Robb XIV

The journey back to the North, which Robb had hoped would be a reprieve from the chaos of King's Landing, quickly proved to be fraught with challenges. The first problem arose with the arrival of letters—sealed with wax and carrying news from the South. Petyr Baelish had been arrested, and among the many letters was one from Margaery Tyrell, pleading with Robb to return to King's Landing and take part in the trial. Margaery's letter was carefully worded, but beneath the flowery language was a thinly veiled demand, as if the future of the realm depended on Robb's presence at court.

Then came letters from the Twins and Riverrun, each one more troubling than the last. The war was officially over, and Walder Frey, ever the vulture, was demanding payment for his loyalty—or what passed for loyalty in Frey terms. The marriage Robb had promised between Edmure Tully and Alyx Frey now loomed over him like a debt to be collected. Walder's tone in the letter was unmistakably threatening, a reminder that his patience had limits, and the Starks owed him. Riverrun, too, was becoming a delicate matter. Hoster Tully, Robb's grandfather was dead and the riverlords were not eager to swear loyalty to Edmure. The politics of the South might have faded with their departure, but the problems of the Riverlands were waiting for Robb like wolves at the door.

But the most pressing issue was Roslin. Her pregnancy, difficult even in the comforts of King's Landing, had become a true ordeal on the road. In the city, with its maesters and physicians, she had at least found small comforts, even if the stress of court life weighed heavily on her. Now, traveling the rough roads toward the North, those comforts were gone, replaced by the unrelenting realities of life on the move. She was sick most days—nausea overtaking her from sunrise to sunset. Even the slightest smells or movements seemed to unsettle her, and there was little they could do to alleviate her discomfort.

Roslin, always so gentle and steadfast, insisted they press on. Her quiet determination was admirable, but Robb could see the toll it was taking on her. Her face had grown pale, her body thinner with each passing day, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they were endangering both her and their child by continuing at this pace. Each time they stopped, Robb would glance back at her in the carriage, watching as she tried to keep her composure, but the pain in her eyes betrayed her suffering.

Despite her protests, Robb knew in his heart that they couldn't continue like this. The North was still far away, and at this rate, Roslin might not make it there safely. The Northern roads, once a source of strength and belonging for him, now felt like a treacherous path threatening everything he held dear. The weight of his responsibilities—to his people, to his family, and now to his wife and unborn child—pressed down on him, making each decision feel like a step closer to ruin.

And yet, despite all the complications, despite the letters calling him back to the South and the political noose tightening around him, Robb's thoughts always returned to Roslin. King's Landing was far behind them now, but its shadows still clung to them, and Robb knew that they couldn't outrun the consequences forever. But for now, his priority was clear. They had to slow down, find rest for Roslin, and somehow make their way back to Winterfell, where she might finally find peace.

That night, they had made camp by a small stream, the crackle of fires and murmurs of the men drifting through the stillness of the night. Robb returned to his tent, the weight of his burdens heavier than ever. As he approached, the Maester assigned to accompany them on their journey was just stepping out, his face grim, his robes rustling in the cool evening breeze.

"She cannot go on much longer, my lord," the Maester said quietly, his voice tinged with the warning of what he had just witnessed. "To continue at this pace would be to risk both her life and the life of the babe."

Robb nodded, his face hardening as he absorbed the Maester's words. "Thank you, Maester," he replied, his voice tight with worry, though he tried to keep it steady. With a curt nod, the Maester bowed slightly before moving off into the camp, leaving Robb standing at the entrance of his tent.

Steeling himself, Robb pushed the flap aside and entered. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and the lingering warmth of a brazier, the dim light casting flickering shadows on the canvas walls. Roslin lay on their shared bed, her frail form barely making an imprint on the furs beneath her. She was pale, her face drawn from exhaustion, but in her hand was a letter—its wax seal already broken. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had been crying, but now they were distant, as though lost in thought.

Robb's heart clenched at the sight of her, his fierce, brave wife now so fragile. He knelt beside her, his rough fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Roslin," he whispered, concern lacing his voice.

She stirred at his touch, turning her head to meet his gaze. The weariness was plain to see, but there was something else in her expression—something troubled, something unresolved.

"What is it?" Robb asked softly, his eyes flickering to the letter in her hand. "Another message?"

