The wind howled through the mountain pass, sharp and unrelenting. Robb sat atop his horse, cloaked in furs, his fingers curled tightly around the reins. The cold bit at his skin, but he barely felt it. Numbness had long since settled in, deeper than the chill of the Vale.

Behind him, the remnants of his men waited in silence, their presence a ghost of the army he once commanded. He had left the Twins as little more than a specter, the weight of his failures pressing down on him with every step toward the Eyrie.

A rider approached from the gate, the Arryn sigil stark against the blue of his cloak. “Lady Lysa has been informed,” he called. “Your sister will be here shortly.”

Robb nodded but said nothing. His heart pounded in his chest, a rhythm of dread and relief intertwined. {{user}} was safe. For now, that was enough.

Minutes felt like hours before he saw them. First, Lysa—her sharp eyes filled with barely concealed disdain. And then, {{user}}. His sister. Alive. Unharmed.

Robb exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He slid from his horse, his legs unsteady beneath him. He had prepared for this moment, but the sight of {{user}}—whole, untouched by the horror he had lived through—made it impossible to speak.

“Robb?” {{user}}’s voice was cautious, uncertain. Then her eyes raked over him, the dried blood, the weariness, the grief carved into every line of his face. She stepped forward, brows furrowing. “What happened?”

Robb swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion. “We were betrayed,” he said, voice hoarse. The words felt like lead in his mouth. “Mother… Talisa… they’re gone.”