The Way Of Winter | Robb Stark

ROBB - XV

TW: Childbirth (fairly graphic, mentions of blood, etc.)

—

ROBB'S MIND WAS ELSEWHERE. It was with his wife and unborn son, worrying over their long journey. He could not think of anything for long without meandering back to them. He wanted to be there. He wanted to help. Instead, he was in the war tent, preparing for the battle to come.

"So, we attack from the woods northeast of Casterly Rock..." he began, hands braced against the map table, brow deeply furrowed.

A nudge came to his side, followed by a whisper in his ear. "Golden Tooth, Your Grace."

His attention flitted over to the Greatjon. Surely that was what he had said. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Um... yes. Northeast of Golden Tooth. We have word that there are over two hundred soldiers marching along the main road, heading for Casterly Rock."

"Are you certain this is a good idea?" Bolton enquired, unwavering eyes set on him.

The challenge grated on him. "Is there anything you'd like to say, Roose? Would you like to take over?"

He was met with silence. The man swallowed thickly and lowered his head. "No, Your Grace."

Grimacing, he avoided the heaviness of attention on him, rubbing his stubbled face. "Sorry. That wasn't— I just need..."

"P'rhaps a recess is needed, Your Grace," the Greatjon said — though it was more of an order than a suggestion. With a sharp look, he dismissed the council. They left, daring only to mumble among themselves when they thought themselves out of earshot. Robb didn't bother to listen to them anyway. His focus had fallen to the black kerchief tied to his belt. The once-silvery stitches had dulled to a dreary grey. It wasn't enough to console him anymore. When she was just a dream, it comforted him, but now that he had her, only her company could sate his longing. The clamping of a large hand on his shoulder took him from his thoughts. "She's a tough one, she'll be all right."

"Can you promise that?"

After a hesitation, he let out a gruff sigh. "No... but if she's anything like her father, she won't go down easy. The boy, too. He's from Stark and Baratheon stock. That's promise enough."

Still, Robb could not shake the terrible feeling that had come over him. It was cold and deep. It ran in rivers up his spine, until the nape of his neck prickled. His hand moved back to rub the tension away. "I should be with her," he muttered.

"And what would you do?"

The question baffled him. Brow furrowing, he looked up, meeting the steely gaze of his father's old friend. "What?"

The man shrugged his shoulders, so broad that the rounded plates that armoured them looked more like boulders. He leant across the table to pour out two cups of ale, handing one off to Robb. It was emptied and refilled again before he could get a word out. "What would you do if you were there? You can't bear the boy yourself, you've done your part. There's a reason men don't enter the chamber, it's not for us. We can't do anything. Your job is here with your army. Your son will be born in a few weeks, safe under the care of your great-grandsire. Until then, be a father to them."

It sounded like something his father would have said. The memory of him hurt more now than it had in a long while. Once again, Robb felt aimless. Unguided. He winced and looked to his advisor. "You think this battle's a bad idea, don't you?"

His grey moustache turned up along with his lips. "Absolutely."

"So do I," he confessed with a low chuckle. "Aryadne thought it would improve morale. I hoped so, too, but we are tired. It doesn't matter that we outnumber him, not even that we'd win. The casualties, the risks... they aren't worth it."