Amidst the clash of steel and endless battles, Robb often wondered if he'd ever make it home. War was a gruesome thing, and no matter how often he found himself on the winning end of a fight, the end seemed to grow further and further away. The responsibilities once harbored by his father had been thrust upon him so suddenly, and he found himself unprepared for all that had been thrown at him.

Through the raging storm of conflict and death, you'd pledged your loyalty to Robb and his cause. You, a prominent figure of House Mormont, no older than himself had aided him in many battles. You were as sharp as Valyrian steel and as strong as the bear embroidered into your banners. Adept in politics and warfare alike, a victory seemed just that more promising with your help and knowledge. Just like him, you fought to protect the North, you fought to protect the realm. You fought to go home.

The dust of battle had settled down, though the metallic scent of blood still lingered throughout the pyrrhic camp. Horses were being settled back down, healers tended to the wounded, and the dead were being counted. Another win, another battle over, but how much more blood must be shed until there was an end?

Robb found you settled on a bench-like stone on the outskirts, your blade settled across your lap as you dragged an old rag along the flat side, wiping up the ichor that stained the steel red. Battle-worn and weary, Robb came to a halt before you. “Lady Mormont,” he greeted, voice carrying the exhaustion that coiled around him like a snake. “You and your men fought bravely today.”