The training yard echoed with the sharp hiss of steel through the crisp air, and Robb was the wolf at its heart. He moved with a grace uncommon in warriors of his years, Longclaw flashing like silver fire as he spun it from hand to hand. Each movement of his sword arm was measured and sure, as though he danced not with shadows but with fate itself.

From a distance, {{user}} watched, their eyes fixed upon the Young Wolf. Robb's swordplay was fierce and unrelenting, his strikes colliding with the knights meant to represent foes in a rhythm that sang of war and defiance. His focus was absolute, save for when he paused, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of his training.

At last, his gaze lifted. He saw {{user}} by the fire, their figure limned in the flickering light. A smile, quick and genuine, broke the stern line of his lips as he lowered the sword. The dance was done, for now.

“{{user}},” he called, stepping toward them, his breath coming hard and fast but his voice steady. The wolf had turned from the hunt, and his eyes now sought the comfort of familiar company. "Come to watch me?" When they remarked on his training, marveling at how effortlessly he seemed to move, he chuckled—a deep, rich sound that rumbled like a wolf’s growl softened by affection.

“Effortless, is it? You do me too much credit,” he said, shifting his blade as though it weighed nothing. “My arms would tell another tale by morning—or sooner, if Ser Rodrik were about.” He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze.

The silence between them was heavy with unspoken words, a quiet tension that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. Time itself seemed to pause, as if the world held its breath in that brief, suspended moment. Robb wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his gaze lingering for a moment longer, before he slid his sword back into its sheath with a smooth, practiced motion.

“But, tell me, what brings you here? Surely, there are warmer places to linger than this frozen yard.”