The violent shudder of the rickety, blood stained cart awoke him. For a moment, the whistling of the ignorant driver and the lush green Ironwood trees disorientated him, the pain soaring through his body from his legs making his brain unable to process any quick thoughts.

Yet slowly, as the cart continued down its Kingsroad path, Rodrik found the voice for his thoughts, seemingly as worn out as he felt. The monotonous buzzing of nearby flies made him feel drowsy from time to time, yet he was determined to remain conscious, to see Ironrath - his home once more. His family - those left anyway - must believe him dead; the thought scarred Rodrik more than any injury would, for there was one face remaining at home that he never dared would have to experience such a poisonous idea. You, [Y/N], his dear wife.

For leagues, he filled his mind with the happier, freer days where the two of you were able to just enjoy the company of the other on long walks, through the trees that gave the inspiration for his house's sigil. The smile that adorned your features one the day that the two of you wed - not even six months had passed from that day. So much had happened since then, in such little time.

The memories of such beautiful times made Rodrik smile weakly and gain enough strength to whisper to the driver. Despite Rodrik speaking as loud as he could manage, he was still unheard. He sighed in defeat.

As he did, he noticed the almost familiar body that lay beside him. Curiosity and a dreading feeling had begun to set in. But Rodrik still reached over, grasped the shoulder and pulled the body to face him. The task was difficult, all traces of strength created by the memories of you, now waning as Rodrik gave one more tug onto the shoulder before the deceased man beside him turned and faced him.

As soon as he saw the face, that older, wiser face, he regretted the action that had left him light-headed in exhaustion. For the body lying beside him was that of his father, Gregor.

Shock and horror filled Rodrik's bones, and he couldn't help the weak exclamation of "father!" that left him, taking all of his remaining strength with it. The world around him began to grow hazy; Rodrik's strength was waning again, and as the darkness of unconsciousness consumes him once more, unsure if the wounds he obtained would kill him while in this grasp, the final thoughts that he could muster were of you.

Meanwhile in Ironrath, you had to keep yourself busy; Ethan had been murdered in cold blood, in his own halls by none other than Ramsay Snow. Ryon was gone too, as Lord Whitehill had taken the youngest Forrester son - the one who had unwillingly inherited the title of Lord Forrester too early. You had to stay strong, even if you were still grieving for Rodrik; Talia and her mother had lost so much in such a short time, and Mira was a long way away, serving as a handmaiden to the Tyrell's in Kings Landing. You had to the rock for them, the sturdy foundation of this grieving House.

You had been from House [Y/L/N], and house - though small and not as influential as say, the Starks - your family was renowned for being one of the most stubborn, standing strong in their opinions. So stubborn that the saying of your house had become "Fight For The Future", a sword and loaded bow flying upon the colours. It was something Rodrik had admired, your stubbornness, and it was something that was now preventing his house from falling into the dirt. From falling in the early stages of the coming Winter.

Life had to continue, and while you let the remaining two Forresters in Ironrath grieve, you were adamant that someone with that surname had to take charge; while you were not of that bloodline, the small folk considered you one of their own. They respected and admired you just as much as Gregor, Rodrik or Talia.

Despite the twenty Whitehill soldiers now stationed within the courtyard, Ironrath felt no difference in its ruling. You were fair, an admirable diplomat, and overall were working hard with them to prevent the House from falling. This also meant working hard with the impulsive Lord Royland, and the witty, diplomatic Duncan Tuttle, The two were constantly butting heads, yet you were always directing the attention of their actions towards the house, and away from one another.

Unfortunately. this meant sending Duncan to the Wall to see over the latest order of Ironwood shields for the Night's Watch (as the smith who previously did this job had been slaughtered at the Twins) leaving you with Royland.

While the small folk and the Forresters themselves were fond of you, Royland and you never seemed to get along; he was too irrational, too violent, and had no respect for the diplomatic meaning of daily life. You were always weary of him, and had to prevent yourself from speaking out in protest when Royland was made Sentinel by Ethan (you personally would have picked Duncan)

Due to this position, while Duncan was away, Royland was occupying himself with the well-being of Ironrath, meaning that he was almost preventing yourself from doing anything.

