaware. Robin said they were helpless," Olyvar continued, his voice low and contemplative.

Robb too imagined how they could have missed this. He'd received the intimate details of Tywin's plot to lure Frey into his clutches with gold through the information he'd gleaned from the Westerling girl. He'd thought they would catch the man off guard, that Rowan would conquer the Twins with ease. How had they missed this, he thought.

And then his thoughts returned to the nasty word, massacre, and panic arose.

"Robin escaped. With who else? What news of the guard, of the Greatjon and Ser Wendel?" Robb asked but Olyvar seemed to know less and less with the more names Robb spouted out.

"Many are missing, Sire. Robin mentioned that the wedding began like any other - with feast and wine. But soon the merriment was stained with bloodshed, that our men were fighting for their lives. He saw Dacey and Owen run through, by my father's men, my brother Perwyn's throat slit."

Robb cringed at Olyvar's description. Both Perwyn and Olyvar were likely the only Freys he could trust. Both brothers of the same mother, they seemed cut from the same cloth. Both were loyal to goodness and denounced their ties to their father once Robb explained the plan for the wedding. But now he could see the pain in Olyvar's eyes as he described the fate of his brother, killed by his own family's men.

"What of Rowan?" Robb said, not sure if he was ready for the answer when Olyvar's eyes moved to the ground.

Rowan and been the one to volunteer for the task. He was closest in age to Robb and closest in appearance as well. With a stubbled face and knife taken to the Skagosi's longer hair, many had been impressed at how similar the two had looked. Robb was somewhat shorter and Rowan had much more defined legs. But with the Frey sons who had fought for Robb gone, no one but Roslin would know the difference.

"Killed," Olyvar struggled to say and Robb felt a pang in his chest as his eyes closed tight.

"How?" Robb asked reluctantly.

"Armor piercing at close range, Lord Rowan would not have stood a chance in his wedding garments. But Robin said he fought until the end, that it was Lord Bolton's bastard who delivered the dagger to his chest."

"Ramsay?" Robb said angrily. "Ramsay was meant to be dealt with - I thought he was taken care of when I had Roose secured at Harrenhal."

"When the men reached Winterfell, he was gone, Sire," Olyvar said, shaking his head. "I only found out just today. Ramsay was at the wedding to carry out what was undoubtedly Roose's plot with my father."

"And my mother?!" Robb asked then, his voice rising as he spoke, realizing he had forgotten her insistence to travel alongside Rowan, to protect their plot to deceive Walder Frey.

"Also missing, Your Grace."

"Missing?! How can so many be missing!? Are they taken prisoner, killed in battle - defending their lives?! How are they missing, Olyvar!?" he was shouting now and another knock on the door saved him from lashing out on his squire with his clenched fists. Olyvar ran to the door to see the guards standing there, looking towards their king in pity but Robb only looked away, unwilling to withstand such a look.

Not again.

Several whispers transpired as Robb shook his head, clenching onto something in his hand that he had not realized he'd even been holding. It was a ribbon, a green ribbon that was embroidered with elaborate scenes he had begun to memorize. Fallon's ribbon that had been given to her by her mother.

"I have failed you again, mo ghra," he whispered to himself, looking down at the fabric and thinking of how he would break the news to Broden. How he would face the Skagosi men and tell him that their plan had failed? That another Magnar had died in service of Robb Stark. How could he look at Broden and tell him that his brother was dead. That Rowan-

"Your Grace!"

Robb turned then and saw Olyvar's wide eyes as he pushed the door open to reveal a woman with tired eyes, standing at the guards' sides. It only took him a moment to realize who she was, the young face familiar enough that she caused an instant spark of familiarity in his mind and he walked towards her.

"Roslin?" he questioned, stepping before her until he was looking down at her small frame.

"Did you receive the letter? Your Grace?" she asked, looking up at him as if she had witnessed more horrors than a young woman ought to. She had barely turned fifteen and she already had seen more death than Robb had at her age.

