The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 12

Carlisle Umber

One thing has become abundantly clear during my time with Rickon Stark: I preferred him when he didn't speak.

"I just don't understand how you got lost," Rickon says for what feels like the fifth time as we gather sticks for the fire. The forest is growing darker, shadows stretching across the ground as the sun sinks behind the trees.

I roll my eyes, trying to keep my frustration in check. "We're just a bit further south than I planned. It's not a big deal. We'll be back on track soon."

Rickon's brow furrows in concern. "You're not lying to me, are you?" He looks at me, his young face serious.

I sigh, shaking my head as we start to walk back toward our small campsite. "Lying about what?"

"About helping me. If you're planning to hand me over to the king or something, you should just tell me now," Rickon says, his voice steady but with an edge of worry.

I stop and drop the sticks on the ground. Turning to face him, I try to keep my tone reassuring. "Rickon, I'm not lying to you. I'm here to help, not to turn you in. We're just a bit lost, that's all."

Rickon studies me for a moment, then nods slowly, though his apprehension doesn't entirely vanish. We both fall silent as he sits down and I gather the firewood to start a fire, the crackling of the leaves underfoot the only sound between us. The growing darkness around us seems to emphasize the uneasy quiet, but I can see that Rickon is beginning to trust me, even if it's a tentative trust.

"Can I ask you something?" Rickons voice breaks the stillness, curious and almost hesitant as I continue preparing the fire.

I glance over my shoulder with a wry smile, already used to his constant questions. "Why not? You've been quite the chatterbox this whole trip."

Rickon chuckles softly at that, though there's a weight to his tone that suggests something more serious is on his mind. As I work to coax the fire into life, I hear him moving around getting comfortable, the rustle of his cloak and the shifting of sticks underfoot.

His voice returns, quieter now, more thoughtful. "What was Robb like the last time you saw him?"

I momentarily freeze my movements, staring into the flickering flames I've created as memories flood back to me. I hadn't expected him to ask about Robb, since he hasn't asked about him at all yet. But I suppose it's only natural—Robb was his brother, after all.

With a sigh, I lean back on my heels, my gaze distant as I think back to that night, the last night I ever saw Robb Stark. It was the night of his and Aida's wedding, a brief moment of joy amidst the chaos of the war.

"Happy," I say softly, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. "He'd just gotten married to Aida, and for that brief moment, they were truly happy." I can still see it clearly in my mind—the way Robb had smiled at her, the way Aida's eyes had shone with love as they exchanged their vows beneath the open sky. "It was a beautiful ceremony. I wish you all could have been there to see it."

I pause for a moment, the firelight dancing in my eyes as I recall that fleeting night of peace. It hadn't been anything grand or elaborate—how could it be, in the middle of a war? We'd been on the move constantly, camping wherever we could find shelter, and the wedding itself had taken place in a clearing not far from our camp. There were no grand decorations, no elegant dresses, and just no elegance at all really. But it had been perfect in its simplicity, a moment of love and hope in a time when both were scarce.

"I told them I expected a niece or nephew by the next time I saw them," I add with a chuckle, though the sound is tinged with sorrow now. "I guess I should've been wishing for other things."