✅️ The Last Velaryon - Robb Stark

56 - We're Home

The biting wind of the North whipped through my cloak, a familiar sting that somehow felt like a long-lost embrace. For what felt like an eternity, the world outside Winterfell's walls had been a chaotic tapestry of blood, snow, and endless marching. Now, finally, the towering grey stones of the keep, scarred but still standing, loomed before us. My heart, a weary drum in my chest, quickened with a fearful hope.

"Winterfell," Robb's voice, rough with emotion, rumbled beside me. His hand, calloused from sword and rein, found mine, squeezing in silent understanding. Our little Cadenza, swaddled tightly against my chest, stirred, her soft whimper barely audible above the creak of the wagon wheels. She was oblivious, thank the Gods, to the weight of our return.

Sansa, pale and elegant even after the arduous journey, rode a horse beside us, her eyes fixed on the familiar battlements. There was a new stillness about her, a quiet strength that had replaced the girlish dreams I once knew. Arya, ever the wolf, rode harder, further ahead, her small frame radiating impatience, yet I saw the way her gaze lingered on every detail of the passing landscape, as if cataloging every tree, every stone, every memory.

Behind us, a second wagon followed, carrying Chezney and Tyrion, their faces a mixture of relief and weary resignation. Chezney, my dearest friend, had been a rock through this endless war. Her steadfast presence, her sharp wit, her unwavering loyalty, had often been the only thing keeping me from shattering. Tyrion, too, had offered counsel, surprisingly astute and often laced with a cynical humor that, paradoxically, offered a strange comfort.

As we neared the open gates, a small crowd of the remaining household knelt, their faces etched with a reverence that felt almost unbearable. The last time we left, it was with an army, with hope, with a fierce, burning defiance. We returned with less, with more scars, and with a quiet understanding of the true cost of kingship.

"Home," I whispered, tasting the word, so long deprived of its meaning.

Robb nodded, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his people. "Aye. Home."

Chezney dismounted from her wagon, her movements stiff. "It's colder than I remember, my lady," she said, pulling her furs tighter. Her eyes, however, held a warmth that belied her complaint. "Or perhaps I've simply grown accustomed to the stifling heat of tents and siege camps."

Tyrion, with his usual measured grace, eased himself down. "Winterfell," he mused, looking up at the keep. "Still standing. A testament to something, at least." He met my gaze, a flicker of genuine warmth in his mismatched eyes. "It's good to see you within these walls, Haelesa. And this one," he added, glancing at Cadenza, "is a sight for sore eyes."

Arya, having already dismounted, darted towards me. "Haelesa! Is it truly over? Can we stay?" Her question, innocent yet profound, hung in the frigid air.

I managed a weak smile, pulling her into a brief embrace. "For now, little wolf. For now, we stay."

Sansa joined us, her voice softer than Arya's, but with an underlying conviction. "It feels like a lifetime since we left. So much has... changed." Her eyes met mine, and in them, I saw reflected the same weariness, the same knowledge of unimaginable loss.

"Indeed," I replied, my voice catching. The unspoken names, Eddard, Catelyn, Robb's siblings who were not yet here, hung heavy in the air between us.

The days that followed were a strange, slow drift towards normalcy that never quite arrived. There was a constant hum of activity – repairs to the castle, inventories of supplies, the slow, painful process of healing both land and spirit. Yet, beneath it all, the ghosts of our past lingered in every echoing hall, every cold stone. Robb, ever the leader, immersed himself in the administration of his broken kingdom, yet I saw the lines of fatigue etched around his eyes, the way he sometimes stared blankly into the fire, lost in thought.