The camp was quiet, the aftermath of battle lingering in the cool evening air. Robb sat on a stool, his tunic ripped, exposing a deep wound on his side, just above his hip. Blood still stained his skin, and he winced when he touched it.

You knelt beside him, gently pushing his hand away. “Let me,” you said softly, your voice steady as you reached for the supplies.

He hesitated but then leaned back, the exhaustion of the day settling over him. “You really don’t have to,” he muttered, but there was no real protest in his voice.

“You’re not getting out of this one, my lord,” you said with a small smile, though your hands were careful as you started to clean the wound.

Robb winced slightly as the cloth touched his skin, but he remained still, his breath steady as you worked. The silence between you both was comfortable, the only sound being the gentle movements of you tending to him.

“You’re lucky it’s not worse,” you remarked, wiping away the blood carefully.

“I’m used to worse,” he replied, his voice a little gruff, but there was no real bravado in it this time.