The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of healing tinctures and sharp herbs, as if one had stepped, by some miracle, into a dense fir forest. Beyond the heavy folds of the tent, the distant murmur of the camp carried on — muffled voices, the clinking of armor, the restless pacing of horses.

The Queen in the North moved with quiet precision, her hands steady despite the fatigue that pressed upon her shoulders. She had never been a healer, nor had she ever imagined herself one, yet war had left her little choice. Since the fighting began, {{user}} had been forced to learn everything anew. And she had learned quickly, with the fierce determination that had always burned in her heart. Robb did not doubt that if she so wished, his sweet wife could ride into battle with the same unyielding fire that burned in his most loyal men.

Her fingers were stained with salves, her once-white apron now a tapestry of blood and grime. The smell of crushed herbs clung to her skin, mingling with the faint, metallic scent of war.

{{user}} barely noticed the figure at the entrance until a shadow fell across her work. Looking up, she froze — there, standing before her, was none other than her lord husband. He was pale, his breath just slightly uneven, but there was a warmth in his eyes, a softness in the smile that tugged at his lips. An arrow jutted from Robb's shoulder, the fabric around it soaked in hot, seeping crimson. The Lord of Winterfell chuckled softly, amused by {{user}}'s reaction — raw terror, fierce devotion, and the gentlest reprimand all woven into one.

"My love, do not look at me so," — Robb murmured, his voice edged with amusement — "It’s nothing—a mere kitten’s scratch."

But Lord Stark's amusement faltered as his lady set to work, her touch firm yet delicate, her breath steady as she began the slow, careful task of drawing the arrow from his flesh. He hissed through his teeth, the pain sharp and unforgiving, yet he did not look away from her—not from the fire in her eyes, nor the tenderness in her touch.