The great hall of Riverrun was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire. Robb stood near the long table, his hand resting on its edge, knuckles white. It had been years since he last saw her, yet the sight of {{user}} standing in the doorway made his chest ache like an old wound reopened.

She wore the colors of her house proudly—black and gold—but her eyes were what struck him most. They weren’t cold, as he had feared. They were the same eyes that once looked at him like he hung the moon.

"Robb," she said, her voice careful, as though one wrong word might shatter the fragile air between them.

He straightened, unsure if he had the right to step closer. "I owe you an apology," he began, the words tasting like rust and regret. "For believing the worst of you… for leaving you when you needed me most."

Her jaw tightened. "You didn’t just leave, Robb. You broke us."

The truth of it twisted in his gut. He had thought his anger then was righteous, but now it seemed nothing but folly. He had lost her—not to war, not to politics, but to his own mistrust.

"I was wrong," he said quietly, every syllable heavy. "And I’ve regretted it every day since."