Only A Northern Song ~ Game of Thrones / Willas Tyrell ~

Chapter Forty Seven: Whispering Wood

There was an eerie feel to the morning air on the day of the first battle.

Both Willas and Eddmina felt it as soon as they woke, to the point that neither of them said very much to each other, their minds on other things. In fact, Eddmina felt sick and her chest was tight, though she tried to take in slow, deep breaths to calm herself. It didn't work, and instead she found herself pacing, grateful for the fact Uther needed tending to purely for the distraction he provided. Willas, however, seemed sullen, his temper and patience running on a short fuse to the extent that he cursed rather loudly when his trembling fingers botched tying his boot laces, using words that Eddmina had never heard him utter before.

"Here, hold your son," Eddmina told him as she placed Uther in his arms. He was sat on the edge of the bed, and once she knelt by his feet she made quick work of his laces. "Swearing will help no one, Will."

"I'm helping no one anyway," he muttered bitterly, though his voice was low as he tried not to upset the baby he was holding. "I should be going with them, I should be fighting. I could do it on horseback-"

"Don't even think about it," she shut him down quickly, knowing they had already been over it all a countless amount. "If you go into battle on horseback, the minute you fall you are done for. Do you wish to make me a widow?"

"But my brother..." he pointed out, and she heard the strain in his voice. She sat up on the bed next to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she kissed his cheek.

"And my brother too," she reminded him. "They need us. They are the ones fighting, they need us to boost their morale, not breakdown over our own roles in all of this."

"I know, I just..." Willas paused, shutting his eyes for a moment before he opened them, looking between his wife and his son. "I don't want to feel useless."

"You're not useless," she told him honestly, leaving one hand on Willas' shoulder while the other moved down so she could stroke through their son's hair. He was wide awake staring up at both of them. "You will be with me, and Uther, and my mother. Your job is to look after us. I couldn't think of a better protector, my Ser Willas."

As if sensing the nervous tension, Honour - who had previously been curled up by the entry to the tent - padded over to them. With a huff she placed her chin on Eddmina's knee. She scratched the wolf behind her ears, as always feeling much safer with her close, to the point that she allowed herself to rest her forehead on Willas's shoulder, closing her eyes. Moments of peace and tranquillity were rare to find given they they were in a battle camp, especially given that they were only hours away from combat, but she was more than happy to spend a few short minutes with the three of them close. She savoured every second, knowing that in the weeks to come, possibly even months, it would be the memory of that little embrace that would keep her going.

When it was time to part, Eddmina took herself off to see Robb, and given that Talisa was a healer and was preparing for the inevitable swarm of men about to need her to attend to them, she had to take Uther with her. She'd fashioned a sort of carrying device using strips of soft fabric that she had leftover from dressmaking, fastening him to her chest securely yet comfortably, allowing her to walk hands-free, though that meant instead her left hand rested on the hilt of the blade fastened to her belt. It was the one Mikken had forged for her before she left Winterfell, while the knife Prince Oberyn had gifted her sat next to it. It felt like an appropriate time to carry weaponry, though walking past the soldiers with real swords made her feel as though she was merely a girl just playing at war.

Thankfully the feeling disappeared when she saw Robb in his tent. His new squire was fixing his armour in place, while Theon stood watching, the two of them discussing battle tactics, Grey Wind stood by them loyally. The reality hit her as soon as she saw them both in mail and steel, and the sick feeling returned. The boys she had grown up with were now men, and they may be dead men by the end of the day. They would either return emotionally scarred and traumatised, physically injured, or not return at all. She wondered if either man had thought of that, that their lives were about the change, and they would never be themselves again, but she refused to be the one to point it out. Instead she forced a smile, and tried to think of something more positive to say.