"Was it you who Robin Flint sent to bear this letter to me?" he asked her and she nodded, her eyes red from what looked to be tears.

"He is dead," she whispered. "He saved my life when - when Rowan told me to run."

"Did you see what happened?" he asked her slowly and she nodded as she began to weep again.

Olyvar wrapped his arms around his sister who flung herself against him, her brother who talked about her so fondly. Robb had felt guilt rush through him as he realized it was he she was meant to marry, that by law and in name this woman was his wife, even though it had been Rowan she said the words to. So he placed his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him with wet eyes.

"Your plan had worked. My father, having never met you before, believed Lord Rowan was the King in the North. With my brothers gone, there was no one to contradict that fact except for me. Your Grace you must know despite the sins of my father I have always been loyal to you. I have." Robb nodded. He had no doubts in this young, innocent-eyed woman. "When the fighting began, he looked to me. He wanted to keep me safe," she explained, referring to Rowan once again and Robb could only nod. "I begged my father to stop but I was powerless. So I did as My Lord Rowan said. I ran. Robin helped me through the passageways, took a sword to his side when one of the guards tried to attack us. It is to him that I owe my life and my safety. He wrote the letter shortly before he died in Wendish Town."

"Your father did this because of me - killed Rowan because he thought it was me. It is my fault that so many have died - that he must hold the others hostage," Robb grumbled angrily but Roslin wiped her eyes as she shook her head.

"Your Grace, you are mistaken," she said quickly. "My father is dead."

Both Olyvar and Robb looked at the girl with curious expressions, shocked at her words.

"Dead? If your father is no longer Lord of the Twins then why are there so many missing? Where is my mother?" he said quickly, grabbing hold of her shoulders and she struggled to find words.

"I - I do not know, Your Grace, but I do know that before I left the hall, I saw Lord Rowan fall. And I saw what happened to his murderer. He suffered the same fate as my father," she explained and Robb's brow furrowed in confusion. "It was that wolf of yours, Grey Wind. He was locked in the stalls before the wedding, my father said the beast was too restless upon arrival, constantly barking and howling at the gate as if he was waiting for someone to arrive, growling and biting the guards who tried to pull him away. I saw my father's men lock him up myself and heard his cries just before Rowan came to me to explain your plan. But when my father's attack began, your men were caught of guard - we all were. I saw Rowan struck down and tried to go back before Robin started pulling me towards the tunnels. But not before I saw Grey Wind rush into the hall, two figures bursting through the doors alongside him. He was the one who finished Bolton's son, and my father."

"And where is Grey now?" Robb asked, his heart pounding out of his chest as Roslin recounted the story of the bloodshed.

"With her, of course," she said as if it were obvious. "I saw her rush towards Rowan, watched Grey Wind rip through anyone who came near her."

There was a feeling then that unnerved Robb as Roslin spoke. The girl's brown eyes connected with his own as she spoke, as if there had been some part of his own plan that he had missed. Grey Wind would have protected Rowan, would have gone to his mother's aid even if he were in the hall with the others. But if he had been locked up, then someone would have had to set him free. Had someone come to their aid, only come too late?

"You mean he is with my mother?" he tried to infer from Roslin's words. "It was my mother released Grey Wind from his cage?"

Roslin's brow furrowed then as she stared up at him.

"No, Your Grace," she said shaking her head. "It was Fallon. I thought you had sent her."

Robb was not sure what to say then. The girl with the tired eyes and a tale of carnage was surely mistaken. Still the name from her lips was hard to hear. He looked down towards his boots, shaking his head slowly as he tried to make the words appear that he had long sent to the grave with his lover.

"Fallon is dead, Roslin. She has been dead for over a months time," he managed to say, the words so heavy on his chest as they left his throat.

Roslin frowned at this, however. Her childlike features seemed hidden by her grief and her confusion.

