The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB -XIV

ROBB COULDN'T BREATHE. With every passing day, he watched Aryadne's belly grow and the baby with it. Their son would be there soon. Though he had not been in battle for some time, his nightmares were unrelenting.

It had been almost a month since their fight. First, he had hoped that the news of a Lannister victory in the battle against her uncle would comfort her. Even after he apologised, however, something had changed between them. She was quiet, distant. They did not talk as they used to. To cope, he doubled down on his plans for the war. They were close to something, he could feel it.

It was only these moments in which he could find peace. His wife, who had only grown more and more beautiful with child, was fast asleep beside him. The baby would be coming soon. Her bump had grown so much so that she could barely walk. Robb almost wished that she would complain more. He was a witness. He was forced to merely watch as she carried their son. It was the one of the biggest moments in his life and he was powerless. But now, curled up beside her, a hand on her belly and his head resting just above it, he was at peace.

Young Eddard was strong. His kicks were perfect proof of that. Even in her sleep, Aryadne's pale, puffy face contorted with discomfort. Their son was restless in the mornings. When whispered pleads did nothing, it became clear that he would need to try harder, unless he wanted her to wake. She needed her sleep. Her headaches had been getting worse.

Shifting closer, he kissed the linen-clad bulge of her stomach. There was a song he knew. It was one his mother had sung to him as a child. Though it pained him to resent her so, the song had become a way of keeping a part of her.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
Jenny would dance with her ghosts.
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,
And the ones who had loved her the most."

His voice was gruff and shook on the higher notes. He was no good. And yet, the whispered melody brought an instant stop to his son's kicking. An anxious glance at his wife's face assured him that he had succeeded.

"The ones who'd been gone for so very long,
She couldn't remember their names.
They spun her around on the damp old stone,
Spun away all her sorrow and pain.
And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave."

Sometimes, Robb liked to daydream. He would imagine that the tent was his room in Winterfell, that he and Aryadne were still married there. He would play through conversations with his father and mother, sparring with Jon, horse riding with Bran. Their voices came easily to him — the youngest children bickering, Sansa giggling with her friends, him and his brother laughing. There had been so much joy before. And, oh, what joy there would be when the baby came. Father would be so proud. Sansa and Mother would coddle him, crooning and obsessing over his little smile and his pitch black curls. Jon would insist on carrying him everywhere, Bran would sneak him treats. Arya and Rickon would hate him at first, then they would revel in all the games they could teach him.

Every night when she was asleep, he would tell Eddard stories. When it became too painful, or he started to forget, he would sing. That was all he did now. That same song. Repetition was the key to calming his nerves.

His resting place was lost with a sudden gasp. Aryadne thrashed for a moment, pushing herself upright, eyes wide, hands clutching to her stomach. Her breathing was too fast. Panicked, he wasted no time. A hand rested on her shoulder. Once their eyes met, he inhaled deeply, prompting her to do the same. "You're all right," he consoled. It had become a mantra by this point, well-rehearsed. Nightmares were commonplace there. "You're all right. You're here. I've got you, Love."