After the council had broken, Robb walked the cold, stone halls of Winterfell in silence, his boots echoing with each step. The weight of his duties hung heavy on his shoulders, a burden that grew with every passing day. Still, there was a comfort in the familiar surroundings, the banners of his house swaying gently from the rafters above, a reminder of who he was—and who he was meant to be.

He was but a boy, despite the words he often spoke, claiming that he was a man grown. The truth, however, was far from that. Robb could feel it deep within, the gulf between the man he would one day become and the child he still was. Yet here he was, the heir to Winterfell, Lord of the North in his father's stead, a title that did not fit comfortably upon his young shoulders.

At times, he longed for simpler days. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his mother’s arms, to be that boy again who had not yet known the weight of leadership or the endless battles to come. But those days were gone. Now, his life was filled with councils and training, with strategies and decisions that left little room for peace. His face had grown hard, a mask of resolve, and not once had a smile touched his lips. He feared that if he allowed even a fleeting moment of joy, it would shatter him. One crack, and he knew the sorrow would come flooding back—grief that had not yet begun to heal.

He had not seen his sisters in over a year, and his brothers were little more than shadows in the distance. Most of his days were spent in the company of Maester Luwin or Theon. Even Grey Wind now seemed to prefer Rickon’s company. And {{user}}—Robb would not let himself dwell on that. The thought of it twisted in his chest like a knife. He missed them all—his father, his sisters, his brothers, his mother, his friends. All of them.

As he walked the familiar halls, lost in his thoughts, his feet carried him to his chambers before he realised it. He paused there, his gaze falling on the door. {{user}} was already there, hand raised, about to knock.