The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - XII

ROBB MISSED HER. It had only been a few days and yet he yearned to have Aryadne in his arms again. Her absence left an ache that he knew would only be cured by seeing her again. He could not remember how he had lived before her. As a child, Old Nan had beguiled him with tales of witches and love spells. If she had cast such a charm on him, he did not mind.

That evening, they would reach the border of the Westerlings' land, where the negotiations were set to take place. Forces from Raventree Hall had already arrived to guard his back. Robb did not have a mind for diplomacy — not in comparison to his skill on the field. This was a fact he had learned early on in his rule. With guidance from his bannermen, however, and a wariness of any manipulations, they he believed they could settle for peace. In return for the soldiers they offered up in service, he would leave his own to defend them from Lannister retaliation, promising for the safe detainment of their Lord at Seaguard and prosperous marriages for his two daughters. The Westerlings would be his.

Though he resented the wait, it should be over soon. He tried to think positively. A few more days and he would be hers again.

Even such thoughts were not enough to numb him to the awful silence. As they walked through the woods, the sea at their backs, he spared the odd glance towards Talisa. She paid him no mind. After the third time, she huffed. "What is it, Your Grace?"

He faltered. "I— Nothing, my lady." Then, frowning, he mustered up his courage. She had nothing over him, no right to make him so insecure. "Why do you not like me?" he demanded.

Not looking his way, one of her brows arched. "I like you well enough."

"'Well enough' is not 'well'. Have I done something to offend you?"

She pursed her lips and muttered, "Not exactly."

"Then what 'exactly' have I done?" He was not angry, more so exasperated. "I know you do not approve of the war. Surely today's negotiations are in keeping with your beliefs?"

Scoffing, she finally looked straight at him. Her expression could only be described as withering. "By agreeing to move your pawns and build your host?"

"By agreeing to a peace," he countered without hesitation. It seemed ridiculous that he even had to explain himself. "I don't understand you. I try to further our victory through non-violent means and it still isn't good enough for you. Winning this war is the only option. Our enemy will torch the North before they risk another rebellion."

"You mean your enemy? They are not mine."

Robb stopped abruptly. Turning, he met her glare with astonishment, though it soon morphed into frustration. "I see. So I gather they were not your enemy when they ambushed you on the way to Oxcross and killed your companions? Not your enemy when they murdered Defne? When they tried to kidnap my wife — your friend? What were they then?" At her speechlessness, he proceeded, "I have no qualms with your aversion to violence. In fact, I defended you countless times when my lords criticised your healing of Lannister soldiers. That is all well and good... but I will not have you judge me for doing what I must."

And yet, still, she scoffed. "'What you must'. Of course you see it that way."

The rest of his men were too close behind. He could not be seen arguing with her like this. Sighing, he fought to keep his temper at bay, steadying his voice. His eyes closed for a moment of clarity before he met her unforgiving stare. "Do you know what started this war?"

"The King had your father executed for treason," she replied with a simple shrug. There was pity in her words, but not enough to shake her unwavering dislike for him.

"It started long before that." At the sight of her furrowed brow, he reluctantly explained, "King Robert and his family visited us — well over a year ago, now. I was with Aryadne at the time, we had just returned from a hunting trip, and she noticed a direwolf pup by the gates. We followed it to the foot of the Broken Tower, where my brother lay in a pool of his own blood, his legs shattered by the fall. Bran was only ten years old." The last part he added in a choked whisper. Even after all this time, the thought of it made him ill. "He survived, but he shall never walk again. And do you know what happened?"