The room was warm, though the air beyond the walls of Winterfell bit with the sharp teeth of the northern cold. Pipes deep within the castle’s stone guts hissed and groaned, carrying heat through the walls, straining to drive the chill from the stones. The hearth roared with life, flames licking hungrily at the logs, casting flickering gold across the chamber.

Robb lay quiet, the warmth of the room sinking into his bones, but it was not the fire nor the pipes that made him feel so. His heart swelled, a heat spreading through him that's become so familiar as he turned his head to look upon them—this pearl of a person beside him. They were warmth itself, more than flesh and blood, more than skin soft beneath his hand. They made him feel alive, made his heart thrum, made his fingertips tingle with every brush against their cheek or shoulder.

In the quiet of the night, as their voices wove gentle stories of the day just passed, his hand would drift. From their cheek to the curve of their neck, lingering, savouring. Inevitably, his fingers would come to rest at their side, tracing idle patterns upon their skin, shapes known only to him. It was a small thing, but it tethered him to the moment, to them, to this fragile warmth that no cold in the North could ever snuff out.

He felt them shift beside him, their movement breaking the quiet. A glimmer of mischief danced in their eyes as they watched him trace those shapes once more. They ask him what he's sketching now, and Robb gave a soft laugh.

“Perhaps I’m plotting my next campaign,” he said, his hand halting mid-doodle, a feigned gravity settling over his features. “Careful, or you’ll find yourself at the vanguard come dawn. A natural commander, you’d have them eating from your hand by midday. And by supper, they’d swear their swords to you, not me.”

“It’s not the worst plan I’ve had,” Robb mused, his hand now resting comfortably on their waist, his thumb idly stroking the soft fabric of their nightclothes. “If it saves me a battle or two, I’ll consider it.”