✅️ The Last Velaryon - Robb Stark

53 - The Iron Throne War pt 4

The air in the camp was thick with anticipation, heavy as a summer storm cloud about to burst. Each breath I took felt like a lead weight in my chest. We were waiting, all of us – Robb, Tyrion, Chezney, and I – for the sound that would signal the end of this particular chapter of the war: the surrender bells of King's Landing. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, held the key to that sound, and our soldiers held him.

My fingers worried the fabric of my simple wool dress. It wasn't the silks and velvets I was accustomed to back on Driftmark, but practicality was a virtue in times like these. Marriage to Robb had brought many changes, not least of which was a wardrobe more suited to the muddy fields of the Riverlands than the sun-drenched shores of my childhood home.

Robb stood by the war table, his expression a mask of grim determination. He hadn't slept properly in days, fueled by strategy sessions and the relentless pressure of command. The weight of the North, of his family, of all those who had pledged their loyalty to him, rested squarely on his young shoulders. I longed to ease that burden, to offer him some solace, but knew words were hollow against the backdrop of war.

Tyrion paced restlessly, his sharp eyes darting around the tent. He was a caged lion, all nervous energy and unspoken thoughts. His usual witty banter was subdued, replaced by a quiet unease that mirrored my own. Next to him, Chezney sat calmly stitching a tapestry, her nimble fingers a blur of motion. The vibrant colors of the thread were a stark contrast to the drab surroundings, a small act of defiance against the encroaching darkness of war.

Chezney, dear Chezney. My rock, my confidante. I had known her for years, even before she became Tyrion's wife. Her presence in this foreign land was a comfort, a reminder of laughter and shared secrets amidst the grim realities of our lives.

"Chezney," I said softly, breaking the heavy silence. "Tell us a story. Anything. Just... something to lighten the mood."

She glanced up, her eyes holding a depth of understanding that only a true friend could possess. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Very well, Haelesa. How about the tale of the Dornishman's wife?"

Her voice, usually bright and lilting, was subdued, but the familiar rhythm of the story began to weave its spell. We all knew the tale, of course, but the comfort of ritual, of shared history, was a balm to our frayed nerves. As she spoke of passion and betrayal in the sunny hills of Dorne, I found myself momentarily transported away from the mud and blood of the Riverlands.

Suddenly, a small sound pierced through the quiet hum of Chezney's voice – a rustle in the canvas behind us. Robb's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. Tyrion ceased his pacing, his gaze hardening with a Lannister wariness.

Before anyone could react, a figure emerged from the shadows, small and wiry, with a shock of tangled, dark hair cut to look like they were a boy. My heart leaped into my throat. It couldn't be...

"Arya?" Robb breathed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and dawning recognition.

It was her. Arya Stark, his little sister, presumed lost after the chaos in King's Landing. She was thinner, harder, than I remembered her from Winterfell, but there was no mistaking the fierce glint in her grey eyes. She was a wolf cub, grown wild and wary. Arya's eyes darted around the tent, taking in the scene with a quick, assessing glance. She seemed startled to see Tyrion and Chezney, but her gaze lingered longest on her brother.