To spite him, and to finally feel useful under Royland's vendetta, you snuck out of bed early one morning, taking over from one of the small folk who was on duty checking any incoming wagons; he had been awake all night and the day before, Royland had extended his watch until midday, while it had previously been until daybreak. Taking his place, with the time a few moments from daybreak, you waited. Hours passed, and the only carts that arrived were deliveries of Ironwood and food from the remaining small folk that lived outside the main walls of Ironrath.

Then all of a sudden, the world appeared to hold its breath as another, slightly older cart passed through the gates. It appeared empty from where you were sitting, but from the blood stains on the wheels, and the numerous flies that surrounded whatever was placed in the back of the cart, you assumed, with a dropping heart that this was the cart returning the fallen from the Twins.

Stepping forward, you mentally prepared yourself for what you may be about to find.

Rodrik woke once more, to the sound of a familiar voice calling "Stop right there!" and the wagon finally stopping. Opening his eyes, the first thing he realised that he was finally home. Secondly, he noticed that you were standing nearby, and you were there. So close to him, yet so far. A quiet "I'm home" passed through his lips.

Self-doubt then filled his mind. Would you want to stay with him? He could feel some sort of wounds upon the right side of his face; he must look hideous, almost terrifying.

Yet as he was beginning to contemplate the idea, he overheard the man driving the wagon. He was getting mouthy, but you were able to hold your ground. The verbal discussion carried on for a moment more, until the untimely arrival of Ser Royland.

The exclamation of the driver made Rodrik try to lift his broken body higher, to see if it was true. Rodrik was just as weary of Royland as you were, and knowing his actions better than you did, Rodrik was aware that he had little time before something would be said to the driver, and ultimately lead to him driving the cart away.

Something needed to be done, and nobody knew that he was still alive. Looking at his surroundings as quickly as he could manage, Rodrik noticed a loose board sticking up - the nail and come loose and the wood warped over time - and with little to no use of his legs, Rodrik knew that using it to haul himself out of the cart was the only way.

Eventually, the inenvitable happened, and the man driving the cart began to turn away. Rodrik knew he had to act fast, or he'd lose everything he loves.

Leaning over, he gripped the wood harshly, ignoring the stinging from the splinters that ad dug into his bare, scarred hands, and pulled his weight up. Finally, with one last heave, a groan of pain escaping his mouth as he had to push with his injured legs, but he managed to push enough of his body weight over the cart to end up meeting the floor, face down in the dirt.

He heard the cart stop, and the steps of you and Royland begin to grow louder, as you noticed the scuffle happening before you. It took all of his will to keep conscious in the time it took for someone to call to him; Rodrik expected Royland to call, so he was caught off guard when your quieter, more welcome voice that asked who he was.

He couldn't lift his head, so he had no other choice but to try and turn his entire body to see you again.

As soon as he saw the skies once more, he searched for your beautiful face. He could hear you ask his name once again, and he managed to answer you as your eyes locked onto his cooler, cerulean blue eyes.

Rodrik quickly tried to think of something smooth and witty to say to respond to you with, but all that escaped him was groan, before he managed to coerce out the words "It's me, Rodrik."

His strength was waning and Rodrik was slipping out of consciousness once again, but he remained awake long enough to hear your fast approaching footsteps, and to gently feel the soft fabric of your dress that fluttered against his bare skin when you fell to your knees beside him. He felt your hands kindly caress his face, the archer's calluses on your hand further reassuring him that it was indeed you kneeling there.

He heard you shout to Royland, to fetch the Maester, before finally welcoming the inky black that took the light from his eyes. Rodrik caught of glimpse of you [H/C] hair flowing in the morning breeze; before he fully fell back into the void of unconsciousness he could hear you shout for him, calling his name to try and keep him awake.

But the pull was too strong. As much as he so desperately wished, needed to stay awake, he couldn't muster the strength to do so.

As he went under, the sound of you calling his name as the last thing he heard - the voice reassuring one main point:

he was home.