He was the only survivor of the Red Wedding. Somewhow. He himself didn't knew how, but couldn't even manage to process coherents thoughs in the very moment. The surrounding are cold and hostile, pontuated by the heavy weight of everything which had just happened.

He flee.

As the profoundly injuried figure of Robb Stark crawled upon the cold, dirty ground, badly wounded, the only proof of his escape was the massive trail of blood. A clear red path, amist the clawed dirt as the man held for his fucking life, fighting for his skin and bones. It was a canvas of despair, and raw hapless.

Too much injured.. To much weak.

Too much trusting. He should have seen it coming— from miles. He should have imagined Lord Frey would have never forgiven him after his foolishness. Now, he had truly lost it all, first his father, then Winterfell, now his wife, his upcoming child, his mother and his crown.

A King of nothing.