✅️ The Last Velaryon - Robb Stark

57 - The Chapter is Closed

The chill of the Northern air was a constant presence, a brisk, honest whisper against the stone walls of Winterfell, but it no longer bit with the sharp edge of war. These days, it felt like a familiar embrace, a part of the quiet, enduring rhythm that had settled over our lives. I watched Cadenza, a bundle of warmth and coos in Robb’s strong arms, her tiny hands reaching for the silver wolf’s head brooch pinned to his tunic. Her laughter, a bubbling symphony, was the truest sound of peace I had ever known.

“She has your eyes, my love,” Robb murmured, his gaze soft as he watched our daughter, then lifted to meet mine. “And your spirit, I think. She fights the swaddling blankets with a Velaryon’s fury.”

I smiled, a genuine, unburdened curve of my lips. “And her father’s stubbornness. She refused her morning milk until she’d had a proper look at the snow outside.”

We were in the solar, a small, sun-dappled room overlooking the training yard. Outside, a gentle layer of fresh powder dusted the grounds, turning the Stark stronghold into a fairytale drawing. Sansa, ever elegant, sat by the hearth, her fingers busy with embroidery, a Stark wolf meticulously stitched in grey thread against white linen. She was no longer the naive girl who dreamt of princes; the hardness she’d acquired was a formidable shield, but beneath it, I recognized the deep, abiding love for family that had always been her truest strength.

Arya, restless even in peace, was practicing with a blunted wooden sword in the yard below, her swift, agile movements a blur. From time to time, I’d hear the distinctive thwack of wood on wood, followed by a triumphant yell from her, or an exasperated groan from the master-at-arms. Childish friends we may have been, but it was in these quiet years that our bond had truly deepened, forged in shared trauma and a fierce loyalty to our fractured house.

“She’ll be a formidable woman, won’t she?” Sansa remarked, without looking up from her work, a hint of admiration in her voice as Arya’s shouts reached us. “Like a miniature wildling queen.” 

“Only if she learns to sit still for more than five minutes,” I teased gently, “which seems highly unlikely, given her aunt’s disposition.” 

A chuckle rumbled from the doorway. Tyrion Lannister, ever the unexpected fixture in our lives, stood there, a wry grin on his face. Beside him, Chezney, my best friend, was adjusting the collar of his doublet, her movements affectionate and familiar. She was a constant, solid presence, her calm demeanor a balm to my often-storm-tossed soul.

“Ah, the Young Wolf playing nursemaid,” Tyrion quipped, raising a brow. “A sight for sore eyes, indeed. And a welcome change from swinging a sword or commanding armies, I imagine.”

Robb merely grunted, a fond smile playing on his lips as he swayed Cadenza gently. “Some battles are won with patience, Lannister. And a clean nappy.” 

Chezney moved to my side, slipping an arm around my waist. “Don’t let him fool you, Haelesa. He secretly enjoys every moment. He’s already planning her first hunt, I heard.”

“Only after her first proper lesson in the history of the North,” Robb countered, finally laying Cadenza in her cradle, where she immediately began to bat at a dangling mobile. “A true Stark must know her lineage.”

“And a true Velaryon her tides and ships,” I added, settling into the armchair beside Chezney. “She’ll know both, for she is a Queen in the Making.” My gaze lingered on Robb, the ease in his posture, the lack of tension in his shoulders that had once been permanently hunched with the weight of command. It was a precious thing, this tranquility, purchased at a terrible cost, but cherished nonetheless.