#robb x reader

But that was more than expected, considering the state they were in. The room was hot –too hot for his taste, but his lady liked it that way— and she was completely naked except for one of the furs she had pulled up to her chest while she sat in front of him in the bed, hugging her knees. Robb couldn’t help but lean forward to press his lips to her bare shoulder, biting back a smirk.

“You can’t even see what I’m doing.”

“I can feel it.” Her hand shot back to feel the braid he had been battling with. “And it’s supposed to be tighter.”

“I tried to make it tighter, and you said it hurt.”

“Because that was too tight,” she whined. “And my skin is sensitive, you know that.”

“Did we not put that behind us when—” He let out a laugh as she reached back to push at his arm. “It was a mere question.”

She made a noise of disagreement, then took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

“Speaking of questions,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Robb hummed, still trying to decide which section of hair went above which.

“Is Jon by any chance sad that Malory left?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Because it came to my attention he was rather happy at our wedding, and he was actually talking to people.”

“It came to your attention even though you were drunk beyond words?” he taunted her, dodging her hand when she reached back to push at his shoulder. “I don’t think he is interested in Lady Malory, my love.”

“Is he interested in anyone else?”

“I doubt it.”

“But how do you not know for sure?” she insisted. “He’s your brother.”

“Do you know everything about Silas’ affairs?”

“Yes.”

“Is it not difficult to keep track when there are so many people?”

She shrugged her shoulders while he put a section of hair on top of other, then undid it and put it under the other.

“I have so many friends who were rather interested in him,” she told him. “At our wedding. And I was wondering, if his heart doesn’t belong to anyone already…”

“Sansa used to make me do this with three sections, not two.”

“This one is more difficult—so he has never fallen in love?” she asked. “Nobody has captured his attention all this time?”

“Not really,” he muttered, his whole attention on the braid while he pulled the two pieces apart. “But things are more complicated for him, you know that. Him being in love with a lady would bring many things to consider if there was any courtship.”

She scoffed. “The North is so different than what I’m used to.”

“I’m certain it’s the same in the south as well.”

“Not in the Reach, and definitely not in Dorne,” she said. “Besides, you’re telling me Jon simply decided not to fall in love because of the circumstances of his birth?”

He tried to untangle the knot of his own doing as subtly as possible. “Mm hm.”

“I used to think differently, but I don’t believe matters of heart can be controlled.”

“Not in the south perhaps,” he taunted her with a grin, causing her to look at him over her shoulder with a frown. “It’s not tangled, I just put the wrong piece on—”

“So you would not love me if we met and weren’t betrothed?”  

 A huff of laughter left him, but his heart dropped to his stomach when he saw his lady’s frown deepening as she pulled back to see him better, no sign of playfulness on her expression.

“Wh—no!” he said in a rush. “Why would you think that?”

“That’s what you’re insinuating.”

“I don’t insinuate things, we’ve been over this.”

“Fine, then you’re directly telling me that you would not—Robb!” The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a surprised screech when he grabbed her by the waist to pull her under him, a wide grin pulling at his lips. She bit back her smile and scrunched up her nose, trying her hardest to glare at him as he brushed her hair off her face.

“If we were not betrothed—”

“It wouldn’t change anything,” Robb finished her sentence for her. “My heart belongs to you, you know that.”

“But if, let’s say, your family had betrothed you to someone else, and then we met?” she insisted. “Would you have gone through with that arrangement?”

He couldn’t.

He knew he couldn’t.

Despite his upbringing, despite the honor and duty, despite the expectations placed upon him before he was even born, he couldn’t spend his life with anyone else but her. His life was already divided into before and after her, and the idea of spending his life with anyone else when she was the rightful ruler of his heart was nothing short of a nightmare, so he shook his head, looking down at her.

“Never.”

“Never?” She narrowed her eyes like she was trying to see whether he was lying. “And what of duty?”

He swallowed thickly, then shook his head again.

“It leaves the room when you enter.”

That seemed to coax a smile out of her, every sign of her anger from earlier washing off her beautiful face like waves of the sea on a shore. He dipped his head to brush his lips against hers, the sweet taste of her more enticing than air itself as her fingers curled in his hair, desire dripping down his spine and stirring back to life—

A frustrated growl left him when someone knocked on the door, pulling them both out of the haze.

“Leave!” he called out as she squeezed at his arm.

“Be nice!” she whispered, but then turned her head when the familiar voice of her maid carried into the room from behind the closed door.

“My lady, I apologize for the interruption but your presence is required.” Her maid paused for a moment. “It’s your father. He has fallen ill.”

Lord Greensted’s voice assuring everyone he was alright could be heard from the hallway even before they reached his door, which Robb figured was a good sign, but his lady was in too much of a hurry to even notice that. She rushed through the door and made her way to her father without sparing a glance at the rest of the crowd, crouching down by his chair to grasp his hand, her skirts fanning around her.

“Father?”

“I’m alright, my flower.” He pinched her cheek in an assuring manner while Robb nodded at his parents in the room, clasping his hands behind him. “I told them not to alarm you.”

“While you’re ill?”

“I’m not ill,” he told her and turned to Robb with an amused chuckle. “It’s your responsibility to pull her back from distress now, you know.”

“She loves you way too much to listen to a word I say, Lord Greensted.”

“But what’s happened?” she insisted, her eyes darting between Silas and Arys while Cliff squeezed Perceon’s shoulder like he wanted to remind him he was still there. Braxton went over to the window as if he wanted to get some air, and Silas cleared his throat.

“He got dizzy after breakfast—”

 “Only for a moment.”

“And this is exactly why I’ve been telling you that you need to try to be healthier,” Arys pointed out and Lord Greensted waved a dismissive hand in the air. “So that you don’t get dizzy.”

“Maester Luwin is preparing something for him,” his mother assured her as Elinor muttered something in Alton’s ear that made him look over his shoulder, but before he could do anything, Silas made his way to join Braxton by the window. Whatever he said to Braxton was too soft and low for anyone else to hear it, and Braxton swallowed thickly, then nodded his head. “He says there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m also saying there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re not a maester,” she told her father before turning to Arys. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a sign for him to take better care of himself,” Arys said. “All this eating and drinking whatever you want, father…”

“Let me live, will you?”

“I told you it was too early to leave, Garmund,” Robb’s father said. “This is your gods giving you a sign.”

“Can’t they send a more pleasant sign?”

“Surely you’re not planning on leaving before you’re fully recovered,” his lady said and Lord Greensted squeezed her hand.

“There’s nothing to recover from, I’m alright.”

“Not to worry, we’ll keep him here until he’s recovered no matter what he says,” his father gave her an assuring smile. “I’ll put men by his door if needed.”

“Lord Stark?” A footman entered the room with Maester Luwin. “Lord Glower asks for counsel if you’re not busy.”

“Go,” Lord Greensted said. “Please. I’m fine, and do tell Lord Glower I’ll beat him on our next hunt.”

“Father, you’re not going on a hunt!” his lady insisted while his father chuckled.

“He’ll take it as a challenge, just so you know,” he told Lord Greensted. “Robb.”

“I’ll be there in a minute, father.”

His father walked out of the room, and his lady watched Maester Luwin give a cup filled with some sort of draught to Lord Greensted.

“He’ll be alright, will he not?”

“He just needs some rest in his bed, my lady,” Maester Luwin said. “That is all.”

 “We should all leave you to rest, I’m certain the crowd isn’t helping,” his mother added, making Lord Greensted nod fervently.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Come, everyone. Your father needs some peace and quiet while he rests.”

Once Lord Greensted made his way to bed, all the brothers left the room one by one even though Robb could tell they didn’t really want to. His lady stole a look at the door, then took a deep breath and stepped closer to Robb.

“I’ll stay.”

Lord Greensted heaved a sigh. “Blossom…”

“I’ll tell you all about the rumors I’ve heard at the wedding, father,” she said. “Every house of the Reach. You like hearing tales of scandals, it’ll be like the old times!”

 Robb nuzzled into her hair, cradling her cheek in his palm. “Would you like me to stay as well?”

“Your father requires your presence, Robb,” Lord Greensted reminded him. “And you’ve heard my daughter. We’ll gossip about the Reach, apparently.”

 Robb bowed his head with a chuckle.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said, and traced her cheekbone with his thumb. “Send for me if you need me, alright my love?”

She offered him a small smile and squeezed his wrist. “I will, thank you.”

“Get well soon, Lord Greensted,” he told him before he kissed his lady on the forehead, walked out of the room and closed the door behind him to join Silas and Arys. Cliff led Braxton and Perceon out of the hall while Elinor and Alton stood by the corner, talking in whispers. Any observer could tell Alton was shaken, but the tension on his shoulders seemed to dissipate a little when Elinor lifted their joined hands to press her lips on his knuckles, a tiny smile flickering over Alton’s face. Robb averted his gaze immediately and cleared his throat.

“Maester Luwin is really good at what he does,” he told Silas. “If he says it’s not dangerous, I doubt it is.”

“No I know.” Silas bit inside his cheek. “I know.”

“He’s not used to northern food,” Arys told Silas. “And you’ve been here for a month. And he goes on hunts yes, but that’s the only exercise he does. With all that eating and drinking as if he’s still a young man, it’ll catch up to him eventually.”

“He’s not travelling until he feels better, I don’t care what he says.”

“Of course not.”

“My mother can tell the cooks to make whatever dish he eats back in the Reach,” Robb said while Alton made his way to them. “Would it help?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Arys said. “That’s actually a good idea, I’ll ask Lady Stark. Thanks Robb.”

“Don’t mention it. I told you before, my lady’s family is my family.”

“Hey.” Alton greeted them. “Silas, do you know if there are any letters from the Reach that needs father’s attention? He mentioned an issue in one of the smaller fields, which one was it?”  

Silas gawked at him for a couple of seconds in complete silence, then scoffed a laugh and shook his head.

“I’m gonna walk away before I punch you,” he muttered and stormed out of the hallway without sparing him another glance. Arys raised his brows while Alton let out a breath, then threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

“What did I say now?” he asked Arys. “It’s my responsibility to step up while father is ill. What does Silas expect me to do?”

“Showing any sign of concern would be a good start.”

“Of course I’m concerned!” Alton defended himself. “Have you forgotten he’s my father as well?”

Arys shrugged his shoulders. “Have you?”

It seemed like Alton wanted to retort, but then he changed his mind and stomped away from them both, turning the corner that led to the stairs. Arys clicked his tongue, then gave Robb a grin.

“Welcome to the family.”

“Listen, I get it,” Robb said. “I really do, but he does have a point. That’s what he’s supposed to do right now as the heir, my father would expect the same of me if he were ill.”

Arys heaved a sigh, then leaned back to the wall and stole a look at the end of the hallway Silas had stormed off to.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I can’t help but agree with Perce sometimes. In our family, the gods chose the wrong son to be the firstborn.”

Thankfully his father’s meeting with Lord Glover hadn’t taken that long. Maester Luwin had said Lord Greensted was feeling much better after the draught he had given him, so Robb decided he would sit with Theon and Jon in the yard until his father sent for him again. He was pretty distracted from the conversation while he tried to figure out when he could see his lady, yet Theon’s comment about one of the girls he had danced with back at the wedding snapped his attention back to them, his head whipping up.

“Jon,” he cut Theon’s nonsense off while Grey Wind and Ghost playfully chased each other in the yard. “Has uh…has anyone caught your eye at the wedding?”

Jon blinked a couple of times, gawking at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Theon danced with people, so have you.”

“Barely.”

“But the whole Reach was here,” Robb said while Theon leaned back with a grin on his face. “And you know, since I’m wed now…”

“What, that means I’m supposed to wed as well?”

“Aye.” Robb nodded while Jon’s eyes widened. “Your time is coming.”

“My time is not coming!”

“I don’t understand why everyone is so terrified of marriage,” Robb mused while Theon gave him an incredulous look. “It’s the most perfect thing anyone ever came up with.”

“Just over a moon ago, you were sitting right here and whining about your betrothal,” Theon reminded him. “You were terrified.”

“I was not terrified!”

“Do you remember his face when you asked what he’d do if she turned out to be ugly?” Jon asked Theon, making him let out a laugh.

“I’ll remember it forever.”

“And look at me now,” Robb said. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I’m happy beyond words.”

“We got that Robb, you barely let the poor girl out of your bedchambers.”

Robb ignored the remark.

“What about Lady Malory?”

“She’s nice.”

“Who was that other lady you danced with, Snow?”

“Lady Florys,” Jon answered Theon. “She’s nice too.”

“Come on, there’s no way no one was to your liking.” Robb paused, frowning at him. “Jon, is there…is there a lady already? Here in the North?”

Jon averted his gaze to look around the yard, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just because you’re in love, doesn’t mean everyone else has to be in love.”

“What my lady and I have is deeper than such simple terms,” Robb said. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“A lot of girls caught my interest at the wedding,” Theon said and Robb grimaced.

“That’s no news, Theon.”

“No seriously, there was this really pretty one, from House Lyberr or something?”

Jon’s eyes caught something in the yard, but by the time Robb turned his head to see what he was looking at, the only familiar person in the yard was Silas who was making his way into the keep. Jon pursed his lips, then feigned a cough and stood up.

“I’ll find you two later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have this—thing.” Jon motioned vaguely in the direction of the keep. “I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

He walked away from them without so much as a glance back, and both Robb and Theon tilted their heads at the same time while Jon caught up to Silas.