"No," she said quickly. "She was dressed like a peasant, with the most frail frame and dark shadows under her eyes, but I daresay I know Fallon Magnar when I see her," she contradicted. "She was there, alongside another man I do not know. But it was her spear that brought Ramsay down before Grey Wind finished him. She knelt next to Rowan and I could see that she was surprised it was not you."

Robb felt something inside of him. He could not be sure if it was pain or hope but it caused an ache in his throat as she spoke. He could not let himself hear these words, he thought. Roslin's words simply could not be true. If Fallon had been alive, if Garlan was this mysterious man that was with her, surely one of them would have written to alert him of her safety.

"You are mistaken, My Lady," he whispered, turning away, walking slowly towards the desk.

"No, Robb you must believe-" she started but he shook his head.

"I said, you are mistaken," he nearly shouted, his voice rising. "Fallon. Is. Dead."

It was a cold reply, but enough to tell her he would hear no more. He couldn't look at her hopeful eyes, so full of the youth he'd now had ripped from him. There had been moments where he too believed he had seen Fallon, both on and off the battlefield. And each time when he'd realize that it was a savage projection of his imagination. Nothing more.

And sometimes when he'd reach the bottom of his wine goblet he could swear he'd hear her laughter or feel the tickle of her breath on the back of his neck. Each time he'd look for her, see the flashes of her face behind his weary eyes and then she'd be gone. Forever haunting him.

He could see Roslin nod curtly to his response and she did not press the matter further. She simply stood at the door, next to her brother as if awaiting instruction, wiping the tears from her face as she failed to control her sobs.

"Olyvar, take Lady Roslin to get something to the dining hall for supper. Have one of the ladies prepare a room for her," he said quietly, pulling the goblet from the table and taking several long sips to quell the shaking in his hands.

"As your wife, Your Grace, should I not share your chambers?" she asked him and he sighed.

It wasn't so much the words but the way they were said that caused him so much discomfort. He could hear that she was as disheartened by the idea as he was. Once, perhaps, Roslin might have been pleased to be his wife, and perhaps if Fallon had left him he'd have conceded to doing his duty. But now, the sound in her voice reflected his own disappointment. The tragedy at the Twins was no reason to celebrate a marriage that neither seemed to welcome.

"Not tonight," he whispered and she seemed to understand.

It would take getting used to, having a wife. He had often dreamt of this moment, always Fallon's figure on the other side of their bed, a child between them. He poured more wine into his goblet, forcing down the angry liquid until her face seemed to blur from his mind. It would have to do, he decided. It was the only way to keep him from falling into the depths of his own grief.

And so he raised the cup to his lips again, and let the bitter liquid consume him.

[Garlan]

Word had quickly gotten out that the King in the North had been assassinated at his own marriage feast. News of the murder had reached them quite quickly as they travelled through the forest, closing in on the outlying towns of the Westerlands. None of them had contradicted the story. In fact the tale became more elaborate as each day passed.

The Red Wedding, they were calling it.

Foolish Robb Stark had gone to beg Ol' Walder Frey for peace and forgiveness and in turn had lost his head. The massacre had lead to the deaths of most of Stark's guard though the old Lord Frey had also perished in his own plot. 'It were the curse for breaking the Guest Right' one of the travelers had said in the village of Ashemark.

Garlan hadn't bothered to inform them that it had been Fallon's dagger that had brought the the old pig to his knees. Nor had he recounted the tale of Grey Wind's tally of Frey dead.

Of course none of it seemed to matter.

They were two days ride at most to Casterly Rock. There they would meet the Northern army and Fallon would be reunited with her King. It might have been cause for more joyous demeanors within their traveling party but he had not seen a smile in over a week. Especially not from Fallon's lips.

She sat in front of him, her raven hair covered by a dark, wooly hood. Her face was pale though her cheeks were bright pink from the heavy winds they'd faced. Garlan couldn't help but notice the dark circles under her eyes, or the angry scar on the side of her face. The former indicated that she still hadn't been sleeping whilst the latter reminded him of a time that seemed nearly too long ago at Dragonstone.

