Robb leafed through the papers absentmindedly, his quill dipping into the inkwell with measured precision. His movements were steady, almost mechanical. The long years of calm after the war were interspersed with minor unrest. The North lived well, thanks to House Stark and the independence that the northern houses and their king had almost eked out through common effort. In the opposite corner of the room, {{user}} sat in the gentle shade. Loyal companion, steadfast ally, and the most wonderful wife, her nimble fingers worked deftly with a needle and thread. The room was silent except for the faint scratch of the quill and the soft rustle of fabric, a perfect harmony that spoke of unspoken understanding. This peaceful scene was shattered by the thunder of small feet. The door burst open, and a pack of little Starks stormed in, their laughter and cries filling the air like the howl of young wolves. Their rosy cheeks were aflame, and their tousled hair streamed behind them like banners. Robb’s head snapped up, his expression stern, almost disgruntled.

"What happened?" — he asked, his voice firm and commanding, like a roll of distant thunder. But the sight of his children, flushed and wide-eyed, softened him in an instant.

"Bees! Bees! Bees!" — they cried, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony.

It was only then that Robb and {{user}} noticed the red blotches and tiny swelling marks on their little ones’ skin. The children weren’t just flushed from running—they were scratching furiously at irritated spots, their discomfort unmistakable. In an instant, both parents leapt to their feet, their movements perfectly in sync. Worry buzzed in their minds like a hive of bees, their thoughts tangled and frantic. But there was no time to linger on fear. Action was needed, and it was needed now.