“We would know if he had a lady, would we not?” Robb asked and Theon hummed.

“For sure.”

“You think he’d tell us?”

“Even if he didn’t, it’d be very obvious,” Theon said. “He’d probably follow her around like a lost pup.” 

Robb shrugged his shoulders and scratched at Grey Wind’s head when the direwolf stepped closer to him.

“I guess you’re right,” he muttered as Silas and Jon entered the keep. “I mean, when has Jon ever been subtle?”

Later in the afternoon he had to drop by Wintertown per his father’s request, and by the time he was back, it was nearly dinner time. He caught the sight of his lady talking to Wylla Manderly after one glance into the Great Hall—he was beginning to think finding her in a crowd was a skill he was developing fast—so he immediately made his way inside, gave Wylla an acknowledging nod and touched the small of his lady’s back. She was quick to excuse herself, a happy smile lighting up her face before she tugged his wrist so that he would follow her to a far corner of the hall, away from the crowd.

“You’re back!”

“I am.” Robb cupped her cheek in his palm and kiss her temple, her sweet scent like a remedy to the torturous hours he had spent away from her presence. “How’s your father?”

“He’s alright, but—” She frowned up at him with a pout. “Arys all but kicked me out of the room!”

Robb had to control the laugh threatening to climb his throat upon her petulant whine. “Did he?”

“Maester Luwin was being so nice, letting me stay there while my father slept, and then Arys came and said father had to rest and I had to leave. And I wasn’t even making any noise while he slept, I was just sitting there reading my book!”

The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Is that right?”

“And Cliff took his side.”

Robb shook his head in a solemn manner. “Betrayal.”

“It really is!” she insisted and huffed out. “Anyway, what about you? What did you do whole day? I asked around when I left my father’s chambers, and Sansa said you had gone to Wintertown.”

“My father sent me,” he said. “And hey, guess what I’ve learned before that?”

“Hm?”

“Jon isn’t in love with anyone.”

She tilted her head. “…Oh?”

“I asked him,” he said. “Which wasn’t even needed, to be honest. I would know if a lady caught his interest.”

She raised her brows, then blinked a couple of times and pursed her lips like she was trying not to smile.

“Would you?”

“Certainly.”

“So uh—” She stole a look around the room as if she was trying to find a familiar face before she turned her glances to him. “So no one at the wedding was to his liking?”

“He’s not the type to—no offense to the southerners in the room,” he added with a grin, “but he’s not the type to like a southern lady.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Very well. Not a southern lady then.”

Robb let his gaze slip to her lips, then down to the soft swell of her chest, pushed up by the tight laces of her gown. His hand found hers again so that he could drag his fingertips over her soft palm, his mind far away from the hall and the crowd, the memory of her gasping underneath him—

She dug her nails into his hand as if warning him.

“Robb.”

He gave her a mischievous grin. “I’m not doing anything.”

“I can see you doing something in your mind.”

That coaxed a chuckle out of him while he reached out to play with the small pendant of her necklace. “And what am I doing in my mind?”

“Something very improper.”

“Funny, I remember you singing a very different tune last night—”

She flailed her hands, her eyes widening. “Shh!”

“Or this morning—” He gave a laugh when she pushed at his arm and he caught her hand, pulling her closer to him. “I’m merely reminiscing!”

“My lord.” A servant approached him. “Your father requests your presence.”

Robb managed to not groan in annoyance before he found his eyes fell upon his father who was now talking to one of the few remaining southern guests. He had no idea who the lady was, but he nodded anyway and laced his fingers through his lady’s.

“Your father didn’t request my presence,” she reminded him and he winked at her.

“I could barely see you today, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

When they reached his father, he only gave them a nod of acknowledgement before he turned to the lady.

“Thank you for your kind words, Lady Bulwer.”

“Of course!” Lady Bulwer said. “May the seven give him rest. Jon Arryn may have had his flaws as the Hand of the King, but the gods know any man would crack under such pressure.”

Robb looked from Lady Bulwer to his father, whose annoyance flashed on his face at the mention of Jon Arryn’s flaws. His lady rested her head on his arm, a pleasant warmth spreading in his chest at the simple gesture, distracting him from the conversation.

“The King’s Landing could make a septon question his ways, and I for one believe as long as the Hand does his job, his vices should be judged by no—”

“Lady Bulwer!” His lady gave her a bright smile. “How is Ser Medwick? My brother talks of him being such a worthy opponent in the jousts, yet we haven’t seen him for a year! He’s alright, I hope?”  

Lady Bulwer stared at her for a couple of seconds as if she was taken by surprise, and opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again and cleared her throat.

“He’s alright.”

“Ser Loras was asking the other day how long his vacation would last,” his lady stated. “He’s such a beloved knight among his peers, they’re all looking forward to his return I’m sure.”

Lady Bulwer let out a nervous laugh.

“He is,” she said and feigned a gasp. “Oh! I see that my husband is looking for me, if you’ll excuse me.”

She made her way to the other side of the hall, and both Robb and his father turned to look at his lady at the same time. She raised her brows at the sight of their quizzical expressions, then shrugged her shoulders.

“What?”

“What was that?” Robb asked and her lady rolled her eyes.

“I just don’t believe one should be throwing around the word ‘vices’ when her own firstborn and heir owes money to every single person in the Reach because he loves gambling too much,” she said silkily. “To the point that he had to be sent away to the Free Cities so as not to bring any more dishonor to his house.”

His father looked as if he was battling with a smile and his lady turned her head when Sansa called out her name.

“Oh I almost forgot, Sansa wanted to talk to me about her new gown,” she said and pecked Robb on the cheek. “I’ll be back. Have a nice evening, Lord Stark. Do send for me if anyone else from the Reach bothers you.”

She walked away from them, her steps light and smooth like a dance, the skirt of her pretty gown gliding on the floor. Robb felt a grin curl his lips and his father let out a chuckle, then clasped his hand on Robb’s shoulder.

“Your lady wife wields a dagger behind her words.”  

Robb nodded, still grinning.

“She does,” he said, unable to drag his gaze away from her. “I think she is the best warrior in the realm when it comes to that.”

Robb Stark Hc's

𓃮Robb is very much his father's son. He has all his strengths but also all of his weaknesses. A young man with all the talents of a great warrior but poor tactics when it comes to being a good politician. Honor and feelings dictate his decisions above everything else for he lacks the pragmatic view many of his bannermen have of the world. It is this inability to make the decisions that others expect of him and that would perhaps be better to secure himself his power completely that leads to his feelings for you to begin with. Really, you are a nobody. Just a humble servant in Winterfell who spends lots of time with Sansa and Arya as you wash their clothes and participate in lessons of skills expected of a Lady. You aren't sure how or why Robb exactly decides to approach you. The excuse he gives you is that his two younger sisters have been talking highly of you though in hindsight you suspect that he himself has been keeping his gaze fixated on you even without the praise of Sansa and Arya. The Starks have always treated you with more politeness other servants serving under other houses would experience yet Robb seems to be especially nice to you. You don't really know why.

𓃮Initially you fear that you have done something wrong for you don't know why else the heir of Winterfell would approach you. That tension doesn't slip past Robb who assures you that you have done nothing wrong. Then you assume that perhaps he requires something from you. Yet all Robb asks of you is that he merely wishes to converse with you. The same way that he has always done with you. And despite your doubts you indulge him. Perhaps he just wishes for a friend- someone to talk to who has no lectures and lessons to burden him with for he has enough of those already. Indulging him though becomes later down the line your biggest mistake. It should feel wrong for no matter how much you wish to unsee, you recognise that softened look in his eyes whenever he looks at you. You even hear the stories from Sansa and Arya how he lights up when he talks about you and never as much as criticises you. He is the next Lord Stark and you come from no House with political power. It is wrong. Yet Robb makes it feel so incredibly nice. Not only because he is handsome but because he is kind and loving. He treats you like the beloved princess you sometimes dream to be.

𓃮The animal that decorates the banners of the Starks is the wolf. Robb Stark himself is hailed as the "Young Wolf". Wolves mate for life. And wolves seem to be very possessive. It's easily visible if all you do is observe Robb for a while when you converse with someone else. He does not interfere with such interactions immediately. What he does do though is observe the both of you. He carries on with what he is doing- or likes to pretend that he does at least- but those blue eyes have only you and whoever talks much too long with you. There is pride within him as he doesn't necessarily wish to appear as jealous but you know the signs. The twitch in his jaw. The increasing frown on his face. The way he slowly starts circling around you and the other person as blue eyes start analysing to keep track of their hand movements. It does remind you a lot of Grey Wind who acts similarly when with you and you wonder if Robb has it from him or his direwolf has it from Robb. Or perhaps it is a shared trait between a literal wolf and a wolf people rumor to be only human in skin. When his patience runs out or the other person suddenly touches you though, Robb quickly steps in. Polite still but very stern. Do not touch.

𓃮The Young Wolf of the North is very protective too. Wolves are loyal to their pack after all and Robb would do anything for his family. Fractions are born when it becomes obvious that he includes you within his circle of loved ones even though your name carries nothing of worth. It's when those comments are voiced out that you witness for the first time how Robb bears his teeth. He shouldn't be offended for as crude and harsh as those insults are, you are able to see where they come from. He should hold himself better together for he is the heir of the North and an aspiring King. But Robb reacts far too defensive whenever anyone insults you. Blue eyes harden as he turns around and approaches whoever had to open their mouth with the sole intention of getting under his skin. He forbids any crude comments and words to be directed at you as he even reacts defensive when his own mother speaks her mind. Words shall be forbidden though even if the scorn won't vanish. Actions though shall not. You are to be his Lady wife and for that any attempts on your life are treason and to be seen as an attempt on his life. That is punishable by death and that won't be debatable.

𓃮You aren't exactly viewed upon as favorable by many Lords and Houses as you hold nothing of worth. His own family is even fractured on how to think of you. His sisters adore you for they have grown up with you. His mother treats you kindly but you can see the doubt on her face and part of you cannot even blame her for it. It is that divided reaction coupled with a war against the Lannisters that leads Robb Stark to keep you well protected and guarded with only his most trusted men. The death of his father has taught him that promises of mercy should not be believed and so he takes your safety in his own hands even though he has already enough on his shoulders. War always changes people. Those not on the battlefield are affected but those who have to fight in it are especially affected. Even as Robb quickly rises to fame as he wins battle after battle, the weight on his shoulders still takes its toll even if he hides it much better. It bleeds through the letters he writes you- the only way for you to stay in contact with him. Longing, yearning and fear of losing you all written down as he in return waits for your letters to soothe the silent ache in his heart.

Robb Stark had married you for honour and for love, a rare, fragile balance in a world that prized bloodlines over affection. He had chosen you with a fierce, defiant heart, casting aside the cold chains of duty even when the weight of his crown pressed down upon his every choice. You remembered the warmth in his eyes on the day he vowed himself to you, the way his hand trembled just slightly as though he understood the enormity of what he risked, not only his crown, but his kingdom, his legacy. Yet love, as sweet and consuming as it was, could not silence the murmurs that followed you through the corridors of Riverrun.

Even wrapped in the soft furs of your marriage bed, duty whispered between you. It lingered in the quiet moments after passion, in the distant look that sometimes clouded his storm-grey eyes when talk of lineage reached his ears. He was still a king, bound to a realm that demanded more than his heart could give. And you, though loved and cherished, bore the burden of every watchful gaze and every carefully measured word from lords and ladies alike.

“An heir,” they would murmur, their smiles brittle as frost. “For the good of the North.”

Their words pressed upon you like unseen hands, tightening, reminding. As though it were your sole purpose, as though you alone carried the future of House Stark within your womb. They spoke of it endlessly, of duty and blood, of sons yet unborn who would bind the North more firmly beneath its banners. But they did not see the quiet moments between you and Robb, the way his touch softened when he brushed the hair from your cheek, the way his voice broke when he whispered that you were enough, with or without the promise of heirs.

Still, at night, when the castle grew hushed and only the wind moved through the godswood, you felt the weight of expectation settle beside you in the dark. It was a cold, patient thing, as ever-present as the crown that gleamed upon your husband’s brow.

He was a king at war, and the war lived within him, in the heaviness of his steps, in the dark smudges beneath his eyes, in the silence that clung to him like a second cloak. When he came to you that night, he looked less like a sovereign and more like a man undone. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of unseen burdens; his hair was mussed, his tunic discarded carelessly upon the floor. He slipped beneath the covers with you, the scent of cold steel and pine still lingering on his skin, and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to your cheek, a ghost of affection that barely stirred the air. Then he turned away, curling toward the edge of the bed as though even in sleep, he could not lay down his armour.

You lay there in the dim candlelight, your heart caught between longing and disappointment. You had prepared for him, bathed until the water ran cool, combed your hair until it shone like silk in the firelight, chosen a nightgown of gossamer fabric that left your skin bare to the chill. You had dabbed perfume at your wrists and throat, the same scent that once made him linger at your neck and breathe you in like he was starving for the scent of you. But tonight, none of it mattered. His mind was elsewhere, across battlefields and bloodied maps, among names of men lost and victories half-won.