Fallon rode with him, though neither of them had spoken to each other since the night of the incident. She was too weak to ride on her own, too broken to shattered in both body and spirit as she sat upon the stallion, his arms around her as she leaned back into him, staring off into the distance as if it held the answers to some great mystery. Occasionally she would look towards Rowan who would simply look away as if she were never there at all.

Rowan was furious with her, he'd made that very clear when it had become clear what she had done. It had taken her brother some time to readjust after the ritual. And as Thoros had explained, Rowan would lose some of his former memories, if only a few. But he had recalled his death and had been angered that Fallon had sacrificed so much in order to bring him back.

But even Fallon hadn't realized what she was sacrificing until it had already been done. She thought, hell even Garlan thought she was meaning to give her own life. Garlan was beyond repair when he thought he had watched her die before his eyes. And yet, for all the screaming and the agony, she was still alive and breathing by the end of it all.

But what she had lost had been more of a sacrifice than she'd been prepared to give.

Now this frail and nearly lifeless shell of her was all he had left of her. She could hardly keep her eyes open, finding that to close them to the world was her only escape from it all and Garlan couldn't find the heart to fault her for it. She had made a mistake, a mistake she had made out of an unconditional love for her brother. She would have done it for nearly anyone of the members of their group, himself included.

But that was because Fallon was selfless, a quality that - while sought after with good intention - managed to be her downfall.

"Fallon," he whispered, noticing her eyes were open slightly but she didn't acknowledge his call. "Come on now. Don't ignore me, love," he tried to tease but noting in her hollow expression seemed to change. "We'll be at Casterly Rock soon," he whispered. "Robb will be there and he'll no doubt be happy to see you."

Her vacancy was slowly lifted, only to be replaced by a look of dread, something he had never seen before when hearing her speak of her King. But now she bore this shame, she'd told him. Now she feared seeing him more than ever, for fear that he, like Rowan, would be disgusted with what she'd done. Even if it had been unintentional.

And now his once confident and passionate friend was reduced to shambles, and he was trying desperately to hold the pieces together.

[Broden]

There was no joy in this victory.

The walls of Casterly Rock seemed to be filled with ghosts, the walls drenched in the blood of his family. Corran, Elsbeth, Fallon and now Rowan. The lion may have been in chains but he reigned victorious over House Magnar. Green eyes haunted him, some nights they belonged to his beloved sister and he would feel the guilt wedge into his chest. Other nights they were Rowan's helpless eyes as he cried out and the guilt became unbearable.

If his father could see him now, he thought. He'd be so disappointed in him. Broden, the second son was never meant to be Lord Magnar. It should have been Keeran. He could hear his father's voice telling him that Keeran would have never let them all die.

He tried not to dwell on those thoughts as he passed through the corridor but found that they were impossible to ignore. He had been summoned by the king, an encounter he had dreaded since Robb had delivered the news. The two had barely spoken since. Broden knew it most likely had something to do with the fact that he'd nearly strangled the man and both of them would rather seek comfort in the bottom of a wine goblet. Two weeks had passed and neither of them spoke of what had happened, even when they were forced in a room together.

Like now.

He reached the study where Robb spent most of his time and the guards opened the doors immediately to reveal a darkened room, lit only by the flames of the fireplace where Robb had pulled a chair and sat looking longingly into the dancing light.

"You wished to see me," Broden said lazily, not bothering to look at the man whose eyes were still focused towards the hearth, holding his goblet in one hand and leaning his head against the other.

It was as if Robb hadn't even noticed Broden's presence, or his words as he walked closer, choosing to stand, rather than sit. Broden crossed his arms over his chest as he waited, watching the vacant expression on the King's face. There was no reply at first, only the sound of the crackling fire interrupted the quiet tension that hung between them. And then finally the faraway look faded and robb sighed.