Roslin swallowed hard, her voice raw from days of illness. "It's from Riverrun," she whispered, passing the letter to Robb with trembling hands. "They're proceeding with the wedding. Even my father has made the journey. Alyx... she's begging us to come."

Robb glanced at the letter, his brow furrowing as he considered the implications. "Then we'll go to Riverrun," he said, his tone resolute.

But Roslin shook her head weakly, closing her eyes as if the very thought exhausted her. "No, Robb," she murmured, her voice fragile, almost a breath. "I don't want to slow us down, not for anything. Winterfell... the North... that's our home. I just want to get there. I don't care about anything else."

Her words were laced with desperation, her exhaustion palpable, and it broke Robb's heart to see her so worn. Winterfell was the only destination she had the strength to focus on now. The rest of the world—the weddings, the demands of family and politics—meant nothing to her in this moment.

Her words were filled with quiet desperation, and Robb felt a stab of guilt. He knew how much she had endured already—torn from her family, married into the chaos of war, and now enduring a brutal pregnancy on the road. Every day seemed to push her closer to the edge, and it was clear that she could not continue like this.

"We're going to stop," Robb said firmly, taking her hand in his, his grip warm and reassuring. "We'll rest at Riverrun until you've had the babe. I won't risk you, Roslin. Not for anything."

Roslin's eyes filled with tears, her throat tight with emotion. She squeezed his hand, though her grip was weak, the weight of her exhaustion heavy on her. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I know you wanted them to be born in Winterfell... I've let you down."

Robb's heart ached at her words, and he shook his head, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "You've let no one down," he murmured gently. "You are my wife, Roslin. You and our child are my family, our future. Winterfell can wait. Nothing is more important than you."

Roslin closed her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek, and Robb stayed by her side, his presence a shield against the weight of her guilt and exhaustion. They would make it to Winterfell—when the time was right—but for now, Riverrun would be their sanctuary.

As he sat beside her, his mind raced. The trial of Petyr Baelish, the Freys' demands, the fragile peace in the North—it all felt like a gathering storm, threatening to overwhelm them. But as he looked down at Roslin, her face softened with a small, tired smile, he knew that, for now, his focus had to be on her. They would deal with the rest when the time came.

But first, they had to survive the journey ahead.

Just a few days later, they reached the towering walls of Riverrun. The journey had been relentless, and Robb had driven them forward with a single focus—getting Roslin to safety. As they rode through the gates, the cold air of the Riverlands hit them, but all Robb could think of was his wife.

The moment his feet hit the ground, a Tully footman approached him, bowing hastily. "My lord, Lord Tully and Lord Frey await you in the Great Hall."

Robb barely spared him a glance, his jaw tightening. "They can wait." His tone left no room for argument. He had more pressing concerns.

Roslin was the priority. He turned immediately to her carriage, where she sat pale and frail, her face etched with fatigue and pain. The sight of her made his heart clench with worry. She was gripping her swollen belly, her breaths shallow and uneven. She was still a moon away from her time, but the maester had warned that the babe might come sooner. Much sooner.

Gently, Robb reached in and helped her down, his arms steady around her as her legs wobbled beneath her. Roslin leaned heavily against him, her body trembling from the effort. She winced, and he could feel how fragile she had become, the strength she had once shown now drained by the endless days of sickness on the road.

"Easy, love," he whispered softly, holding her close as she clung to him. Her skin was cool to the touch, a far cry from the warmth she used to carry. "We're here. You can rest now."

She gave a faint nod, her eyelids fluttering shut as the strength seemed to drain from her all at once. Her body sagged against him, her legs giving way entirely. Without hesitation, Robb swept her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. Her weight felt lighter than it should have, her once-strong frame reduced by weeks of sickness and fatigue. Panic clawed at him, tightening in his chest as he felt how fragile she had become.

"Maester!" Robb bellowed, his voice echoing through the halls with urgency. "Get me a maester, now!" His voice was raw, filled with a desperation he rarely allowed himself to show.

The servants scrambled into action, but none were fast enough for him. Robb stormed through the corridor, carrying Roslin as if she weighed nothing, his heart hammering with fear. Her head rested limply against his shoulder, her breathing shallow and uneven. Each breath she took seemed a struggle, and the sight of her pale, sweat-drenched face sent a fresh wave of terror through him.