It didn’t last. The restlessness took him quickly, as it always did. After only a few moments of uneasy stillness, he exhaled a quiet curse, pushed himself upright, and swung his legs from the bed. You watched, wordless, as he moved to the desk, that wretched desk that had become as constant a companion to him as you once were. He lit another candle, its glow spilling over papers strewn like fallen leaves. The light caught the hollow lines of his face, the exhaustion etched deep around his mouth and eyes. His fingers trembled faintly as he reached for the quill, and your chest ached with something that felt like love, anger, and loneliness all at once.

You wanted to pity him, truly, you did. To rise from the bed, drape your arms around his shoulders, whisper soft comforts into his hair. But instead, you remained still beneath the furs, the bitterness spreading through you like frost. You hated the part of yourself that longed for his touch more than his peace, that envied the parchment and ink that held his attention when your body, your warmth, your love lay waiting behind him. And in the quiet flicker of candlelight, you realised how wide the gulf between you had grown, not from lack of love, but from the merciless pull of the crown that neither of you could escape.

“Robb…” Your voice was a whisper, a fragile thread in the stillness of your chamber. It hung in the air, delicate and uncertain, only to be swallowed by the steady scratch of quill on parchment. The sound had become as constant as the beating of your own heart, relentless, sharp, unyielding. You turned onto your side, clutching at the furs that no longer felt warm, blinking away the sting of tears that gathered traitorously in the corners of your eyes. You told yourself to be patient, to be understanding, to be the gentle, accommodating wife a king so burdened deserved. But patience, too, could splinter beneath loneliness.

The cold bit at your bare feet as you rose from the bed, the night air whispering against your thin gown. You moved toward him quietly, each step careful, reverent, as though approaching something sacred and distant. The faint light of the candle cast his form in shades of gold and shadow, broad shoulders hunched beneath the weight of duty, hair tousled where he’d run a weary hand through it, his brow furrowed in thought. You lingered behind him for a moment, watching the tension coil through his body like a bowstring drawn too tight. Then, softly, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed his shoulders first, tentative, seeking. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and for a heartbeat, you imagined you felt him relax. Leaning close, your lips found the curve of his ear, your breath trembling against him.

“Come to bed, my love,” you whispered, voice smooth as silk, “back to me.” You pressed a kiss behind his ear, at that tender spot you knew by heart, your hands gliding down over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

But instead of yielding, Robb went rigid. His muscles tensed under your palms, every line of his body drawn taut with restraint. He reached up, gently but firmly catching your wrists and pulling your hands away.

“Darling,” he said, his tone roughened by exhaustion, yet softened with that lingering affection he could never quite mask. “Go back to sleep.” He sighed, eyes fixed on the parchment before him as though it alone could hold the kingdom together. “I have too much to do. I cannot… indulge you.”

The words struck like a chill through your veins, and for a moment, you stood still, the rejection burning quietly in your chest. But desire and pride are stubborn things, and yours refused to fade. You leaned down again, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw, your voice a low, pleading murmur.

“It’s our duty,” you breathed, a tremor threading through the words, “please… for me. For the North.” Your hands slid once more to his chest, lingering over his heart as though you might will it to beat only for you.

You felt the muscles in his jaw tighten beneath your lips, a subtle, fleeting movement that sent a chill down your spine. For a heartbeat, he was utterly still, and you thought perhaps he was only gathering himself, summoning patience from that deep, quiet place you once believed endless within him. But then, without a word, his hands found your arms, not harsh, but firm, and he pushed you back as he rose abruptly from his chair. The suddenness of it startled you; you stumbled a step, your breath catching in your throat.

When he looked at you, there was something unfamiliar in his eyes, not the soft warmth that had once lit them, but a glint of steel, a hardness forged from too many sleepless nights and too much blood spilt in his name. It was a look you had seen him turn upon his generals, his enemies, but never you. The sight of it made your heart stutter with something perilously close to fear.

“Duty?” he hissed, the word like venom on his tongue. He snatched a brass goblet from the desk, his movements sharp and unsteady, and brought it to his lips as though he might drown the anger rising within him. The wine sloshed over the rim, streaking crimson across his knuckles, and still he drank, desperate, defiant. When he lowered it again, his voice was hoarse, trembling with more than rage.

“I tire of hearing of my duties, wife,” he said, the title cutting colder than any name he could have chosen. “You’ll not speak of them again.” He took a step toward you, his gaze searching, accusing. “Is it too much to expect that my wife’s touch might be separate from duty? That I might hold one good thing, one pure thing, untainted by this cursed war?”

His voice broke on the last word, rough with emotion, but it only made his fury burn brighter. He gestured toward you with a trembling hand, as though the act of speaking cost him more than battle itself. “Is this what you’ve come to think of yourself, my lady? A vessel for duty and a king’s seed? Do you think that’s all I see when I look at you?” His tone softened then, only barely, as if some part of him hated the cruelty of his own words. “I did not marry you for this purpose. Don’t you dare reduce what we have to that.”

Then the storm within him broke. With a sudden, violent motion, he flung the goblet aside. It struck the stone wall just behind you, the sound ringing out like a clash of steel. The wine spattered the stones, a dark, blooming stain that looked almost like blood. You flinched, instinctively, though the blow had never been meant for you.

The echo of the impact filled the chamber, and then there was silence, heavy, trembling silence. You stood there, heart hammering, the cold air brushing against your bare skin where your gown slipped from one shoulder. He was breathing hard, his hands braced against the edge of the desk, his anger spent yet still simmering beneath the surface.

You had shrunk back at first, but not in fear, not truly. Something inside you, small and wounded, refused to yield. You straightened slowly, lifting your chin, meeting his gaze with eyes that shone not with tears but with hurt and defiance. You would not cower before your king, not when he was the man you had loved before the crown, before the war, before duty had stolen him away.

“Then shirk duty for an evening as you have done before,” you said, your voice trembling between command and plea, your chin tilted high though your heart ached in your chest. The words came soft but sure, laced with longing and defiance. “Choose me above what is expected and demanded, just for a night. Take me in your arms because you love me. Make love to me because I am yours to love, not because duty whispers that my touch is a necessity.”

Your words hung in the stillness between you, fragile and raw. For a heartbeat, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes, guilt, perhaps, or sorrow, but it vanished beneath a wry, bitter smile.

He gave a low, humourless laugh, the sound slicing through the quiet like a blade. “Frame it however you like,” he said, shaking his head as though weary of the conversation, weary of you. “It would still be the same, the single-minded purpose it has always been since the day we wed, getting you with child.” His tone was cold, dismissive, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

You glowered, the sting of his words cutting deep. “And would that be so terrible?” you snapped, your voice breaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “Do you think my desire for a child is nothing more than a means to carry on your name? Damn your name, Robb! Damn every title I am meant to pass to a son I have not yet borne!”

The outburst left you trembling, your hands clenched at your sides. You saw his expression shift, the faintest flash of hurt crossing his face before his eyes hardened again.

“You yourself called it duty,” he countered quietly, his voice low but edged like tempered steel.

You laughed bitterly through your tears, the sound fragile and exhausted. “Because duty seems to be the only thing that rouses you these days,” you whispered. “Not love, not tenderness, only the endless weight of the crown and the ghosts of your fallen men.”

The words struck him. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his breath faltered for just a moment before he turned from you sharply, as though unable, or unwilling, to face what your words demanded of him.

Desperation welled within you, sharp and consuming. You took a step forward, your voice softening, pleading. “I would want a child regardless,” you said, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Robb… my love, if we were nothing more than common farmers, with no banners to our name and no throne to defend, if all we had was each other, I would still lie beneath you, begging for your touch, praying that you would fill my womb with your seed.”

You swallowed, your voice breaking as you reached for him. “I want a child because I love you. Not because I am required to. Not because the realm demands it of me. But because I want something of you, something lasting, something that is ours alone.”

He stood with his back to you, his broad shoulders tense beneath the thin linen of his shirt, and for a long moment, he said nothing. The candlelight trembled between you, casting flickering gold across the space that felt suddenly vast, a gulf of silence, of pride and pain and love too fierce to name.

He turned to you slowly, the movement deliberate, heavy with something that felt almost fragile. “You’d beg for that?” he asked, his voice low and uneven, roughened by disbelief and something deeper, hunger, perhaps, or yearning long denied. “To… to be filled with my child?” The hesitation in his words softened them, made them tremble like the flame of a candle caught in a draft.

You swallowed, your throat tight, your heart a wild, aching thing. The question lingered between you, intimate and dangerous. After a long moment, you nodded, small, certain. “Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, I’d beg for it.”

The air seemed to shift with your confession. Robb said nothing at first; his silence stretched, taut and charged, as his eyes roamed over you, slow and reverent, yet burning all the same. His gaze lingered where your nightgown had slipped from one shoulder, the pale curve of your collarbone glimmering in the candlelight. It followed the delicate fabric where it clung to the outline of your hips, to the soft rise and fall of your breathing. You felt his attention like a touch, scorching, possessive, and though the heat that bloomed within you was one you knew well, it still made you blush, your cheeks blooming with shy colour beneath the weight of his stare.

When he moved, it was sudden, a ripple of motion that carried him across the space between you in a few quick strides. His hands found your waist, strong and sure, and he pulled you hard against him. You gasped, stumbling into his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. A low, rough sound rumbled from deep within him, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh, and it set your pulse racing.

“Good,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “I want you to.” His voice dropped to a rasp, his words brushing against your skin as his lips found your throat. He pressed open-mouthed kisses there, fevered and desperate, his stubble scraping lightly as he trailed down the curve of your neck. You felt him breathe you in, his nose buried against your skin, as though trying to commit your scent, your warmth, to memory.

You clung to him instinctively, your arms winding around his neck, your fingers threading through the soft, unruly curls of his hair. “Anything you want,” you whispered, the words catching on your breath, half-plea, half-promise.

He lifted his head then, his eyes dark with something fierce and primal. “My pretty wife,” he murmured, his voice thick and roughened by desire. “Full of me. Full and swollen, growing my child.” His teeth grazed the tender spot beneath your jaw, a teasing bite softened by the heat of his mouth. “Tell me again,” he breathed, his lips moving against your skin. “Say you want it.”

You gasped as he guided you backwards, his hands firm on your hips, steering you toward the bed with the certainty of a man who had made up his mind. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, filled with the scent of wax and wine and longing.

“I want it,” you whispered, your voice trembling with sincerity as your back met the edge of the bed. “I want to bear your children, Robb. I want the world to see the proof of your love growing within me, to know that I am yours, utterly and forever.”

Your words seemed to break what little restraint he had left. And when his mouth claimed yours, it was not the kiss of a king, but of a man who had been starved, for peace, for solace, for you.

You kissed him back with a kind of desperate hunger, your fingers threading into his curls as though you feared that if you loosened your grip for even a moment, he might vanish, retreat once more into duty, into that damnable desk and its endless demands. His lips moved against yours with a fervour that was almost painful, all tension and need, his breath warm and uneven between every kiss. When he groaned low in his throat, that deep, raw sound that you felt more than heard, your pulse fluttered in answer.

He shifted, gathering you effortlessly in his arms, and the world seemed to tilt. You let out a soft gasp as your back met the cool sheets, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you gently into the mattress. His hips settled between your thighs, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown, and you arched instinctively, seeking him, drawing him closer.

“I love you,” you whispered between hurried kisses, the words tumbling out in breathless fragments, as though they could tether him to you, as though they could keep him here, in this fragile, fleeting peace.

“Love you too,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice rough, unsteady. His mouth found your throat, tracing slow, reverent kisses along the soft line of it, down to your shoulder, where he lingered. His stubble brushed against your flesh, and you shivered, your fingers curling against his back.

His hands roamed with purpose, down your sides, over the curve of your waist, pausing at your hips as though to memorise the shape of you beneath his palms. The calluses of his fingers grazed your skin, a stark contrast to the tenderness of his touch. You felt his breath hitch, the tension in him shifting from anger to longing, from restraint to need.

“Mine,” he murmured against your shoulder, the word a whisper, a prayer, a claim. His lips moved lower, tasting your skin with each repetition. “Mine… mine… mine.”

Each word sent a tremor through you, not of fear, but of recognition. Because in that moment, he wasn’t a king or a commander or a man burdened by the weight of an entire realm. He was only Robb. Your Robb. The man who had chosen you once, when love had meant rebellion, and who now sought you again, as though your body might grant him the peace the crown never could.

Desperation stripped away all the gentle ritual that usually marked your nights together, no patient undressing, no whispered teasing or lingering touches. There was no space for tenderness, only need. Robb’s hands shook where they gripped you, his breath coming ragged and uneven as though he had run miles through the snow to reach you. He did not bother with the laces of his shirt or the ties of his breeches; instead, he simply gathered your nightgown in his fists, bunching the thin fabric around your hips until it pooled like mist around your waist. The cold air of the chamber brushed your bare skin, and you gasped, shivering, not from chill but from the weight of his gaze.

His fingers trembled as he pushed his breeches down just far enough, freeing himself with a quick, rough motion that spoke of urgency rather than grace. Then, without hesitation, he pressed forward, and the breath fled your lungs as he pushed his stiff cock into your waiting cunt, deep, sudden, claiming. The sound that left you was half gasp, half whimper, and your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching at him as though you might anchor yourself against the force of him.

He moved with a hunger that bordered on frantic, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that was desperate, searching, almost pained. The quiet chamber filled with the sound of it, the wet, broken cadence of his movements, the low groan that rumbled from his chest, the soft cries you couldn’t contain. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, urging him closer, deeper, as if your body could pull him away from the war that haunted him.