"I hear from the men you wish to return home," Robb inquired, finally breaking the silence. "Dearg says it's because you wish to rid Skagos of the Lannisters whilst Bard claims it's because you are still angry with me."

"Something neither of them had any business coming to you about," Broden replied, mirroring Robb's cold tone as he looked down at the broken man.

"It was I who went to them," he insisted. "Clearly I could not count on your honesty when you refuse to even speak to me."

"Yes. It is my wish to return to Skagos," Broden admitted reluctantly. "I will continue to support the North and your cause. I will leave five hundred of my men and take the remainder of my army back to our homeland to rid the island of those Lannister scum."

"And what if I said I need you here?"

"For what?" Broden scoffed. "You've already won the West. You've got the North and the Trident. I don't doubt you will have support flocking to you now that Tywin is under your knife. Do you think four hundred Skagosi warriors will make a difference?"

"Yes," Robb replied without hesitation. "The Skagosi are important to me, they always have been."

"When my sister was alive, perhaps," Broden muttered.

"Still!" Robb shouted, insulted by Broden's insinuation. Even Broden realized it had been harsh to bring up Fallon. "Your sister taught me much about your culture and these men, they are my people too. We both have the blood of the First Men running through our veins, both North and Skagosi blood has been spilt on the battlefield. They've bled for me and I for them."

"Bleed for them all you like, Young Wolf, but it will not bring Fallon back from her grave and it will not bring back Rowan. Do you think I can so easily forget that you sent them both to their deaths?!."

"You think it's easy for me? Forgetting their faces. Fallon?! Seven Hells, Broden, I loved her. I still love her and I never stop bleeding for her."

"Do you tell that to your wife?" Broden spat, his emotions overflowing. Immediately he wished he had not said it.

Robb just stared at him in shock.

"I would trade my life for theirs, in a moment, Magnar," Robb said, his voice steadier than Broden had expected. Both men stood face to face, their chests heaving as they spilled out the truth that neither could bare to speak aloud to another. "I would give up my honor, my pride, and my life to have her here. I would sell my soul to whatever hell lies out there, just for one moment . One moment is all I need to reassure her, nay to convince her that she was worthy of so much love. And Rowan - his blood is on my hands, that I know. Had I not been so blinded by the need for victory-" he paused, his hands shaking as he dropped his goblet to the floor. "It should have been me. Is it wrong that I envy him? Envy the fact that he is beyond all of this war and death? With her?"

Broden wanted to laugh at the King, to show that he wasn't moved by the man's words but he was moved and he could not help but look away, ashamed. It was not wrong, he thought. He too envied his brother, wished it was Rowan who had survived them. Broden deserved the pay the debts of his own sins. Never should it have been Rowan.

"It is not your hands, Stark," Broden was reluctant to say. "Rowan's blood is on that Bolton bastard's hands, on Lord Frey's hands, and on the Lannisters' hands. It is wrong of me to say that you were the one running the blade through my brother's heart. I know you cared for him."

"He wanted to make you proud," Robb whispered.

Broden did not like hearing those words. They cut him deep, deep underneath the shell that he had spent an eternity building.

"He told me that he volunteered for the task because he knew if you'd been here, that you'd have done it without question," Robb recalled and Broden cleared his throat, feeling a small ache growing within in.

"I request your permission to leave at first light," Broden interrupted, changing the topic from his brother's last words to the reason he'd come in the first place. He could not think of Rowan. Not now.

Robb seemed to consider this. Broden looked at the man, his blue eyes spilling over with the horrors he'd faced. He was a boy who was made to be a King. Barely a man himself, Broden knew the weight. Keeran's death had thrust upon him more responsibility than he'd been ready for. Eddard Stark's death gave Robb more responsibility than any young man should have to endure. War was breaking the King in the North.

Even if Stark won this war, he would likely lose himself.

"I will not stop you," Robb finally said. "Take your men and do what you can to restore your home. Fallon was never more passionate than when she spoke of home."

