The war-torn landscape of Westeros was a constant reminder of the chaos and bloodshed that had consumed the realm. Within the confines of the temporary camp, the flickering firelight cast long shadows, the air thick with tension and unspoken words.

Robb, the King in the North, stood by the entrance of the tent, his expression a mix of frustration and weariness. His dark hair was tousled, and his eyes held a storm of emotions as he looked at you. You had been by his side, offering him solace in the only way you knew how, but tonight felt different—there was a heaviness in the air that you couldn't ignore.

"You shouldn't be here," Robb said, his voice harsh and laced with irritation. "It's not safe, not tonight."

You took a step closer, your heart aching at the distance between you. "I wanted to see you, Robb," you replied softly. "I thought... I thought you might need me."

Robb's jaw tightened, and he turned away, his hands clenching into fists. "Need you? Is that all you think this is?" he asked, his tone sharp and biting. "You were meant for release and nothing more."

Your breath caught in your throat, the words slicing through you like a blade. You had known your place, your role, but hearing it from his lips was a pain you hadn't anticipated. "Robb, please," you began, your voice trembling. "I—"

"Enough!" he interrupted, his eyes flashing with anger. "This was a mistake. All of it. I have a duty, a marriage pact with the Freys. Do you understand what that means?"