“Need… more…” he groaned against your neck, his voice hoarse and trembling, every word scraped raw with need. His hands slid lower, finding your thighs, gripping hard enough to make you gasp. In one fierce motion, he lifted them, folding you beneath him until your knees pressed high beside your ears. The change in angle made you cry out, the sound dissolving into a moan as he thrust deeper, his cock nudging your womb over and over, filling you completely.

He found a pace both punishing and perfect, long, deep strokes that drew trembling pleasure from you, each one more urgent than the last. His breath came hot and harsh against your skin; the scent of him, sweat, leather, and something faintly wild, surrounded you. His curls brushed your forehead when he leaned down to kiss you, open-mouthed and hungry, his teeth grazing your lower lip before he swallowed your broken pleas.

The world beyond your bed ceased to exist. The candlelight flickered across his face, carving shadows into his features, the furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw, the storm of emotion burning in his eyes. There was no crown between you now, no throne, no war, only the heat of his body and the sound of your name on his lips, low and reverent and raw.

“Want to fill you with my seed,” he breathed against your skin, his voice breaking between gasps, rough and reverent all at once. Each word came out in pieces, as though torn from the depths of him, trembling with a kind of desperation that went beyond desire. “Want to get you pregnant… want to see you round with my child.” His lips dragged along the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, his teeth catching softly at your ear before he bit down, just enough to make you gasp.

The sound that escaped you was helpless, caught somewhere between a moan and a prayer. You reached up blindly, finding his hair, curling your fingers into the thick auburn strands and tugging, not to hurt, but to anchor yourself, to tether your shaking body to something real amidst the tide of sensation. He groaned low at the pull, the sound vibrating through your throat where his lips lingered.

Your breath came in shallow bursts, your words trembling as you tried to speak through the haze of heat building inside you. “I want it too,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a sigh. “I want to give you a child… your child.” The confession spilt from you, raw and fervent, and you could feel him shudder against you, the rhythm of his breath faltering as though the words had undone him completely.

You tilted your head back, offering him more of your throat, your skin slick with sweat and the warmth of his breath. He took it eagerly, mouthing at the soft place beneath your jaw, his nose brushing against your pulse as though trying to memorise it, the frantic, fluttering beat that matched his own.

“Say it again,” he rasped, his lips moving against your skin. “Say it while I’m inside you, while your pretty cunt squeezes me so tightly.”

You could barely form the words, your voice trembling with need, but you obeyed. “I want it, Robb,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair. “I want you to fill my womb, to make me yours, to give you everything.”

He groaned again, the sound raw and broken, and the world seemed to narrow to nothing but the heat of his body, the press of his mouth, and the fierce, unrelenting rhythm that bound you together.

“My love…” His voice was a broken sound, breathless and low, trembling against your ear. “I’m going to— Gods…” The words dissolved into a groan as he bit gently at your earlobe, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His hips stuttered, his rhythm beginning to falter, every movement more desperate, more uneven. “Tell me you want it,” he growled, his voice thick and hoarse with need, the command rough but pleading all at once. “Say it again. Say you want it.”

You arched beneath him, your body shivering with the effort to hold on, to match the wild cadence of his movements. “Please, Robb,” you gasped, your voice trembling, raw with want. “Give me all you have. I want it, want you.” The words fell from your lips in a whimper, a prayer offered only to him, and you felt him shudder, his control unravelling with each shaky breath.

His movements grew slower, heavier, the strength of his thrusts giving way to something looser, almost languid, the body’s surrender before release. His forehead pressed to yours, damp curls brushing your cheeks, and you could feel the tremor in him, the way he held you as though he might lose himself completely. Then, with one final, ragged sound, half growl, half groan, he came apart above you. His body tensed, a shiver running through him as he buried himself deep, spilling his release into you with a sound so full of relief and ache it stole the air from your lungs.

As he came, you felt yourself tighten as your own orgasm shattered through you alongside his. You clung to him as the tension drained from your bodies, your hands smoothing down his back, tracing the curve of his shoulders. He stayed close, breathing heavily, the soft weight of him pressing you into the sheets. When he finally lifted his head, it was only to kiss you, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, as though he couldn’t bear to stop touching you, to stop reminding himself that you were real and here.

“My perfect wife,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin between words. “So beautiful… Gods, you’re so beautiful.” His voice had softened now, low and tender, threaded through with awe. He traced a thumb down your cheek, across your jaw, his gaze falling to where your bodies still met, the white staining your thighs. “You’ll be even more beautiful when my seed takes,” he whispered, the words half wonder, half hope, his breath shivering as he said them.

The room was quiet again, save for the faint hiss of the dying candle and the mingled sound of your breaths. He stayed inside you for a while, unmoving, as though unwilling to break the fragile peace that had settled between you, as though, for once, the war could wait.

One of your legs twitched, a soft, involuntary tremor that rippled through you as the aftershocks of what you’d shared slowly ebbed. Robb noticed immediately, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, that familiar, tender sound that always seemed to melt the world around you. He caught your ankle gently, his large hand curling around it, and brought your foot up to his lips.

The first kiss he pressed to the arch of your foot was feather-light, almost playful. Then another, a little firmer, his breath warm against your skin. He trailed his lips slowly along your calf, each kiss a lingering brush of warmth that left a trail of tingling sensation in its wake. You sighed softly, basking in the rare ease that had settled over him.

“You enjoy riling me up, wife,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and teasing, but with an edge of reverence that made your heart twist. His mouth curved into a smile as he spoke, and you could feel it, his lips shaping the words against your leg.

You hummed in quiet satisfaction, your fingers threading lazily through the curls at the back of his neck as he guided your legs to wrap around his hips once more. “Mhm,” you breathed, the sound a mixture of exhaustion and contentment. “Especially if it ends like that.” Your tone was soft but mischievous, and his answering grin was immediate, a flash of boyish charm hidden beneath the weight of his crown.

He sighed, deeply and contentedly, the sound reverberating through you as he shifted, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. You followed his lead easily, finding yourself straddling him, your bodies still joined, still warm, still fitting together as though the gods themselves had carved you from the same piece of earth. His hands came to rest on your hips, thumbs drawing idle circles over your skin as he looked up at you, his expression softer than you’d seen in weeks.

“And it always does,” he said quietly, amusement and affection intertwining in his tone. “I cannot hope to resist my wife when she looks at me like that… when she is as wanting for me as you, needing me to fuck her as you do.” The words came out like a confession, his voice gentle and low, his northern lilt curling around each syllable until they felt more like a caress than a tease.

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and unhurried this time, savouring the taste of him, salt and breath and something that felt like peace. His hands slid up your back, holding you close, anchoring you to him as though the rest of the world could fall away and it would not matter.

The day of your wedding arrived under a sky shrouded with gray clouds, as if the North itself mourned the quiet hope that had once surrounded this union. The air in Winterfell was heavy, filled with the strain of anticipation, not of joy, but of waiting—waiting for news, waiting for Bran to awaken.

In the godswood, where your wedding ceremony would take place, the trees stood like solemn guardians, their branches bare and reaching into the somber sky. You were dressed in the finest gown the North had to offer, a deep forest green that complimented the surroundings, a delicate silver belt around your waist and a shawl lined with white fur draped over your shoulders. Your mother, Cersei, stood beside you, her expression unreadable as she adjusted the drape of your shawl, her gaze flickering with a mixture of emotions you couldn’t place.

“Remember, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice cool and steady, “a union like this is more than love. It’s duty.” She looked into your eyes, her hand lingering on your shoulder. “Bear that in mind.”

You nodded, though her words felt distant, almost irrelevant in the face of the sorrow that hung over Winterfell. Your thoughts were on Bran, the young boy you’d barely had the chance to know, now lying pale and unmoving under the Maester’s care. Yet, despite the sadness, a flicker of warmth remained when you thought of Robb, of the promises he’d whispered to you in the godswood, of a life you might build together.

As you stepped forward, the quiet murmurs of the small gathering around you faded into silence. The ceremony had been scaled back, out of respect for the dire circumstances, and though some guests were there out of duty, the faces of Winterfell’s people were shadowed with grief and worry.

Robb stood beneath the towering heart tree, his dark cloak draped over his shoulders, his face somber. His usually warm, easy smile was absent, replaced by a solemn expression that made him appear older, weighed down by a sense of responsibility he hadn’t known before.

As you reached him, his gaze softened, his eyes meeting yours with a depth of feeling that momentarily banished the sorrow. He offered his hand, and you took it, the warmth of his palm grounding you even amidst the cold and sorrow of the day.

The Septon stepped forward, his voice quiet yet steady as he began the words of the ceremony. You barely heard them, your mind absorbed by the feel of Robb’s hand in yours, the silent promises exchanged in each shared glance, each gentle squeeze of his fingers.

When it came time to speak your vows, Robb’s voice was steady but filled with an undercurrent of grief. “I, Robb Stark, take you, Y/N Baratheon, as my wife, to stand by my side in times of joy and sorrow. I promise to honor you, to cherish you, and to protect you… until the end of my days.”

You swallowed, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm you. Meeting his gaze, you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, “I, Y/N Baratheon, take you, Robb Stark, as my husband. I promise to honor you, to stand by you… and to hold Winterfell as my home… as long as we both shall live.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight that lingered between you. Robb’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his cloak and draped it over your shoulders, the Stark direwolf sigil settling against the green of your gown. His fingers lingered for a moment, a gentle touch that offered both reassurance and shared sorrow.

Catelyn Stark stepped forward, her eyes red-rimmed but composed, her expression holding a quiet strength as she looked at you both. She managed a faint smile, though grief flickered in her eyes. “You are one now,” she said softly, her voice wavering just slightly. “Bound by honor and duty… and the strength of the North.”

Robb nodded, his gaze shifting from his mother to you, a silent promise etched in his eyes. He took your hand once more, and together, you turned to face the small gathering, where the royal family and the Starks stood side by side, united in somber witness.

As the ceremony ended, Cersei approached, her expression carefully controlled as she looked at you. “You’re bound now,” she said softly, her tone a blend of pride and resignation. “Remember who you are.”

“Yes, Mother,” you replied, your voice equally soft.

Robert clapped a heavy hand on Robb’s shoulder, his usual joviality absent. “Take care of her, boy,” he said, his voice gruff. “A Stark and a Baratheon… it’s a good match. We may not have joy today, but… there’s still hope for the future.”

Robb nodded, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. “I’ll care for her, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice steady. “With all that I am.”

The feast that followed was a subdued affair, the usual raucous laughter and cheerful toasts absent. Servants moved quietly between tables, and the guests spoke in hushed tones, their minds undoubtedly drifting back to the small, still figure of Bran, lying somewhere in the castle.

You sat beside Robb, his hand resting over yours, his touch a constant reminder of the bond you’d just sealed. Every so often, his gaze would drift toward the doors, a flicker of worry crossing his face. You knew his thoughts were with his brother, as were yours, and despite the vows you’d just taken, it felt wrong to celebrate when Bran’s fate remained so uncertain.

At one point, Robb turned to you, his expression earnest. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low so only you could hear. “This isn’t… this isn’t how I wanted our wedding to be.”

You shook your head, managing a faint smile as you met his gaze. “It’s all right, Robb. We’re together, and that’s enough for me.”

His hand tightened around yours, his gaze softening. “We’ll have our happiness, someday,” he promised, a quiet determination in his voice. “When Bran wakes, and the darkness lifts… we’ll find our joy.”

“I believe you,” you replied, and in that moment, you knew you meant it. Despite the sorrow, the grief, the uncertainty, there was a strength in Robb, a resilience that made you feel, perhaps for the first time, that Winterfell could truly be your home.

As the feast wound down, the guests dispersed, the weight of the day settling heavily upon the hall. Robb led you back to the godswood, where the faint rustle of leaves and the quiet murmur of the stream offered a small reprieve from the grief that had followed you through the day.

Standing together beneath the heart tree, his arms wrapped around you, Robb pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, a quiet promise shared in the silence of the godswood.

“We’ll be fine,” he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet strength. “You and I.”

And as you looked up into his eyes, you knew that this bond, forged in sorrow and solemnity, would endure. The North was your home now, and Robb Stark, your husband, was your future.

The morning was shrouded in a gray mist as the royal family prepared to depart Winterfell. The air was filled with the sounds of horses being saddled, carts being loaded, and the quiet murmur of farewells exchanged in the courtyard. Snow flurries danced in the air, a reminder of the North’s unyielding chill even as summer lingered.

You stood to the side, watching as your family gathered their belongings, preparing to leave Winterfell behind. There was a strange ache in your chest, a mixture of longing and relief. This was goodbye to the life you’d known in King’s Landing, the world of your childhood, yet a new life awaited here in the North, beside Robb.

Cersei approached you first, her face carefully composed, though her eyes softened as she took in your winter garb. She placed a gloved hand on your shoulder, her gaze searching. “Remember what I told you, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice as cold and steady as the northern air. “If ever you find yourself… unhappy, if you ever decide that this place is not what you hoped, send word to me. I’ll send a raven, and you’ll be back in King’s Landing before they know you’re gone.”

You nodded, sensing her quiet desperation beneath the words, but you held firm, offering her a small smile. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll remember.”

Cersei’s hand lingered for a moment before she withdrew, the mask of the queen settling back into place. She gave you a small, almost reluctant nod, and then turned to oversee her children, leaving you with a faint chill where her touch had been.