Broden nodded curtly and turned towards the door. He paused, only for a moment with this hands around the handle and looked over his shoulder to the spot where the King had returned to his fire gazing.

"You are wrong, Stark," Broden said, contradicting the King's previous statement. Robb's brow furrowed in confusion. "I never heard her speak so passionately about anything, or anyone, they way she spoke about you."

Neither let their eyes linger on the others. Neither wanted the responsibility of being the first to look away, or to see the pain the statement would cause. So in a mutual state of respect for the other they both looked away at the same time, staring down at the ground and Broden continued his intended path.

"Bidh curramach," the voice said behind him, the Old Tongue spoken by the King wasn't as harsh as the affluent. It was almost too refined, too perfect. But Broden knew that Fallon had taught her King the language of her people and he also knew that the sound of it was always pleasing to her ears. And so he smiled.

"Gur math a thèid leat, comrádaí," he whispered in return.

Good luck, friend.

[Robb]

It had been an hour, nearly two since Broden Magnar had left his chambers. He knew it was probably the last time he'd see the man, perhaps the last Magnar he'd ever see and he could not decide if the idea was settling or not.

Perhaps, he wondered, the absence of a face so similar to Fallon's would bring him peace. Would there ever be days that he did not ache for her? He did not know. He felt her still, even then, like the wine coursing through his veins. Every touch haunted him, even when he was awake. The wine may have helped her face fade slightly from his mind but he could always remember her touch.

Each day he found himself questioning their last few days together. It had been a dark time after the news of his father's death had reached him. She'd been very cautious not to push or pry. But she had always been there for him, by his side and in his bed. She had been his comfort.

Why wasn't it enough?

Why did he still feel as though her parting wasn't right?

His goblet was empty as he asked himself this, and he pondered to himself if he should waste himself on another glass. He'd been so content to keep himself drunk that he did not know anymore what it felt to be sober.

It several days time he would receive a letter from King's Landing. The King on the Iron Throne would have to answer for his grandfather's sins and some sort of bargain would be made for Sansa's life. Joffrey would ask for an even trade, demand that his grandfather be returned to the capitol unharmed.

Little did the prick know, Robb had no intentions of letting Tywin return home with his head. The Lion had too many war crimes to answer for and far too much blood on his hands to walk free. The only thing Tywin stood to see outside of his own dungeon was the King in the North's blade.

He would get his sister back, but it would be on his own terms.

Winter was now reaching the Westerlands, Robb could see from outside the window. It was dark, the night finally falling on what felt like the longest day at Casterly Rock yet. But he could still see the small, nearly invisible snowflakes that flurried fiercely on the other side of the glass.

He hardly noticed the sound of Olyvar enter with his supper. He might have been expected to be at the feast that night had news of Rowan's death, and so many others, not come so soon. Instead he'd told Olyvar that he would take supper in his rooms and there had been no further discussion on the matter.

There had been a lull in the fighting since news of the Red Wedding spread around Westeros. Most believed that the King in the North was dead and that whoever had conquered Casterly Rock was the new King in the North. There were rumors flying about regarding this man's identity, and Robb made it clear that his men were not to contradict them. Broden Magnar and Rickard Karstark were among the speculations, both of whom Robb thought would probably do a much better job at ruling right now than he was.

But the lull would soon end, and people would soon discover that the Young Wolf was still alive.

By the time Robb turned to see his dinner plate, he also saw a collection of letters stacked next to his plate. When he pulled them up from the table he looked through to see several were from his Northern allies among another reply from the Martell family in Dorne. It seemed Broden had been right about the support he'd gain, or rather the King in the North would gain.

To the outside world he was dead. And he almost envied this alternate life. A life where the North had succeeded and he was taken from all of the pain.

