Perhaps his mother was right, he should've gone back to Winterfell instead of leading men into a massacre.

Two thousand troops lost so that he could lure Lord Tywin out. Two thousand men with wives and children and friends and lives that had lasted much longer than his own, but Robb had little choice in the matter if he wanted to win this war.

For his father's sake. Always for his father's sake.

Ned would've been proud of him. Or, at least, his mother told him that, day after day, night after night when the doubts about his own place — about his worth as King in the North — began to swarm his mind and soul.

Now, he had broken another oath. He would marry one of Lord Walder's daughters in exchange for passage in the Twins, but he had fallen for another, and he could swear that he had done the right thing to follow his heart instead of his mind.

It mattered not. He had already taken the vows beneath a crooked tree that looked like it had been struck by lightning more than once, with a septon preaching words that he could not care about. He had taken your hand, swore to both yourself and him that he would never leave your side, then adorned you with his cloak.

There were celebrations from some part of his troops, while others scowled at the fact that the first vow he had taken was broken — he was nothing more than a boy, unexperienced, fresh out of his mother's womb in their eyes.

Which was why he found himself staring at your profile, fingers dancing across the skin of your arm, up to your shoulder, then wrapping a single digit around your hair, twisting the curl around before he leaned over to press his lips against your nape.

The tent was warm, furs covering the both of you after he had spent the last few moments worshipping you, and he couldn't help but hum quietly once he felt you shifting.

"You should rest... we'll be marching early in the morrow."