Next came Myrcella and Tommen, their young faces full of both excitement and sadness. Myrcella wrapped her arms around you tightly, her soft voice muffled against your shoulder. “I’ll miss you, sister. Winterfell is so far away.”

You hugged her back, smoothing her hair gently. “I’ll miss you too, Myrcella. But you’ll write to me, won’t you?”

She nodded eagerly, her green eyes shining as she pulled away, clutching your hand for a moment longer. Tommen, who had tried to appear brave, stepped forward, his lower lip quivering as he hugged you quickly. “Goodbye, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll keep practicing my sword skills, so when you come back, I’ll be strong enough to protect you.”

You smiled, ruffling his hair gently. “I look forward to it, Tommen. Be brave, all right?”

He nodded, his small shoulders squared as he stepped back beside Myrcella.

Joffrey approached you last among your siblings, his usual confidence subdued. He shifted awkwardly, his gaze flickering between you and the ground before he managed, “Well… I suppose this is goodbye, then.”

“Yes,” you replied, studying him as he avoided your gaze. The cool prince of King’s Landing looked almost uncertain here, his usual arrogance dimmed by the somber air of Winterfell. “Take care of yourself, Joffrey.”

He nodded stiffly, and after a moment, he added, “And… don’t forget what Mother said.” There was something almost grudging in his tone, as though he struggled to convey the sentiment, but you recognized it for what it was—a reluctant offer of support, or at least the closest he could come to it.

“I won’t forget,” you replied softly. He turned quickly, as if he’d revealed more than he intended, rejoining the group with a faint flush to his cheeks.

Tyrion approached next, a warm smile lighting his face as he looked at you. “Well, dear niece, I would say you’re off on a grand adventure, but the North is hardly the place I’d choose for one,” he said with a chuckle. “Still, it seems you have found yourself well suited here.”

You smiled back, appreciating his humor in the midst of the farewells. “The North has its charms, Uncle. Though it might not be quite your idea of a vacation.”

He grinned, raising a brow. “No, certainly not. But I imagine you will do well here. If you need a witty letter or a visit, you know how to reach me.”

“Thank you, Uncle Tyrion,” you replied, and he gave you a brief but warm embrace, patting your shoulder as he stepped back.

Jaime came next, his armor gleaming even in the dull light of the Northern morning. He gave you a smirk, the familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “Princess,” he said, his tone teasing but affectionate. “Are you ready for a life of snow and solemn Starks?”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’ll manage, Uncle. Robb has been a kind husband.”

He regarded you thoughtfully, a flicker of something protective crossing his features. “If you ever need anything—anyone here ever makes you unhappy—you know you can call on me.”

The sentiment in his words warmed you, and you squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll remember.”

He gave you a playful salute, though his eyes held genuine care, and then he joined Tyrion by the royal procession.

Finally, the moment came for the royal family to mount their horses. You stood to the side, your hand tucked in Robb’s as you watched your family prepare to leave. Cersei glanced back at you one last time, her eyes lingering on you, her expression unreadable, before she nodded and looked away. Tyrion offered you a small, reassuring smile, and Jaime gave you a wink, his usual swagger intact.

Lord Eddard, Sansa, and Arya moved to join the royal party as well. Sansa, looking composed and almost regal, met your gaze with a polite nod, her own excitement clear as she anticipated the wonders of King’s Landing. Arya, on the other hand, wore a scowl, clearly reluctant to leave her home and her brother. She cast one last, longing look back at Winterfell before clambering onto her horse beside her sister.

Jon Snow stood apart, dressed in black furs, his expression solemn as he prepared for his own departure to Castle Black. You caught his eye and gave him a small nod of acknowledgment. He returned it with a faint, respectful smile, his gaze lingering briefly on his family before he turned toward the road that led him to his new life beyond the Wall.

As the procession began to move, Robert bellowed one last farewell, his voice echoing through the courtyard as he raised a hand in farewell. “Farewell, Winterfell! Take care of my daughter!” he called, his gaze briefly meeting yours with a hint of fondness.

You stood beside Robb, his hand a steady weight in yours, grounding you as the distant echoes of horse hooves faded into the morning mist. You watched as your family disappeared down the winding path, the figures of your mother, father, and siblings slowly swallowed by the gray expanse of the North.

The silence that followed felt heavy, laden with both loss and anticipation. The final ties to your old life had been severed, and now, Winterfell stood as both your duty and your destiny. You took a deep breath, the cold Northern air filling your lungs as you turned to look at Robb.

He met your gaze, his face softened by a quiet strength. His hand still held yours, warm and reassuring, his grip firm yet gentle. “Are you all right?” he asked softly, his voice filled with concern.

You nodded, managing a small smile. “Yes… it’s just strange, knowing they’re gone.”

Robb gave a small nod of understanding, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I understand. But you’re not alone, Y/N. You have me. And this is your home now, as much as it is mine.”

His words, simple and steady, offered a strange comfort. You could feel the warmth of the Stark family around you—their quiet strength, their loyalty, and their acceptance. You had become a part of that now.

Turning back toward the castle, you took your place beside Robb, your hand still in his, as you watched Winterfell’s gates close behind the departing party. The future stretched out before you, uncertain yet filled with promise, and as Robb’s hand held yours, you knew you had chosen to meet it here, together.

The air hummed with hushed whispers and solemn faces of the men marking the grief that weighed on everyone’s hearts. Eddard Stark was dead. News of his execution had traveled through the ranks like wildfire, leaving an ache that no one seemed to be able to soothe. But for you, carrying Robb’s child, it had been an especially bitter blow. Lord Eddard had accepted you into his family with the quiet grace of a father, and his loss felt like a gaping wound.

You sat in your tent, hands resting gently on the swell of your belly, trying to steady your breathing as sorrow and dread churned within you. Outside, the camp was unusually quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of wind through the tents and the distant murmurs of soldiers preparing for the next move in the war that had now become personal.

The flap of your tent was suddenly pulled open with force, and you looked up, startled, to see Lady Catelyn storming in, her eyes blazing with fury. Her face, usually a mask of composure and strength, was contorted in anger, her voice shaking as she spoke.

“You,” she hissed, her tone low but brimming with rage. “How could I have let you stand beside my son, knowing what I know now?”

You stood, heart pounding, uncertain of what she meant. “Lady Catelyn… I don’t understand.”

“Oh, don’t you?” she snapped, stepping closer. “My husband is dead. My son lies broken in Winterfell. And every shred of evidence points to your family. Your Lannister family.”

The accusation cut through you like a knife, and you took a step back, your hand instinctively moving to protect your unborn child. “Lady Catelyn,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “I had nothing to do with this. I grieve for Lord Eddard as you do.”

But Catelyn’s eyes remained cold, unyielding. “You expect me to believe that? You, a daughter of Cersei Lannister? Do you think I’m blind? The girl who grew up under her mother’s shadow, who has every reason to hate the North. And now, conveniently, you’re here, married to my son—carrying his child, no less. How do I know you’re not feeding information back to your family, plotting against us even now?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came. The accusation was too sharp, too unfair, and it struck deep. You felt the sting of tears but held them back, meeting her gaze with as much strength as you could muster.

“I am loyal to Robb. To the North,” you said, your voice shaking but steady. “I left my family for him. I would never betray him.”

But Catelyn was unrelenting, her expression hard as steel. “Loyal? A Lannister knows nothing of loyalty,” she spat, each word laced with bitterness. “I was a fool to think I could ever trust you.”

Just then, Robb burst into the tent, his face tight with worry. “Mother!” he said, glancing between the two of you. “What’s going on?”

Catelyn turned to him, her expression softening only slightly. “Robb, she is a Lannister. Can’t you see what that means? Do you truly believe she isn’t still loyal to her family?”

Robb hesitated, his gaze flicking to you, and the silence that followed was more damning than anything he could have said. His face was conflicted, shadows under his eyes from the strain of war and loss. “Mother… I know what this looks like. But Y/N has stood by me. She’s my wife.”

You felt relief for a brief moment, but then he continued, his voice soft, almost hesitant. “But… given all that’s happened, perhaps it would be best if she gave us her word… to clear any doubts.”

His words struck you like a slap, and the shock left you breathless. “Clear any doubts?” you repeated, your voice trembling as the realization dawned. He didn’t fully trust you either. After everything you’d shared, after all you’d sacrificed, Robb still harbored doubts.

The silence in the tent was suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “You think… you think I would betray you? That I would harm your family?” you whispered, pain lacing every word. You took a step back, your hand resting protectively over your stomach. “After all we’ve been through, Robb, you still don’t trust me?”

Robb’s face softened, regret and anguish flickering in his eyes. “Y/N… it’s not that I don’t trust you. But with all that’s happened, can you blame us for being cautious?”

The heartbreak in his gaze only twisted the knife deeper. You felt your chest tighten, a surge of anger and betrayal rising within you. “I have stood by you through every trial, Robb. I left my family, my home, and everything I knew to be with you. And now, when I need you most, you doubt me?”

His jaw tightened, and he opened his mouth to respond, but you shook your head, the pain and betrayal overwhelming. Without another word, you turned and pushed past him, storming out of the tent, ignoring his calls for you to stop.

Outside, the cold air hit you like a wave, but it did nothing to numb the ache in your chest. You walked quickly, each step heavy with anger, with sorrow, with the weight of every accusation that had been hurled at you.

You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere felt better than being in that tent, surrounded by distrust and hurt. As you reached the edge of the camp, you stopped, pressing a hand to your stomach as you felt the first tear slip down your cheek.

The life inside you, the one that you had hoped would bring joy and unity, now felt like a painful reminder of the divide between you and the family you’d tried so hard to become part of.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and iron as Robb approached the makeshift cage where Jaime Lannister sat, bound and bloodied, his face shadowed but still holding that infuriating smirk that had become his signature. Grey Wind prowled by Robb’s side, a silent, menacing presence, his golden eyes trained intently on Jaime, teeth bared in a low, guttural growl that seemed to echo the barely restrained fury in Robb’s own gaze.

Jaime looked up as they approached, his smirk widening even as his wrists strained against the ropes that held him. “Ah, the Young Wolf,” he drawled, his voice tinged with amusement despite his bruises. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Robb’s expression was cold, his blue eyes piercing as he regarded his captive. “I thought it was time we spoke,” he said quietly, his tone even but laced with an edge.

Jaime leaned back against the bars of his cage, eyeing Robb with a sardonic tilt of his head. “And here I thought you’d just come to show off your impressive pet,” he said, gesturing toward Grey Wind. “Quite the beast, isn’t he?”

Grey Wind let out a low, warning growl, his fur bristling as he bared his teeth. Jaime held his gaze, unflinching, though a flicker of unease passed through his eyes before he looked back at Robb.

Robb took a slow step forward, crossing his arms as he stared down at Jaime. “I didn’t come here to discuss my direwolf.”

“No?” Jaime’s brows lifted in mock surprise. “Then what, pray tell, did you come here to discuss?”

Robb’s eyes narrowed, his jaw set in a hard line. “Your family,” he said simply, his voice steady.

Jaime’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something sharper in his gaze. “Ah,” he murmured, his voice softening as he looked up at Robb. “And by family, I assume you mean my sister… or perhaps my nieces and nephews?” His smirk returned, colder now. “How is she?”

Robb’s eyes flickered, a mixture of anger and something else lurking beneath the surface. “She’s as well as can be expected,” he replied curtly, his voice taut. “Given the circumstances.”

Jaime’s gaze sharpened, and he leaned forward slightly, studying Robb’s face with a hint of genuine interest. “You’re treating her well, then? Not as… shall we say, a prisoner?”

Robb’s lips tightened, his expression darkening. “She’s my wife, Lannister. And she’s carrying my child. I don’t treat her like a prisoner. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know who she is… or rather, whose she is.”

Jaime’s smirk froze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed Robb’s words. “Oh?” he said, his tone carefully casual. “And who, exactly, do you think she is?”

Robb’s gaze was unyielding, his voice low and dangerous. “We both know that she’s not Robert’s daughter,” he said coldly. “No more than Joffrey or Tommen or Myrcella are his.”

Jaime held his gaze, the amusement in his expression fading as his eyes turned steely. “That’s a dangerous thing to say, Stark. Especially with so many ears around.” He glanced meaningfully at Grey Wind, who was still growling softly, his hackles raised.

“I’m not afraid of the truth,” Robb replied, his voice firm. “I know exactly what she is. She’s a Lannister—a daughter of your house. And yet here she is, sworn to the North, carrying a Stark child.”

Jaime’s smirk returned, though there was a new edge to it, a cold amusement that glinted in his eyes. “So, you know,” he said slowly, as though savoring the words. “And yet… you keep her close. Tied to you.” He leaned forward, his gaze probing. “Tell me, Young Wolf, what exactly do you think you’ll do if she’s truly my daughter?”

Robb’s face hardened, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought to control his anger. “If she’s truly your daughter, then I’ll do what I must to protect my family,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, each word carrying a barely restrained fury.

Jaime’s eyes sparkled with something close to amusement. “Protect your family, you say?” He chuckled darkly. “You mean protect them from her? Or perhaps… protect her from you?” His voice dropped, his tone mocking. “How convenient, isn’t it? You don’t trust her any more than your mother does.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his silence only fueling Jaime’s amusement. “That’s what I thought,” Jaime murmured, his gaze sharp as he studied Robb’s face. “You married her, tied her to you with vows and promises… but you don’t truly believe she’s yours, do you?”