Was he selfish, he wondered. Dwelling in this hell hole of misery? He did not know. There was no telling how long he could ride out this alternate life. All he knew was that soon, he was not sure when, he'd have to return to reality. Soon he would have to deal with more battles, including the one involving the new Lady Stark, his Queen.

Roslin.

He had barely seen after her since her arrival. He couldn't bare to listen to her sobbing or to see the longing in her eyes. And he was fairly sure she would not want to see the longing in his either. Both longing for something they could not have. Only Robb did not know what it was she longed for, only that it was not here at Casterly Rock.

The fourth letter in his hand caused him to pause and he read the fine calligraphy several times before he had fully realized what he was reading. It was his name, the script short but with fine lines that swooped under and around until they spelled out the name of a dead man.

Robb Stark, King in the North.

All letters had been specifically ordered to simply say - King in the North, should anyone outside their allegiances intercept them. And yet, there his name was, written by a fine hand, most assuredly a woman's and he tore it open without wasting another moment.

It was not the type of letter he was expecting. In fact, he had completely given up hope from ever hearing from another Tyrell again after Garlan had fallen at Dragonstone. And yet, Lady Olenna Tyrell was writing him now, asking for a truce. He thought immediately to burn the letter without giving her the courtesy of reading the rest of it. But there was another name, another dead man that caused everything inside of him to pause. His name too, this dead man, was written out and Robb had to read it twice for fear that it was his mind playing tricks on him once again.

'I received a most interesting letter from my grandson, Ser Garlan, noting that you might be interested in a mutual alliance.'

Garlan.

Ser Garlan Tyrell.

It was clear as day. The dead man's name that she used and Robb could feel the pressure begin to rise as his blood began to race. What did this woman mean by tricking him? Surely she knew her grandson was murdered. She was the grandmother to the future Queen on the Iron Throne. The Lannisters would have informed her of his death.

And yet she continued on, telling her that it was Garlan who had contacted her after several unanswered letters to Robb, requesting that Olenna consider a mutual contract formed on mutual interests.

'We do not want your North, and I can safely assume that you want nothing to do with our South. If we were to join forces against our enemies, perhaps we would find a balance and soon a time of peace. My grandson has great faith in you, Young Wolf, and he is a most accurate judge of character. Should we align our houses, I can assure safe passage of your sister, Sansa, back to the North or wherever it is you see fit.'

Olenna claimed Garlan had sent him letters that had gone unanswered but Robb had scoured his letters eagerly until all hope of Garlan Tyrell had been wiped away. Was she lying, perhaps in order to find out the truth of his death at the Red Wedding, or did she in fact have information from her grandson Robb had long given up on?

Garlan wouldn't have left Fallon's side, he repeated. Ser Garlan Tyrell would have died to protect Fallon or died trying. But if he was alive -

He heard the door open once again and noticed that his hands were shaking, holding the curious letter in his hand. He didn't want to look back, not wanting Olyvar to see the fear in his eyes as the words played again and again in his mind. Possibilities were swirling and that ever-dreaded feeling of hope.

"Robb?" a whispered voice said from behind him.

It was quiet, reluctant even, as if even saying the word sounded wrong. But to Robb's ears, his name whispered with that voice was enough to cause chills to appear on the back of his neck. It wasn't the word, but the familiarity in the way it rolled off of her tongue that caused him to turn slowly.

He sighed, wishing immediately to close his eyes as if the sight of her were a searing pain. It was just as he'd feared. He had not been drunk enough to quell the feeling of hope the letter had given him and now there she stood before him, her spirit haunting him. She stood there, her dark hair flung over her shoulder with an expression that pained his heart.

"Please stop," he said, reaching towards the table for his goblet which fell the floor, making a loud sound that caused her to jump slightly. "Please stop plaguing my dreams."

She didn't say anything at first, her solemn expression only increasing as she wiped her eyes, her mouth moving as if she would speak but he prayed that she did not. He could not hear her voice for fear of what he might do.

"Why must you haunt me?" he whispered through staggered breaths, feeling a familiar lump in his throat, growing with each step she took towards him.

