Part 1

                                    

                                          
Riverrun was a beautiful castle. Its history-rich walls welcomed the King and Queen in the North as its new residents, offering itself as a place of command. House Tully welcomed the Northern monarch's, deeming King Robb as a true Tully. He shared their looks and was born in their castle, he was welcomed as the King of the North and Trident. The Northerners had never been so blessed. 
                          
The need to stay at Riverrun was to mourn the loss of Lord Hoster Tully, the King hid beside his wife as he held in his giggles at the funeral. His uncle's attempts at lighting the funeral boat with an arrow  humored him so. 
                          
The Northern Lord's begged their King not to stay, but as a Tully, the King needed to attend his grandfather's funeral. Lord Roose Bolton, his father through marriage, scoffed at the idea of joining his family and rode swiftly for Herranhal. His daughter yelled at him before his departure, of course. The Queen, Rhaenyra, Robb's lovely wife. She had been quiet for days, the pain of another death weakening her. She spoke a few words, only keeping conversations with their sons. It pained him to see her so hurt. 
                          
He was reminded of their time further South, one of their many visits to the Crag. It was a short trip to officially receive House Westerling's surrender, it was the first time they had been properly together since the war started. No children, no men outside a tent, no direwolf, just them. It was beautiful, until dawn when a raven from the Dreadfort came. Rhaenyra was silent as she handed the letter to him and remained silent as he cried. She simply held him as he wailed against her. His brothers were dead. Their death continued to pain her, his grandfather's death reminded her of the pain and her lack of mourning. 
                          
She needed to be alone, so he allowed her to disappear from the funeral feast. 
                          
Rhaenyra Stark's calmness came with solitude and silence. She pushed the heavy doors to her chamber's and leaned against them. She tightly held the fish-shaped handle, praying they would stay closed. She pressed a hand to her stomach, attempting to ease her breathing. Rhaenyra was exhausted, she need to rest. The sight of the fire burning before a chair welcomed her. She hurriedly walked to the seat, pushing it closer to the flames. She brought her knees to her chest and rested her chin atop them. 
                          
Rhaenyra was uncomfortably close to the flames that danced ever so smoothly in the fireplace. Her violet eyes flickered over the licks, her teeth bit at her nails. A bad habit, she knew, but the stress of the war was overwhelming. Her nails had to suffer with her. 

                          
She brushed her hand against her dark dress and inched closer in her seat. The heat of the flames brushed against her cheeks in a beckoning motion, like they always did. Rhaenyra lifted her hand from her side and let her fingertips graze the whisps of fire. She felt the warm wind tickle her fingers as she let her palm submerge under to feel the sensation. 
                          
Rhaenyra retracted her hand quickly at the sound of the chamber door opening. She hid her singed sleeve against her side, not wanting to turn to greet her husband. Robb's footsteps were heavy, the weight of his crown weighing him down. She could hear him remove the new Winter crown and toss it on their bed. His steps returned as he made his way toward her. 
                          
Rhaenyra's eyes did not meet his as he sat awkwardly against the arm of her chair. From the corner of her eye, she saw his face turn in disgust, clearly from the smell of burnt fabric. She hid her arm deeper against her side. 
                          
Robb knew she needed silence, the fear of mourning becoming worse. But still, she refused. He said nothing as he took her own crown from her head and began to twist it between his fingers. Rhaenyra did not glance over. 
                          
She needed to be strong for her family, she needed to be the strong Northern Queen. But death is disgustingly hard to overcome. She would like to believe they lived, but the corpses her brother wrote of brought a horrid feeling into her heart. 

                          
Bran and Rickon were the security the North needed, Theon Greyjoy took that away. He took the boys she watched grow and burnt them to a crisp. Theon, the boy her husband called brother and the man she trusted with the lives of her children had betrayed them in the worst way. The sack of Winterfell would have been handled in an honorable manner. But wolf's blood being spilled needed blood in retribution. She prayed to the gods he would suffer a slow death. Her husband's sympathy toward's him hopefully faded. 
                          
Robb's arm wrapped around her shoulders. He said nothing but kissed her head. Rhaenyra turned to look at him, pressing her hand to his cheek. She did not want to cry. She looked up trying not to let her tears fall. Her attempts were unsuccessful. She hated herself as her face twisted, her heart grew heavy with each sob. Robb brought her to him  as she continued to cry. She felt her tears stain the dark furs and leathers he wore, her breaths heaved with each wail. 
                          
"He will suffer. I will make sure of it." Robb stood silent as he caressed her hair. She knew her word's hurt him, she spoke illy against the man he once thought kin. Rhaenyra sought revenge, the need for it growing with each loud cry. "My brother will send him to us bits by bits," Robb said nothing.