"Hold on, love," Robb whispered, his voice trembling as he hurried through the dimly lit corridors. His heart pounded with every step, fear tightening its grip on him. A servant appeared ahead, urgently gesturing toward a door at the end of the hall. Without hesitation, Robb headed straight for it, his words a desperate plea. "Please, just hold on."

The door to the room swung open as he kicked it with his boot, and he laid her carefully on the bed, smoothing a hand over her damp hair. Her eyes remained closed, her face tight with pain. Her hand still rested on her belly, as if she were trying to shield their child from the struggle her body was enduring. Robb's throat tightened at the sight, his fear for both of them threatening to overwhelm him.

"Stay with me," he murmured, brushing a kiss against her temple as he stroked her hair back. "Stay with me, Roslin."

The door banged open again, and the maester rushed in, followed by a handful of attendants carrying supplies. Robb stepped back only slightly, refusing to leave Roslin's side even as they began their examination. He watched every movement with hawk-like intensity, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists to keep from shaking.

"She's exhausted, my lord," the maester said, his brow furrowing as he examined her. "The child is coming, but we must be cautious. Her body is not ready for this, she's so weak."

Robb's heart clenched painfully. He'd known the risks of continuing their journey, but he had hoped—foolishly—that they could make it to Winterfell before the baby came. Now, with Roslin lying so pale and fragile before him, he felt the weight of that choice press down on him like a mountain.

"Roslin," he whispered, leaning close to her ear, "I need you to stay strong. I need you to fight, for both of us... for our child."

She stirred faintly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, a tiny, almost imperceptible response. Robb's chest tightened painfully, fear creeping deeper into his bones.

In that moment, Robb Stark—the Young Wolf—felt utterly powerless. He would trade every victory, just to see Roslin smile again, to hold their child safely in his arms. But for now, all he could do was wait, his heart heavy with dread as the night stretched on and the storm inside Riverrun's walls began to rage.

The walls seemed to close in, the air heavy with tension. Roslin's eyes fluttered open, her gaze weak but filled with emotion. She winced as another wave of pain coursed through her, but still, she managed to whisper, "I love you," her voice fragile and trembling. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she added, "Whatever happens…"

"Don't," Robb interrupted, his voice rough with barely contained fear. "Don't say that. Nothing is going to happen. You're strong, Roslin. You'll be alright. I need you." His grip tightened on her hand, as if holding on harder could somehow anchor her to him, to life.

Roslin offered him a faint, sad smile, though the agony was clear in her expression. "You need to be with our child, Robb," she whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of her words. "You promised me, remember?"

Robb's throat constricted, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He could barely manage to speak, his heart aching with the fear of losing her. "I remember," he whispered, his voice hoarse, trying to stay strong for her. But in that moment, all he could do was cling to hope, even as the uncertainty loomed over them both.

The door creaked open again, and the midwives hurried in. The Maester began giving rapid instructions, and the room seemed to blur into a frenzy of movement. Robb stayed at Roslin's side, holding her hand, whispering reassurances even as fear consumed him.

Outside, the sounds of Riverrun continued, oblivious to the storm brewing inside this small room. And as the hours dragged on, Robb Stark, who had weathered war and battles, now faced the most terrifying uncertainty of his life—waiting for the outcome of a battle he had no control over.

The door creaked open, and the midwives rushed in with determined urgency, their arms full of linens and basins. The Maester's voice cut through the air as he gave rapid instructions, directing the midwives to prepare Roslin for what lay ahead. The room buzzed with activity, the air thick with anticipation and fear.

Robb remained at Roslin's side, gripping her hand tightly as if his strength could somehow be enough for both of them. He whispered reassurances, though the tremble in his voice betrayed the terror he felt inside. "You're doing so well," he murmured, leaning closer to her, his forehead pressed against hers. "It won't be long now. Just a little more, my love. You're strong."

