Skin Deep

"Ow."

That was it. All Robb Stark could muster. Ow. An exclamation of what bordered on pain. An protest against Talisa sewing up the cut across his right cheek. And a feeble attempt at making conversation.

"Don't be a baby," the Volante said. "Besides, it's done."

It was at least an attempt that worked. The breach had been opened up. The Young Wolf stood ready. He-

"Took you long enough."

…botched his chance. The breach was sealed. His jibes were driven away by the arrows of Talisa's glare. And the war of the words continued.

"Well, if that will be all my lord."

"If you want."

"And what do you want?" Talisa asked, still lingering in Robb's tent.

And not only had the Young Wolf's force of words been repulsed from the walls, but the castle's defenders were now mounted and cutting off their retreat. Sighing, Robb turned away from the tent's only other occupant and glanced at the sole candle burning on the desk, illuminating a map of Westeros and the position of armies over it. Looking at the map, it was clear that the forces of the North were pressing their advantage, having won every battle they'd fought in.

And yet, Robb couldn't win the battle against his own wife.

"Robb?"

The Young Wolf kept staring. The candle kept burning.

"Robb!"

He stopped listening. Everything was complicated now, and retreating into the flames was the only comfort. Even at the start of the war things were simple. Rescue his father. Failing that, secure freedom for the North. Be resigned to the knowledge that once the comfort was done, he'd be forced to join Houses Stark and Frey in the sight of gods and Men. Now, less than a year later, he was married to someone who wasn't even of the same continent, the Freys had withdrawn their support, Theon had stabbed him in the back, last he heard he didn't even have a home to return to thanks to the Ironborn, the Kingslayer was gods knew where, and from what he'd heard, Stannis had been routed at the Blackwater. An accomplished military commander who not only had more numbers than the Starks, but had bloody ships as well, not ships that were harrowing the coast he was meant to defend. And with winter coming…actually coming, he-

"Ow!"

And there it was. "Ow" again. Louder than the first time though. The previous "ow" had been intentional, while this was on the spur of the moment. An exclamation that stemmed from Talisa opening one of the stitches that she'd previous sewn up.

"Are you mad woman?!" Robb exclaimed, pressing a hand to his wound and feeling his blood as he did so.

Talisa just stood there.

"Well, obviously you've lost your touch," Robb said, getting to his feet. He headed for the tent's exit. "Maybe you'd be better cutting off legs than sewing."

She still just stood there. Robb turned back. He wanted something. Anything. For her to shout at him. To take offense at the comment. To do…something. He wanted her to make some attempt at conversation that didn't involve the words "lord," "grace," or "Lannisters," along with a few other terms he'd rather avoid. He wanted to be able to talk to the one person in this entire gods-forsaken continent that he could speak to in full confidence. A position that not even his mother held anymore.

"I can sew it up," Talisa said, holding another thread and needle. "But at a price."

"What?"

"Communication."

Robb sighed, but he sat down at the chair again. He wiped the blood off his face and gestured to his…healer, to continue.

"Fine, you want communication?" Robb asked. "Talk away."

"You first."

Robb turned to face his…he supposed he should admit it, wife. "Me first?"

"Well, I suppose I could talk about a lot of things," Talisa mused. "I could talk about the people I've helped, and those I couldn't. I could talk about how I feel I can't even step outside this tent without every other person whispering 'Frey' or 'foreign slut.'"

Robb winced, and not just because of the needles.

"You, on the other hand," Talisa said, binding the wound, "are more limited in what you can say. Even to your wife."

Robb remained silent for a moment. He gazed back at the candle. It welcomed him. Welcomed him to a world where it was just his mind, a world where the reality of this one was as nothing. This time however, he turned back.

"We used to have a lot to say, didn't we?" the Young Wolf mused.

Talisa remained silent. But it was an answer in itself.

"But okay then," Robb said. "I'll talk. I…" He trailed off. There wasn't much left to say he hadn't already said already. The Lannisters were still monsters, the knife that Theon had stuck in his back still smarted, and he was feeling less like a king and more like a child playing at war every day. "This scar," he said eventually, gesturing to it. "I tell you how I got it?"

"No."

"Well, there isn't much to it. Rode into battle. Some golden-haired idiot tries to impale me with a spear. And unlike every other Southerner I've killed, this one managed to make some contact."

"And the spearman?" Talisa asked.

"Grey Wind tore his throat out."

"Oh."

Talisa stood there. Robb sat there. He wished he could elaborate. Wished that he could convey that he felt sick he took the man's life, like every other time he'd taken a life in this gods-forsaken war. Wondered if the tale would be put into verse if he survived the conflict. How he'd be portrayed. Whether his wife would pick up the harp again and sing it to their…Robb swallowed…children.

Children. That was another thing he realized he'd have to consider. Bran and Rickeon were dead. Arya was likely dead. Sansa was as good as dead if she remained trapped in King's Landing. Even if he wasn't a bastard, Jon had given up any potential claim to Winterfell once he'd joined the Night's Watch. He was the last male of the Stark line, and sooner or later, he'd have to…cooperate with his wife to ensure that line continued.

Talisa seemed to be thinking the same thing. Maybe that was why she was placing herself on his lap. Why she started kissing him softly, avoiding the scar.

"Someday," she whispered, "the story will be told better."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Talisa didn't respond. She kept kissing him. It wasn't like their first time, Robb noticed. It wasn't some heated moment that had ended up with a messy floor, a wedding, and numerous expletives from every bannerman around him. It was soft, controlled, and right now, Robb welcomed it.

"One day this story will be told," Talisa said. "You'll be able to listen to it. I'll be able to listen to it. Our children will be able to listen to it, and ask their parents about what really happened, and what was embellished."

So she had been thinking the same thing, Robb reflected. He found it comforting. Almost as comforting as his wife's touch. Her presence. The feel of her lips as he began to meet them with his own.

"We tell the story," he said. "But I think we can leave out this part."

A/N

This author's note contains potential novel/TV spoilers, so for those unfamiliar with the novels, you may want to turn back.

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Assuming you're still reading with, I'll vent my brain spleen (ugh, that sounded wrong). For what it's worth, and I know I'm probably in the minority, I've never had a problem with Talisa in the series. Unnecessary? Yes, as Jeyne Westerling could have easily stood in. Alters Rob's character/motivations? Kinda. But I can't fault the concept of having the romance build up over the season rather than being randomly thrown in in book 3. Jeyne, to me, has never struck me as anything more than a walking plot point, an excuse to start a series of events that lead up to the Red Wedding. And in a way, I appreciate Rob's recklessness in the TV series to. Shows that love conquers reason at times, but doesn't conquer reality...yeah...season 3 finale should be interesting...

Anyway, that's just me. Now if you excuse me, some red priests want to burn me for my heresy. ;)