Robb’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. “She’s my wife. That’s all that matters.”

Jaime laughed, the sound low and scornful. “Oh, Robb,” he said, his voice laced with derision. “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be here, would you? You’d be with her now, assuring her of your loyalty. But instead, you’re here, questioning me, looking for answers that only she can give you.”

Robb’s face flushed with anger, but he held his ground, his gaze unwavering. “She swore herself to the North, to my family. That’s the only loyalty that matters now.”

“Is it?” Jaime asked softly, his voice a mocking whisper. “Or is that just what you tell yourself, so you don’t have to face the fact that she could never truly be yours?”

Robb’s face hardened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might strike Jaime, his fists clenched, his breathing harsh. But instead, he stepped back, his gaze cold and unyielding as he looked down at the man who had sown so much pain in his family.

“Whatever you think, Lannister,” he said, his voice a low growl, “it doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one in chains, not her. And no matter what she is, she’s bound to the North now. She’s my wife. And the North protects its own.”

Jaime’s smirk returned, though it was tinged with a faint sadness as he leaned back against the bars of his cage. “If only you believed that,” he murmured, his gaze drifting off as though lost in thought. “If only she did too.”

Robb turned away, Grey Wind falling into step beside him, the direwolf’s growls fading as they left the cage. But Jaime’s words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind, each syllable a reminder of the doubts he’d tried so hard to bury.

You sat alone in your tent, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin. It was a silence you’d grown accustomed to over the past few weeks—ever since the accusations, ever since Robb’s words had driven a wedge between you that neither of you had been able to bridge.

You’d barely spoken since then, passing each other with brief, polite nods, or exchanging only the most necessary words. It was as if a gulf had opened between you, an invisible barrier that neither of you knew how to cross. And yet, here you were, sitting in that quiet space, waiting.

Finally, you heard the soft rustle of footsteps outside, and Robb stepped into the tent, his face half-shadowed but unmistakably weary. He paused at the entrance, his gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, the familiar warmth that once lay between you seemed to flicker back to life. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the animosity and the silence in its wake.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight as if he were unsure whether to approach or keep his distance. “I thought it was time we talked,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant.

You nodded, your fingers tightening around the edges of the shawl draped over your shoulders. “It has been… a while,” you replied quietly, feeling the weight of the unspoken words settle heavily between you.

Robb stepped closer, his expression guarded, his gaze flicking to your stomach for the briefest of moments before returning to your face. “I didn’t want it to be like this,” he murmured, his voice laced with a hint of regret. “I never wanted… distance between us.”

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “And yet, here we are,” you said softly, the hurt you’d buried these past weeks slipping into your tone.

Robb looked down, his fists clenching briefly before he took a deep breath. “I know you’ve been hurt by… everything that’s happened,” he said, his voice strained. “I don’t want you to feel like… like you’re alone.”

“But I am alone, Robb,” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them. “Every time you look at me, I see it in your eyes. You don’t trust me—not truly.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face as he shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” You met his gaze, your voice trembling with the emotions that had been bottled up for far too long. “I left everything behind for you. My family, my home, everything I knew. I made that choice because I believed that we could build something here together. But now…” You swallowed, struggling to keep your voice steady. “Now I feel like a stranger in my own life.”

He looked away, his shoulders tense, his hands curling into fists as he listened to your words. “You know the situation we’re in. Everything that’s happened—the war, the betrayal, the losses—it’s… complicated. I have to be careful, I have to protect my family, my men. I can’t just ignore—”

“Ignore what?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. “Ignore the fact that I’m a Lannister? That I have my mother’s blood in me?” The words tasted bitter on your tongue, and you forced yourself to take a steadying breath. “If that’s all you see, Robb, then maybe you never really saw me at all.”

The hurt in your words seemed to strike him, his face tightening as he finally looked back at you. “I do see you,” he said, his voice raw. “And that’s the hardest part, because I don’t want to doubt you. But I have to think of my people, of my family. And with everything that’s happened…”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of his doubt settle over you like a shroud. “I thought you loved me,” you whispered, almost to yourself.

“I do love you,” he replied, a note of desperation in his voice. “But…”

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a sadness that seemed to echo the empty spaces between you. “But you don’t trust me,” you finished quietly. “And without trust, what is love?”

He flinched, the pain in his expression undeniable, but he said nothing. The silence stretched between you, filled with the words neither of you could bring yourself to say. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between his love for you and the loyalty he held to his family, his duty. And in that moment, you understood.

Robb loved you—there was no doubt of that. But his love was conditional, bound by the walls of mistrust that he couldn’t bring himself to tear down. And it hurt, more deeply than any wound you’d ever borne.

“You think I could betray you,” you said, your voice trembling. “You think I could harm the family I chose—the family I swore to protect. And you think that because of my blood.” You looked away, the bitterness swelling in your chest. “But blood is not the same as loyalty, Robb. And I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

Robb took a step forward, his hand reaching out to you, but you pulled back, the pain too fresh, too raw. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret. “I never wanted this to happen.”

“Neither did I,” you replied, your voice hollow. “But here we are, standing on opposite sides of a war we never asked for, bound by promises that have become chains.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to die on his lips, leaving only the anguish in his gaze. For a moment, he looked as if he might reach for you again, but then he hesitated, his hand falling back to his side.

“I wish… things were different,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you looked at him one last time. “So do I,” you replied, your voice breaking. “But wishing doesn’t change anything, does it?”

Without another word, you turned and left the tent, the cold air stinging your face as you stepped into the darkness. The weight of his mistrust settled heavily over you, suffocating the hope that you’d once held so close.

You walked through the camp, the sounds of soldiers and the crackle of fires fading into the background as you tried to process the reality of your situation. Robb might love you, but that love was fractured, shadowed by doubts he couldn’t seem to overcome. And for the first time, you realized that perhaps… you could never truly belong here, no matter how hard you tried.

As you looked out over the camp, the fires casting flickering shadows over the tents, you felt the beginnings of a resolve take root within you. If Robb couldn’t trust you, then you would have to trust yourself. Because at the end of the day, that might be all you had left.

And as much as it hurt, you knew that you couldn’t keep waiting for him to see you—not if he refused to look beyond the name you’d left behind.

The camp was quiet as you made your way through the rows of tents, the early morning mist clinging to the air. The soldiers were still sleeping or stirring groggily, barely aware of your presence. You walked with purpose, your mind a whirlwind of doubt, hurt, and uncertainty. Robb’s mistrust weighed heavily on you, and despite all you’d given up to be here, you felt more alone than ever.

At the far edge of the camp, beneath the watchful gaze of guards, lay the makeshift cage where Jaime Lannister was held. He looked up as you approached, his sharp eyes glinting with curiosity and a touch of amusement, even in the dim light of dawn. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, yet he held himself with a casual arrogance that only Jaime Lannister could muster in such a situation.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning back against the bars with a lazy smile. “Look who’s come to visit.”

You folded your arms, keeping your expression guarded. “You’re not exactly in a position to be smug, Uncle.”

“Oh, but I am,” he replied smoothly, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You wouldn’t be here unless something was bothering you. And I’m willing to wager it has to do with a certain Stark boy.”

You stiffened, unwilling to let him see how deeply his words affected you. But Jaime was perceptive, and the small flicker of pain in your eyes did not escape him. He tilted his head, the lazy smirk giving way to something more serious, a flicker of understanding.

“Let me guess,” he said softly, his voice losing its mocking edge. “Robb’s questioning your loyalty. Treating you like you’re as much a prisoner here as I am.”

You looked away, the truth of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Jaime leaned forward, his eyes searching yours with a surprising amount of empathy. “You gave up everything for him, didn’t you? Left your family, your title, everything you knew. And still, he doesn’t trust you.”

You clenched your fists, a surge of resentment rising within you. “He says he loves me, but… love without trust? What kind of love is that?”

Jaime let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s the kind that makes you feel like you’re suffocating, like no matter what you do, you’ll never be enough.” He paused, his gaze softening as he studied your face. “You and I… we’re not so different, you know. Both bound by loyalty to families who would see us suffer before they’d let us be happy.”

You frowned, struggling to reconcile the man before you with the image of the arrogant Kingslayer you’d grown up around. “You speak of loyalty, yet you killed your king. You betrayed your own oath.”

Jaime’s smile faded, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—a hint of pain, of anger, of regret. “I did what I had to do,” he said quietly, his voice hardening. “Some oaths are worth breaking when the price is too high.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in as you considered your own situation. Jaime was a man who had been defined by the choices he made, choices that had earned him scorn, hatred, and the infamous name of Kingslayer. But beneath the arrogance and the sneer, there was a man who had made those choices for reasons only he could understand.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I see what’s happening to you,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “They’ll turn you into a prisoner of their war, of their distrust. And you’re too much your mother’s daughter to let that happen, aren’t you?”

You stiffened, his words striking a nerve. The mention of your mother brought a rush of conflicting emotions—loyalty, resentment, and a longing for the life you’d left behind.

Jaime’s voice softened, almost conspiratorial. “You could go back, you know. Back to King’s Landing. To your family. You wouldn’t be bound to this endless winter, this… constant doubt.”

“I chose this,” you replied, though the conviction in your voice was weaker than you’d hoped. “I chose Robb. I chose to be here.”

“But does he truly want you here?” Jaime’s question was gentle, almost pitying, and it cut through you like a knife. “Or does he see you as a pawn in his game, a piece that’s convenient when it suits him and expendable when it doesn’t?”

Your heart ached as his words struck closer to the truth than you wanted to admit. You thought back to all the moments Robb had hesitated, the doubt in his eyes, the subtle distance that had grown between you. It was as if no matter how much you tried, you could never truly be a part of this world.

Jaime watched you in silence, his gaze sharp and perceptive. “You’re not meant to be here,” he said softly. “You don’t belong among these people who see you as an outsider. You belong with your family, where your blood means something.”

You looked down, your hands trembling as you grappled with the reality of his words. You had tried so hard to be loyal, to be the wife Robb needed, to make a life in the North. But Jaime’s words stirred something within you—a reminder of the life you’d left behind, of the ties that had bound you long before you’d ever heard of Winterfell.

Jaime leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Let me go,” he said, his tone urgent. “Free me, and I’ll take you back to King’s Landing myself. Back to Cersei, to your brothers and sister. To a place where you’re loved, where you’re trusted.”

You looked up, your heart pounding as his words hung heavy in the air. There was a gleam of determination in Jaime’s gaze, an invitation—a promise. He was offering you a way out, a chance to escape the prison you’d unwittingly found yourself in, a chance to return to the world you’d left behind.

But even as the temptation washed over you, doubts clouded your mind. Could you truly abandon everything you’d chosen? Could you betray the family you’d tried so hard to make your own?

Jaime watched you, his gaze unwavering, his expression unreadable. “What will it be, Y/N?” he murmured, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo in the silence. “Are you truly one of them… or are you still one of us?”

The question lingered in the air, the choice hanging heavy between you. And as you met Jaime’s piercing gaze, the weight of his words pressed down on you, leaving you teetering on the edge of a decision that could change everything.

The tension in the war tent was crackling as Robb gathered with his bannermen, discussing the latest strategies and plans for their campaign. The low light from the candles cast shadows over maps spread out across the table, each marked with strategic positions and paths. Robb stood at the head of the table, his gaze focused and intense, while you stood behind one of the lords, quietly listening as the men argued and discussed. You felt the familiar weight of being an outsider, especially in moments like these.

Just as Lord Karstark was outlining a possible maneuver, the flap of the tent burst open, and a guard rushed in, breathless and wide-eyed, his face pale. “My king!” he called out, his voice filled with urgency.

Robb straightened, his brow furrowing. “What is it?” he asked, his tone sharp.

The guard hesitated, glancing between Robb and the lords gathered around him before finally finding the courage to speak. “The Kingslayer… he’s gone. He’s escaped.”

A stunned silence fell over the tent, and every eye turned to Robb, who stiffened, his face darkening with shock and fury. His gaze immediately swung toward you, the unspoken accusation in his eyes cutting like a blade. For a brief, terrible moment, you felt the weight of that suspicion settle over you, his silent question echoing in the depths of your heart: Did you have a hand in this?

But before either of you could say a word, the guard continued, his voice shaky. “It was Lady Catelyn, my lord. She… she freed him.”

The room erupted into an uproar, the lords shouting in outrage and disbelief. Lord Karstark, his face twisted in fury, slammed his fist onto the table. “Lady Stark? She freed the man who killed my sons? This is madness!”

“Your mother’s gone too far, Robb!” Lord Umber growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. “She’s betrayed us all, and she’s released the only valuable bargaining piece we had.”

The tent filled with accusations and anger, each man speaking over the other, their voices rising in a chaotic swell of fury and disbelief. Robb stood in silence, his face pale as he absorbed the news. He looked stricken, a storm of emotions brewing in his gaze—shock, anger, and betrayal, all flashing across his face in an instant.

You lowered your gaze, the sting of his earlier suspicion still fresh in your heart. Despite knowing that the truth had been revealed, Robb’s silence, his initial reaction, lingered like an unhealed wound. The fact that his first instinct had been to turn to you, to wonder if you had betrayed him, left a bitter taste in your mouth.

One of the bannermen, his voice loud and furious, called out, “Your mother’s actions could cost us everything, Robb. If we lose because of this, it’ll be blood on her hands.”