Roslin's breathing was shallow, her face pale, drenched in sweat. Every contraction seemed to wrack her body with pain, and though she was exhausted, her hand weakly squeezed his in response. She managed a faint smile through the agony, a glimmer of hope in her tired eyes. "Stay with me," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

"I'm here. I'm not leaving," Robb whispered, his heart breaking as he watched her struggle. He had faced enemies on the battlefield, stared death in the face more times than he could count, but nothing had ever terrified him like this. The fear of losing her, of being powerless to protect the woman he loved, gripped him tighter than any blade.

Hours bled into each other as Robb sat motionless beside Roslin, his hand intertwined with hers, never letting go. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, and she drifted in and out of consciousness, each return to awareness filled with agony. Every time her eyes fluttered open, they met his—pleading, full of pain, and laced with the fear they both shared but refused to speak aloud. He would offer her reassurances, soft whispers of love and comfort, though the words felt hollow in the face of her suffering. He had fought battles, led men into war, but this—watching his wife struggle through something so fragile and relentless—was a torment he could not bear.

The midwives and the Maester hovered around them, their faces grave as they tried to convince him to step away, to let them do their work. They urged him to join his uncle and Walder Frey in the great hall, where they were awaiting news. "The birthing chamber is no place for you, my lord," one of the midwives had said gently, as though trying to protect him from the horrors unfolding before him. "Especially during a birth as gruesome as this."

But Robb refused, his gaze never leaving Roslin. He had promised her, promised that he would never leave her again, and no matter what the Maester or anyone else said, he wasn't going to break that promise now. "I'm staying," he had said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. They had given up trying to convince him after that, leaving him in silence, save for Roslin's faint moans and the tense, whispered instructions passed between the midwives.

The night stretched on, dark and heavy, a suffocating weight pressing down on Robb's chest. He had faced long nights before, waiting for dawn after a battle, wondering who would survive and who would not. But this—this was a different kind of battle. One he had no control over. One where his sword and strength could do nothing to change the outcome.

Sometime deep into the night, the Maester approached him. The man's face was drawn with exhaustion and concern, his hands wringing nervously at his sides. "My lord," he began softly, his voice pulling Robb out of the daze he had fallen into, the fog of fear and helplessness clouding his thoughts. "There has been no change. She is too weak to deliver the child, and the babe is becoming distressed."

Robb's heart clenched painfully at the words, his hand tightening around Roslin's. The Maester's gaze was sympathetic but firm as he continued, "We can keep pushing her, but there will come a point when her body will give up. If that time comes, my lord, we must know your wishes. Should we choose the mother or the child?"

The words hit Robb like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a moment, the room seemed to spin, the weight of the decision crushing down on him. How could anyone be asked to make such a choice? His eyes moved to Roslin's face, pale and strained, her lips dry and cracked from the hours of pain. She looked so fragile, so breakable, and the thought of losing her tore through him like a dagger to the heart.

But then his gaze flicked to her swollen belly, to the child they had fought so hard for, the child that represented their future—the North's future. He had dreamed of holding his son or daughter, of raising them in Winterfell, of building the family that had been forced to leave behind..

Robb swallowed hard, his throat constricting with emotion. "Can't you save them both?" he asked, his voice raw with desperation.

The Maester met his gaze, sympathy etched into the lines of his weary face. "I will do everything in my power, my lord. But if the time comes…" His words trailed off, leaving the unspoken truth hanging in the air like a blade poised to fall.

Robb's chest tightened, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His mind raced through the unimaginable, grappling with the cruel reality laid before him. He turned his eyes to Roslin, her face pale, her body trembling as she fought through the agony of labour. She had given everything—her strength, her resilience—for the life they had created together. And now, in this fragile, terrifying moment, he was being asked to decide her fate.

Robb's breath hitched, his voice caught in his throat as he leaned over her, brushing a gentle kiss to her damp forehead. His heart ached with the weight of it, breaking under the enormity of the choice he had to make.

"I…" His voice cracked, barely a whisper as he fought back the tears burning in his eyes. "Save her," he murmured, his lips trembling. "If it comes to it… save my wife."

The Maester nodded solemnly, understanding the weight of Robb's words as he moved away, leaving Robb alone with the storm of his grief and fear. His hand tightened around Roslin's but even as he stayed by her side, the helplessness gnawed at him, knowing that the battle they faced now was one he could not fight for her.

As dawn broke, pale light filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the room. Robb had been awake for hours, watching as the night dragged on, knowing that the end—one way or another—was near. The air felt thick with tension, and every second seemed to stretch unbearably.

