His father, after every execution, had always gone to the godswood to be alone. It had bothered his mother, though she tried to hide it, and therefore bothered Robb – but now he thought he understood.

Grey Wind paced restlessly around him in circles as he cleaned his sword of Rickard Karstark's lifeblood. He looked up at his direwolf, wishing, not for the first time, that Grey Wind could speak and advise him. After all, he trusted the wolf like, perhaps, no one else. Grey Wind could not have ulterior motives for telling him to do things.

Grey Wind had never forced him to make a choice between loyalty and justice.

Standing abruptly, he threw down the sword and threw his shoulders back, feeling the bite of bitter anger again. Rickard Karstark had been more than just a bannerman. The Karstarks were relatives, far down the line, and while he of all people could understand the man's hatred for the Lannisters, and his anger at the release of Jaime in particular…the murdered boys had been children. Children.

Like Bran and Rickon, and had that mattered to Theon? He felt his shoulders twitch and his fists clench.

Rickard was named after Robb's own grandfather. The Karstarks had often visited Winterfell when he was young – barely a few weeks ago he would have counted them among his most loyal followers, among those he could have sworn would never waver.

Surely after this they would not stay.

His racing mind turned to the execution itself. His father had always made it look so easy. His father had always made a clean death, even for traitors and oathbreakers. The carnage of Rickard Karstark's death felt more like war than an execution. It didn't feel like justice. And that disturbed him.

After all the noise of the courtyard, he was more than grateful for the silence of the godswood, no one watching. Sitting down again, wearily, he picked up the sword again and took off the bronze crown he'd worn, staring at it. The urge to ask a childish 'why me?' of the old gods took hold of him, but he shoved it away.

Grey Wind paced back and forth, snapping at his flanks. Robb turned and knelt, looking at the godswood, and said as quietly as he could, looking straight at the red face that seemed to be laughing, "I ask for mercy for the soul of Rickard Karstark, whose crime was being a father. And I ask…for reassurance. That I did the right thing." There was a profound silence, when he realized he was holding his breath, watching the face as though he expected it to move.

His direwolf growled softly, suddenly, as a wind whispered through the trees. Robb turned, startled.

Jeyne stood hovering just outside the circle of trees, her eyes wide and frightened as she looked at Grey Wind, who relaxed, his warning given, but hung back respectfully. Robb felt a twinge of annoyance.

"My Lady," he said, with a slight bow. She shifted, nervously.

"Your mother told me I might find you here…"

Of course, Catelyn would have known. Catelyn who had resented the hours her husband spent alone in the godswood. He looked back over his shoulder, but the face was still and painted once more. "It was something my father did. After an execution." Uneasiness settled in his stomach. Answer me, he wanted to demand, but one did not demand things of gods.

His wife cast her eyes down, cheeks coloring a little. "I'm sorry if I interrupted you, my Lord," she said, hushed, and Robb was suddenly embarrassed. It wasn't her fault, after all. He shook off the dark mood with an effort.

"No, it is well." He found a smile for her and offered his hand. "I can't be gone too long." And kissed her jaw, gently, when she slipped her hand into his. Grey Wind padded behind them, a respectful distance.

Jeyne was silent for a time, and when she spoke the question surprised him. "Were you…when those boys were…were you thinking of your brothers?"

Robb took a deep breath through his nose to consider before answering. Bran, who he had last seen still like death; Rickon, clinging to Shaggydog's ruff. "Yes," He said, eventually, "And no. I think…I was thinking of them, too. They hadn't done anything wrong."

He thought of Sansa, a hostage far away, and Arya, who might have been a hostage and might have been dead. "Why should they suffer for something they didn't do?" He asked, quietly.

She didn't answer him, eyes cast down, and he wondered if she was thinking of those who had died when he'd taken her castle. The thought was dangerous, though, and he refused to entertain it, instead lifting his eyes to look at Riverrun.

"Will you lose the Karstarks over this?" She asked, worriedly, and he sighed.

"Probably." He sighed, rubbing one hand against his eye. Her touch on his arm was feather light.

"If it…I know I don't know much," she said, shyly, and he smiled at her, a little, "But if it helps, I think you did the right thing."

Robb knew perfectly well she only said it out of loyalty, but nonetheless his heart felt lighter. "Thank you, Jeyne," he said, quietly, and kissed her lips before glancing up again at the waving banners. She pressed a little closer to him, and he glanced at her, surprised.

She flushed, just a bit. "If you don't want to…I just thought it might be good for you to…stop thinking about death so much and do something with a little life."

His mouth twitched and then broke into a smile. He kissed her again. "Ah, Jeyne," he said, heart easing a little more. "What would I ever do without you?"

She looked up at him, a little twinkle he loved so well dancing in her eyes. "Be very cold, at least," she murmured, and he laughed.

"I would be that," he murmured, and swept her into his arms.