Robb’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain control. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice ringing out above the chaos. Silence fell as the lords turned to him, each of them brimming with anger and frustration.

Robb took a deep, steadying breath, his gaze hard and unyielding as he looked around the room. “I understand your anger. Lady Stark’s actions were… unexpected.” He hesitated, his voice thick with barely suppressed fury. “But she is still my mother. We will not turn on her.”

Lord Karstark, his face a mask of bitter rage, stepped forward. “My king, with all due respect, this isn’t just about you or your mother. This is about justice. Your father’s justice, which she’s undermined by letting that… that Kingslayer walk free.”

Robb’s gaze flicked to you for the briefest of moments, and you could still see the shadow of doubt lingering there, a remnant of his initial suspicion. The silent accusation was gone, but the sting remained, a reminder of the fracture between you that no apology could fully mend.

You kept your gaze lowered, refusing to meet his eyes. The anger of the lords and Robb’s initial reaction had cemented a sense of isolation within you, a quiet resignation that you might never truly be trusted here. Not as a Lannister. Not as his wife.

Lord Umber turned to Robb, his voice softer but no less intense. “What will you do, then? How will you salvage this?”

Robb’s jaw clenched, the weight of responsibility bearing down on him. “I’ll send men after Jaime,” he said, his voice cold and resolute. “I’ll do everything I can to bring him back.”

The lords muttered amongst themselves, some nodding, others still simmering with anger. Robb turned to the guard. “Have all patrols doubled. Every man we can spare will search for Jaime Lannister. He won’t make it far.”

The guard nodded, bowing quickly before leaving the tent. The lords watched Robb carefully, their gazes sharp and unforgiving. They were looking to him to make a decision, to show strength, but you could see the toll it was taking on him.

In the charged silence that followed, Robb turned to face his bannermen fully, his expression steeled. “I know this seems like a betrayal,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a slight tremor beneath the calm. “But we can’t let this tear us apart. We’ll recover from this. We have to recover from this, or we’ve already lost.”

The lords murmured their reluctant assent, though the bitterness in their gazes remained. As they began to file out, some cast sidelong glances at you, their expressions a mix of suspicion and disdain. It was clear that for many of them, a Lannister among the Starks would always be viewed as a potential threat.

Finally, the tent cleared, leaving you alone with Robb. The silence was heavy, his back turned to you as he stared at the maps on the table, his hands gripping the edges tightly. His knuckles were white, and you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the quiet fury simmering just beneath the surface.

You took a tentative step forward, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Robb…”

He didn’t turn, his voice low and raw. “You knew, didn’t you?”

The accusation stung, and you flinched, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know she would do this. I only spoke to Jaime once—”

“You spoke to him?” He turned, his eyes blazing, the hurt and betrayal clear in his gaze. “After everything, you went to him?”

“I went to speak to him, yes,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “But I didn’t know she would let him go. I swear it, Robb.”

For a moment, he looked away, his expression torn, and you could see the struggle in his eyes as he fought to reconcile his love for you with the doubts that had festered between you. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair as he looked back at you.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he murmured, his voice laced with exhaustion. “My father is dead, my brother is crippled, and now my mother has freed the one man who could have given us leverage. And then… there’s you.”

The weight of his words settled heavily on your chest, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek, quickly brushing it away. “I’m not your enemy, Robb. I wanted this to work. I wanted to be part of your family, of this… but I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough.”

He looked at you, his expression softened by the faintest glimmer of regret, but the doubt still lingered, a shadow that neither of you could banish. “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I don’t know how to trust you.”

The ache in your chest deepened, and for a moment, the distance between you felt insurmountable. You nodded, turning away from him, feeling the weight of all that had gone unspoken settling heavily on your shoulders.

In the silence, you left the tent, leaving Robb alone with his doubts, the wound between you left unhealed and festering, the echoes of mistrust lingering in the cold Northern air.

The night was cold as Robb stormed into his mother’s tent, his face set in a hardened mask of fury and disbelief. The shadows cast by the flickering candlelight danced on the canvas walls, giving his expression an almost spectral intensity. Catelyn sat at a small table, her face pale but composed, as if she’d been waiting for this confrontation.

She looked up as he entered, her eyes steady, but Robb could see the quiet resolve and sadness in her gaze. She rose, meeting his gaze head-on, even as he struggled to contain the storm of emotions brewing within him.

"Why?" His voice was low, laced with betrayal and anger. "Why did you do it, Mother?"

Catelyn’s expression didn’t falter. She clasped her hands together, taking a deep breath. "I did it for your sisters, Robb. For Sansa and Arya."

His jaw clenched, and he took a step closer, his eyes blazing with a barely restrained fury. "You let the Kingslayer go. You released the one man who could give us leverage against the Lannisters, who could help us end this war. You went against me, against your king. All for what? A promise from Jaime Lannister?”

Catelyn’s face softened, but she held her ground. "You weren’t there, Robb. You didn’t see Sansa’s letter. You didn’t hear the desperation in her words. She’s trapped in that viper’s nest, held by the very people who murdered your father." Her voice wavered slightly, though her gaze remained resolute. "And Arya… we don’t even know where she is. If there’s a chance that Jaime’s freedom could bring them home, I had to take it."

Robb shook his head, disbelief etched in every line of his face. "A chance? You traded our best leverage for a chance? And what of the lives lost in this war? The men who followed me, who died believing we’d bring justice to our family, that we’d make the Lannisters answer for what they did?”

Catelyn’s expression faltered, a flicker of pain crossing her face. "Do you think I’ve forgotten that?" she whispered. "Do you think I’ve forgotten the men we’ve lost, the sons and fathers who’ve given their lives for this cause? But they did it for more than just vengeance, Robb. They did it to protect our family, to bring your sisters home. And if freeing Jaime means I have to make sacrifices, then so be it.”

"Those sacrifices weren’t yours to make," Robb shot back, his voice rising. "You put everything at risk. You put us at risk. Your sons, your people, our cause… all of it thrown away for a promise that Jaime Lannister might help us? Did you think of what it would cost us if he betrays us?”

Catelyn’s composure slipped, and her voice rose in response, tinged with frustration and sorrow. "And if I did nothing? What then, Robb? Leave Sansa in the lion’s den, to suffer at their mercy? Let Arya’s fate remain unknown, just a shadow in our minds? I couldn’t sit idly by, not when there was even a glimmer of hope."

"Hope?” Robb’s voice was sharp, his gaze unyielding. "Hope that the man who threw Bran from a tower, who killed Karstark’s sons, would suddenly grow a conscience? Did you even stop to think of the betrayal that would bring upon us all? Or was that outweighed by a promise Jaime made while bound in a cage?”

The words hung between them, thick with accusation, and Catelyn’s expression softened with regret, but she did not back down. "You weren’t there, Robb," she repeated, her voice quiet but firm. "Sansa is my daughter, your sister, and I will do anything—anything—to bring her back to us."

Robb’s face twisted with a mix of anger and pain, and he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to contain his emotions. "And what of me, Mother? Do I mean so little to you that you’d defy me, ignore my command, and risk everything we’ve fought for?”

Catelyn’s eyes softened, her own voice breaking as she spoke. "You are my son, Robb. My firstborn. I would do anything for you, you must know that." She took a step toward him, her voice pleading. "But you’re also a king now, and kings must make hard choices. I didn’t do this to defy you—I did it because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing any more of my children.”

Robb’s gaze was hard, but a flicker of understanding, of shared pain, crossed his face. “I am a king, yes. And as a king, I have to answer to my bannermen, to the people who follow me. And now they question me because of what you’ve done. They’re angry, furious that you would release the man who killed their kin. I cannot lead if my own family undermines me.”

Catelyn’s face fell, and for a moment, she looked vulnerable, her strength faltering. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Robb. But as a mother, I couldn’t stand by any longer. The Lannisters hold so much power over us… they hold our children, our family, and they’ve taken so much from us already. I just… I wanted to bring some of them back.”

Robb’s expression softened for the briefest of moments, a flicker of sympathy breaking through the storm of his anger. But he quickly steeled himself, his face hardening once more as he took a step back, putting distance between them.

"Do you realize what you’ve done?" he asked quietly, his voice cold. "You’ve cost us our advantage. You’ve sown doubt among my men, our allies. You’ve put everything I’ve built at risk, all for a promise that might mean nothing.”

Catelyn’s gaze wavered, but she held his gaze, her face etched with sorrow. "Then I will bear that burden," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I will live with the consequences of my actions, Robb. But I did what I thought was right, as a mother.”

Robb’s eyes filled with pain, and he shook his head, his voice raw. "Right or wrong, you’ve betrayed me, Mother. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for that.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and final, and Catelyn looked away, her expression crumbling as the weight of his accusation settled over her. She took a shaky breath, struggling to hold back tears, but she did not try to defend herself further. She simply nodded, accepting his words, knowing that nothing she could say would change his mind.

Robb turned, his face as cold as the Northern wind, and without another word, he left the tent, leaving his mother behind, her shoulders slumped as she sank into a chair, the quiet grief settling over her like a shroud.

Outside, Robb took a deep breath, the anger and sorrow swirling within him, leaving him feeling hollow and adrift. He had lost his father, he had lost his trust in his wife, and now… he had lost faith in his own mother.

And as he stood alone in the darkness, he wondered how much more he could lose before there was nothing left of him at all.

The morning sun was a pale, cold light filtering through the muted haze that settled over the camp. It did little to warm the chill that seemed to grip Robb as he strode toward the war tent, the echoes of the previous night’s confrontation with his mother weighing heavily on him. His heart felt raw, torn between duty and family, and now he had to face his men, men who questioned his leadership, men who waited for him to set things right.

Inside the war tent, his bannermen were already gathered around the table, their expressions grim and expectant. Lord Karstark was there, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with anger, while Lord Umber stood with his arms crossed, his face hard and unyielding. They turned as Robb entered, offering him a nod of respect, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Robb took his place at the head of the table, looking out at the men who had pledged their loyalty to him, who had sacrificed for him. He could feel their resentment simmering, the weight of his mother’s betrayal casting a shadow over his authority. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he prepared to address the situation.

“We’ve lost Jaime Lannister,” he began, his voice firm, though he kept his tone measured. “I won’t pretend that this isn’t a setback. We lost a valuable bargaining piece, and I understand your anger. But we cannot allow this to break us.”

Lord Karstark scoffed, his voice filled with bitterness. “A setback? Your mother has let the very man who murdered my sons slip through our fingers. This is more than a mere setback, Robb.”

Robb clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his composure. “I understand, Lord Karstark. I share your anger. But Jaime Lannister is gone. Wasting time on anger won’t bring him back.”

Lord Umber leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “Then perhaps it’s time we consider other options, my king.”

Robb’s gaze flicked to him, his brows furrowing. “What other options?”

Umber exchanged a look with Karstark, then turned back to Robb, his expression calculating. “The Kingslayer may be gone, but we still have… another Lannister close at hand.”

Robb’s heart stilled, a flash of unease tightening his chest. “What do you mean?”

Karstark’s mouth twisted into a grim smile, his voice cold and unfeeling. “Your wife, my king. She carries the name Lannister in her blood as much as the Kingslayer did. If you want to draw Tywin Lannister out, what better way than to use her as bait?”

Robb’s face paled, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled to comprehend the enormity of what his bannermen were suggesting. “You’re speaking of my wife,” he said, his voice low, dangerously quiet. “The mother of my child.”

Lord Karstark shrugged, unperturbed. “She’s also a Lannister. Do you think Tywin would stand idly by if he knew his granddaughter is in our hands?”

Lord Umber nodded, his tone practical, almost cold. “Think about it, Robb. This is war. Your personal feelings can’t come before the needs of the North. If using the girl could give us an advantage, then we should consider it.”

Robb’s fists slammed onto the table, his face contorted with anger as he looked from one man to the next, his voice shaking with fury. “She is not a pawn. She is my wife. She is carrying my child. And you would suggest using her like a bargaining chip?”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, but Lord Karstark remained defiant, his gaze unwavering. “With respect, my king, this isn’t a game. We’re fighting for our survival, for justice. If we have a weapon we can use against the Lannisters, we should use it.”

Robb’s voice was ice, a low growl that cut through the room. “No. I will not hear any more talk of this. My wife is under my protection, and she is a part of this family, as much as any of you.” He turned his gaze to each of them, his eyes fierce. “If any of you even consider acting on this suggestion, I will see it as an act of treason.”

Silence fell, the men visibly taken aback by the ferocity in Robb’s voice, but Karstark refused to back down entirely. “You’re a young man, Robb,” he said, his tone bitter. “A young man who has let his heart cloud his judgment. War requires sacrifice. You cannot afford to place one person above the entire North.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with barely restrained rage. “I know the cost of war, Lord Karstark. I’ve buried men I’ve called my brothers, seen lives destroyed, families torn apart. But I will not sacrifice my wife and my child on the altar of your vengeance.”

Lord Umber’s voice softened, though there was still a note of caution. “We’re only suggesting that we consider all options, my lord. No one wants to see harm come to your lady, but if we’re to win this war, we need every advantage we can get.”

Robb took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger as he looked around at his bannermen, his voice tight with restraint. “I understand the risks. But we will find another way. I will not allow my wife to be used as a tool in this war. This discussion is over.”

The lords fell silent, some looking away, others muttering under their breath, but none dared to argue further. Robb could feel the weight of their disappointment, their doubt. But he stood firm, unwilling to compromise on this matter, no matter the cost.

