He stops at the threshold, eyes flicking to you instantly—but your back is rigid, your posture perfect, and you do not greet him. You don’t even glance his way.

He swallows hard, removing his cloak slowly, deliberately, as though buying time to find the right words—words you used to welcome so easily.

“…You’ve not spoken to me in two days,” he says quietly, voice roughened by the cold and the weight of things unsaid.

No reply. Only the faint hiss of wood shifting in the brazier. You don’t even flinch.

He steps closer, uncertain, like a man crossing ice that may break beneath him.

“I suppose I deserve that.” A pause. His jaw clenches. “No—I know I do.”

He sits, not across from you, but beside you. Not close enough to touch. Not anymore. His voice softens—not as a king, but as a boy who once looked at you like you were his future.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me. Seven help me, I never meant to hurt you like this.”

Still no reply. You focus on your embroidery like it’s the only thing keeping your hands from trembling.

Robb looks down, voice barely above a whisper now.

“I love her. I won't lie to you about that. She was kind when the rest of the world was falling apart. I made a vow, and I meant it.”

He draws in a sharp breath, like speaking the truth costs him something every time.

“But I didn’t forget you. I couldn’t. Even now—you’re quiet, and I feel it more than any blade. And I wonder…”

He finally looks at you, though you still won’t meet his eyes.

“…Do you ever think of what we almost were?”