"Mo Faol," she said, through her tears, a cry that turned quickly to a sobb as her pace quickened and he stepped back, eyes wide when she reached out for him with her hand.

He stood there, watching her, looking over this familiar ghost and yet he noticed that she was not the same woman from his dreams. In place of the radiant, bright-faced warrioress stood a very broken looking woman, eyes as haunted as his heart and small bruises around a long scar on her cheek.

She reached towards him again and this time he did not stop her, only watched as his breaths increased, watched as her ghostly hand settled on his cheek. The warmth in her fingertips was like a punch to the gut, the sickening feeling of dread mixed with the tragic feeling of loss rushed through him once more as he closed his eyes, hiding the tears as they fell and he frantically placed his hand over the on his rugged chin.

He couldn't open his eyes, only feel the longing breaking apart his heart as it rushed through him. Her touch was too familiar. His skin was no longer numbed but instead it was as if everything inside of him was suddenly heightened by that hand against his skin.

Soon, he felt another hand. This hand, her right, settled on his chest, resting over his heart with a shaking palm and he could hear her smothered sobs as she placed her face into the thick cloak over his shoulder. And again and again he heard her say his name, whispered cries. And with each one he felt something strange, like a pulling sensation that tugged at him, at the innermost parts of him that he'd spent so long burying. And then he opened his eyes and she was still there. His eyes widened then as he looked down at her, pulling her chin up so he could see her eyes.

It was as if something sparked then.

In his dreams her eyes were always a muted color, never quite right as if he could no longer remember what color they'd even been to begin with. But this woman, standing before him, looked up at him with the most vibrant green eyes, stained with tears and felt his breath catch in his throat as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Fallon?" he asked, as if it were impossible. Because of course it was impossible. She was dead, buried somewhere, he knew not.

And yet, here she stood.

She nodded as her tears fell harder, smiling as she fought for air between her sobbing and he pulled her into his arms, touching her face, touching her hair and, for the first time, it was unmistakable.

"Are you real?" he whispered, his lips on her forehead, tears falling down his own cheeks and mixing with her already salt-stained flesh. "Tell me, before I can no longer bare it."

"I no longer know," she whispered, clinging to him as if he'd disappear if she let him go. But it was him who was afraid, afraid that whatever this was it would soon end. But surely she was here, against all possibility and all odds she was in his arms.

She took her hands and placed them on his face, feeling his stubbled chin against her palms and he pulled her face into his own hands. She was just as Roslin had described, pale and broken. His Fallon, no longer a radiant flower.

"How?" he asked her in disbelief, his forehead against hers. But he didn't care, he didn't care for the reason she was standing here now, only that she was. "I thought you were dead."

"Nearly," she said through her tears. "But I could not give up. Not on the man that I love."

He didn't know which of them moved next, only that one pair of lips landed on the other and both Robb and Fallon pulled at the one another until there was no space between them. There was something desperate about the way they intertwined then and Robb could feel something was plaguing her. He could have pulled away, asked what was the cause for the painful tears. But he did not.

He could only hold her and hope that the next time he opened his eyes, Fallon Magnar would still be there looking back at him.

A/N: So I went back and did a mass editing of the first 17 chapters before I wrote this, so I apologize for the wait. But I reread the story a lot, to keep it fresh and noticed so many mistakes that I wanted to correct. That also made me realize that it has taken my 5 chapters to reunite our lovers. It's been torture for me too. I can only hope you enjoyed the reunion. I spent all afternoon yesterday starting and finishing the outlining and detailing of chapters 22, 23 and yes, the Epilogue. That means there are only 3 chapters left before the end. I can't believe I've made it so far already. Thank you for all the faithful readers who keep the story going. I write this for you guys/gals just as much as I write it for myself. I am so lucky to have followers who send me the kindest and most encouraging reviews. You are, as always, incredible. Thank you. xoLola