Lord Karstark shook his head, his voice a quiet mutter filled with disdain. “You’re a fool if you think you can win this war with a conscience, Robb. This is a mistake, and it may well be the death of us all.”

Robb’s gaze hardened, his eyes like steel as he met Karstark’s glare. “Then so be it,” he replied, his voice unyielding. “I’d rather face death with honor than live knowing I betrayed the people I swore to protect.”

The lords exchanged glances, some nodding in reluctant acceptance, while others looked away, their expressions a mix of anger and disappointment. Robb could feel the rift growing between him and his men, the chasm widening with each hard choice he made. But he knew, in his heart, that this was the right decision.

As the bannermen began to file out of the tent, Robb stood in silence, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he struggled to steady himself. The weight of his choice pressed heavily on him, and he felt the creeping isolation that came with command, the loneliness of standing by one’s principles in a world that demanded compromise.

When the last of the lords had gone, he let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping as the anger drained from him, leaving only the ache of weariness in its place. He had chosen to protect you, to keep his promise, but at what cost? His bannermen’s loyalty was waning, and the unity he had once relied on was beginning to fracture.

Yet he knew, as surely as he knew the North’s bitter winters, that he could not—would not—allow harm to come to you. Not even for the sake of his war.

...

The early morning mist clung to the ground as you stood in the quiet edge of the camp, saddling your horse with hands that trembled only slightly. The air was cold, stinging your skin, but it felt like a balm to the storm raging in your heart. Each buckle, each strap you tightened, was a silent answer to the questions you hadn’t been able to voice aloud. You knew this wasn’t a decision that could be made lightly, but after days—weeks—of silence, mistrust, and feeling like a stranger in your own life, it was a decision you had to make.

The quiet was broken by the sound of footsteps behind you, and you paused, a chill running through you that had nothing to do with the air. Turning slowly, you saw Robb standing there, his face pale, his expression etched with disbelief and something close to panic. Behind him, at a distance, Catelyn had stopped, her gaze fixed on you with a mix of sorrow and regret.

“What are you doing?” Robb’s voice was low, strained, as if he could barely bring himself to ask the question.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you turned to face him. “I’m preparing my horse, Robb. I think it’s time… I think it’s best if I leave.”

The words seemed to hit him like a blow, his face paling further as he took a step closer, his voice shaking with urgency. “You’re leaving? But… you’re heavy with child. You can’t just ride out like this.”

Your hand instinctively moved to rest on the curve of your belly, a reminder of the life growing inside you, of the love you had once shared so freely with the man standing before you. “I have no other choice,” you replied, your voice quiet but firm. “You doubt me, Robb. You’ve doubted me for weeks, maybe even longer. I can’t stay where I’m not trusted. Not like this.”

Robb’s expression crumbled, and he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered, his voice thick with desperation. “I know… I know I’ve made mistakes, that I’ve let my own fears blind me. But please, don’t do this.”

You looked away, struggling to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “How can I stay, Robb? How can I raise our child in a place where my loyalty is constantly questioned? Where every glance feels like a reminder that I don’t belong?”

Robb’s hand found yours, his grip gentle but firm as he held you close. “Because I love you,” he said softly, his voice filled with a raw vulnerability you hadn’t heard in weeks. “I love you more than I can say. And I know I’ve been a fool. But… please, don’t punish me for that by leaving.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and the anguish in his eyes struck deep, stirring memories of the love you’d shared—the warmth, the laughter, the quiet moments of solace and comfort that had once filled your life together. But those memories felt distant now, like echoes of a life that had slowly slipped away.

“I’m not punishing you, Robb,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m trying to protect myself. And our child. I can’t… I can’t keep waiting for you to trust me when every day feels like a test I’m doomed to fail.”

Robb shook his head, his grip on your hand tightening as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “No. You’re not doomed to fail. You’re the woman I chose, the woman I love. And… you’re the mother of my child.” His voice broke, and he looked down, swallowing hard before meeting your gaze again, his eyes filled with tears. “Please… don’t take that away from me.”

The words hung between you, heavy with the weight of everything you’d both lost, everything you still had yet to say. You could feel his desperation, the silent plea in his gaze, begging you to stay, to forgive, to give him one last chance. Behind him, Catelyn watched silently, her face shadowed with regret and sadness, but she said nothing, merely bearing witness to the fracture between you and her son.

You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours, the familiar strength and comfort you’d once found in his touch. But there was still the lingering ache, the wound of betrayal that hadn’t yet healed, the knowledge that even now, doubt lay between you like a dark chasm.

“I don’t know if love is enough, Robb,” you whispered, opening your eyes to meet his gaze, your voice trembling. “Love without trust… what kind of life would that be for us? For our child?”

Robb’s face crumpled, and he took a shaky breath, his voice raw. “Then let me earn your trust back,” he said, his words filled with a quiet, desperate hope. “Give me that chance. Stay. Please.”

The silence stretched between you, the decision hanging heavy in the air. You looked at him, at the man you’d once given your heart to, the man who had given you hope, love, a new life. But now… now there was so much pain, so much mistrust, that you couldn’t tell if those promises still held the same weight.

Your gaze drifted to the road beyond the camp, the path that would lead you back to your family, to the life you’d left behind. And then back to Robb, his eyes filled with silent pleading, his hand still holding yours, a reminder of everything you’d built together, of the future you’d dreamed of.

And as you stood there, torn between two worlds, the decision loomed, uncertain and unresolved, like the misty dawn stretching before you, waiting for you to choose which path you would take.

You nodded to the soldier outside this specific tent, well acquainted. You pressed your cheek to the flap, feeling it flutter through your fingers as a gust of wind past. It made you shiver, but it wasn't nearly as cold as the breezes in Winterfell. The reminder made you long for home. "Your grace?"

"Enter," came Robb's gruff voice, laced with authority, sounding much older than what you were used to.

You brushed underneath the flap, eyes crinkling at the wave of light from inside the tent, lit by an assortment of flaming torches. Robb stood over his make-shift desk, adorned with books, maps, and candles alike. His palms were braced against the wood, body turned to show the entrance his side profile.

Robb took a glance over his shoulder-- a glance at you --and sighed. His posture unraveled as he dragged a hand down his face, trying to rid it of sleep. "Y/N," he breathed, voice full of relief.

"Had you thought I was someone else?" you chuckled, wandering deeper into the tent.

He was still dressed in his clothes from the day. Suddenly, a part of you felt self-conscious to be dressed as if you were ready to pass out at given moment: hair undone, nightgown lazily falling from your shoulders.

You tugged it up quickly as you moved to stand beside him, peering down at a map of the seven kingdoms, decorated with chess pieces.

"I hadn't known who," he sighed. "I'm glad it's you though. I need your help with something."

You smiled, watching Robb divulge into hypothetical scenarios, plans of war, oblivious to the mess of auburn curls on his head. It made it hard to focus, but not impossible. When he concluded, you nodded slowly. "That could work," you said slowly. Then reaffirmed it, nodding, "Well. That could work well, definetely."

Robb sighed, a tired smile coming over his face. "Thank the gods."

You hummed. "Finally deeming yourself fit for bed now?"

"Well," he tilted his head, eyes scanning over the table, debating. "I still have quite of bit to get done..."

"Robb," you stated sternly, a hand coming to rest gently on his bicep, dragging his attention from his work to you. You nudged your head toward his bed. "Greywind is falling asleep before you. Rest."

Robb turned his attention to his bed, where Greywind, his direwolf, a supposed 'mighty beast' laid across the end, head on the edge, dark eyes blinking hazedely. He snorted, running a hand through his hair and turning back to you. "'Suppose your right then. That doesn't happen too often."

You slapped his arm. Robb faked a cry. "Ouch, my lady! That's a king you're striking, you know."

"A humble king, as well."

"Aye," he grinned, "That I am."

You rolled your eyes, smiling so widely dimples formed in your cheeks. "To bed, Robb," you said, huffing. "I mean it. I'll clean up."

"I can't ask you to do that--"

"You don't have to," you interrupted, watching the tension in between his brows unknit itself. You turned away from him, giving him your back. You closed a book, already shuffling a pack of papers together. "You can repay me after the war: make sure I marry some rich handsome Lord who leaves me alone and has a plot near your castle, yes?"

There's silence. Your brows furrowed and you looked behind you. "Robb?"

He'd gone quiet, staring at you. His brows furrowed again. He seemed confused. "You wish... to marry some... Lord?" he asked, the tease he had moments ago lost.

You didn't understand what's shifted. "It's duty," you shrugged. "I'll marry a Lord, if I'm lucky. It's not guaranteed. I'm no lady, Robb. Not like your wife will be."

You turned around again and continued cleaning, thinking the matter is settled. You didn't see the crestfallen look on Robb's face, the battle in his eyes, the sputtering frog in his throat which he swallows. You didn't notice him inch closer, not until you feel the warmth radiating off his, pressing to your side, his arm gently finding your wrist.

"Marry me."

You blinked, lips parting. A guffaw burst from your lips. "What?" you laughed, shaking your head. In fact, it sent you into a fit of giggles, much to Robb's obvious dismay, who stood staring at you, dead-serious. His eyes had a peculiar shine to them.

Your laughter died down. "Robb, you..." your lips twitched, still in disbelief. "You cannot be serious."

He took a step closer, blue eyes gleaming down at you, reflecting the fire within him. "I am, " he whispered, the grip on his wrist sliding down to your fingers, lacing them together. "Marry me and we won't have to worry about stupid Lords or ladies, just you and I."

You blinked, heart hammering on his chest, smile dropping swiftly. For as long as you could remember you had loved Robb, but as long as you had known him you had known you could never be wed. He was going to be the Lord of Winterfell-- now the King of the Seven Kingdoms-- and you were merely Sansa's maiden, an orphan the Starks took pity on. He had duty and honor, you had nothing. "You..." you shook your head slowly, "Robb, we cannot."

"What?" he asked, confused. "Why not?"

Your head shook, lip beginning to wobble despite your attempts to prevent it. "You have a duty, and I will not get in the way of that."

"What?" Robb took a step closer, deeply, utterly confused. He could feel the rush of blood in his veins and his heart pounding in his chest. He was fully awake now. "What are you talking about?"

"You are meant to marry a noble lady from a noble house--" you began.

Robb cut you off quickly, grabbing your other hand as if it would make you see reason.

"I do not wish to--"

You tugged your hands from his grip, stepping away from him, trying to get air. You couldn't breathe with him looking at you like that, eyes full of hope and desperation. You could hardly think. "You cannot just marry me because you do not wish to marry a stranger!" you shrilled.

Greywind stirred from his sleep, shifting from his bed, watching the two of you.

Robb shook his head wildly, lips twisting like he had been insulted. He looked at you crazed, taking a step forward. "You think that is it? I want to marry you because- because what? I'm afraid? I'm desperate? Because I do not wish to marry some powerful Lord's daughter." He took another step closer. "Do you think that is why I dance with you at feasts as well? To avoid mingling with other ladies?" he spit. "Why have I spent these years trailing after you like a lost pup?"

"I don't know why you choose to do what you do."

Robb threw his hands in the air. "It's because I love you! Ever since I was a boy. Ever since I have known what love was, I knew that I loved you."

The memories flashed in his mind: Snowball fights and horse rides. Sword fights and bandages. Sneaking to the kitchens and watching you do his sisters' hair. His teases, your scolding. His calloused hand holding your soft palm.

He swallowed, voice low. "Say you do not love me."

You shook your head. He wasn't understanding. "I cannot," you said, frustratedly, quickly adding, "But I cannot marry you."

"Why?" he growled, exasperated.

"I will not let I this," you waved between the two of you, "bring death to your duty. I will not ruin your chances at bringing your sister's home; at avenging your father; at winning this war. I will not kill you."

He couldn't give a damn about being alive if it meant not being with you.

Robb's jaw clenched. "I love you."

Clamping your eyes shut, you ignored the gnawing of your heart that begged you to stay, and you turned around, "Good night, Robb."

"No, you cannot just go!"

He hadn't meant to shout. It had just happened, erupted from him like dragon fire. At the commotion, the large wolf on his bed shot up to stand, barking. The barks became background as he watched you turn around, eyes wide, looking frozen.

Fuck.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, dragging a hand down his face. "I-"

You beat him to it, looking down at your hands, picking at your nails. "Your grace," you said plainly. Robb flinched. "If I can please be dismissed."

"You don't..." You didn't need to call him that. He tugged on his curls, a pout on his lips. "It wasn't a command. I would never command you to do anything. Of course, you can..." he couldn't bring himself to say the word 'go'.

If he said it, he'd be giving up. On this conversation. On your marriage. On you. He would never give up on you, not even when you whipped around, rushing to escape his tent like a freed hostage.

Without meaning to, he rushed after you, watching as your head disappeared underneath the flap of the tent. "Y/N," he pleaded.

You reappeared just as quickly as you left, head peeking through the flap. Eyes glossy, but stern. Beautiful. "Do not seek me."

And you left Robb alone again, and he listened. He stayed in his tent, trying to tune into the sounds of crickets; laughter, singing, and snoring; Greywind's disappointed huffs; and his ragged breathing, but nothing could overpower his thoughts and the crack of his heart breaking.

But yk just a thought.

Robb please let me have ur babies, thank yur

(My reoccuring scenario uhg)