"My lord, it's time," the Maester said softly, stepping forward with an urgency that made Robb's stomach twist. "She must deliver the babe now, if she's going to deliver it at all."

Robb swallowed, turning to Roslin. She was so pale, her skin clammy, her breaths shallow. He knelt beside her, gently brushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead. "Roslin, my love," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady, though fear gripped him. "You need to wake up. It's time… You need to deliver our child."

Roslin's eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, her gaze was distant, unfocused. When she spoke, her voice was a hoarse whisper, fragile as if it came from a place far away. "I can't," she murmured, her eyes glossed with tears. "I'm going to be with my mother, Robb... She's here, waiting for me."

Panic surged through Robb, a cold wave of dread washing over him. He couldn't lose her. Not like this. "No," he said firmly, his voice low but filled with desperation. "You're not leaving me, Roslin. You're staying right here, with me. You are so strong—you are a Stark now." He squeezed her hand tightly, feeling how weak her grip had become, but refusing to let go. "You just need to push, my love. Just a little bit more, and our child will be here."

Roslin's lips trembled, and tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes fluttered shut once more. Robb felt his heart breaking, but he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Please, Roslin," he whispered against her skin. "Stay with me. I need you here. Our child needs you."

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if time itself had stilled, waiting for her decision.

With a sudden surge of energy that seemed to come from deep within her, Roslin groaned and gripped Robb's hand as tightly as she could manage. The Maester and midwives sprang into action, guiding her through the final moments of labour. Robb stayed by her side, whispering words of encouragement, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched her fight, the pain etched across her face, but also the fierce determination that flickered behind her eyes.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, the sound of a newborn's cry pierced the heavy silence of the room.

Robb exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, his chest tightening with overwhelming emotion. A midwife quickly bundled the infant in a soft cloth and brought the babe over to Robb, who stared down at the tiny, squirming figure in disbelief.

"A son," the midwife said softly, her voice gentle yet filled with hope as she placed the swaddled babe into Robb's arms. The tiny bundle squirmed and let out a faint cry, his small, fragile fingers grasping at the air.

Robb stared down at his son, his vision blurring with tears he could no longer hold back. His throat tightened with emotion, the weight of the moment crashing over him. This was his child, their child—a piece of him and Roslin brought into the world. His heart swelled with both joy and terror, the fierce instinct to protect the small life in his arms surging within him.

But as he turned back to Roslin, the joy that had filled the room only moments ago seemed to evaporate. She had gone still, her face as pale as the sheets beneath her, her chest barely rising with shallow, laboured breaths. Panic gripped Robb's heart as he saw her collapse back against the pillows, her body limp and unresponsive.

"Roslin!" Robb's voice broke as he rushed to her side, but before he could even reach out, the Maester and midwives sprang into action. The Maester barked rapid orders, his face drawn with urgency as they worked to revive her.

"She's losing blood," the Maester said grimly, pressing his hands against Roslin's abdomen. "We need to stop it, now."

Robb felt his world tilt, a suffocating dread closing in around him. His knees felt weak, but he couldn't look away from her. He stood frozen, helpless, watching as the Maester and midwives fought to keep her alive. Everything had happened so quickly—the miracle of their child's birth followed so swiftly by this terrifying uncertainty.

The cries of his newborn son echoed faintly in the room, but Robb couldn't focus on anything but Roslin. He knelt beside her bed, his hands trembling as he took hers, her skin cold and clammy to the touch. "Roslin," he whispered, his voice raw with desperation. "Stay with me. Please, you have to stay."

The Maester worked feverishly, his brow furrowed with concentration. The midwives hurried back and forth, fetching bandages, potions, anything that could help, but Robb could feel the weight of their silence. He had seen that look before, the look of people battling the inevitable, and it terrified him.

Roslin's eyelids fluttered, her head rolling to the side, her once-bright eyes dull with exhaustion. For a brief moment, her gaze met Robb's, and a weak, barely-there smile tugged at her lips. "Robb," she whispered, her voice so faint he had to lean in close to hear. "Look after him...our son...for me."

"No," Robb said, his voice cracking as he gripped her hand tighter, refusing to let go. "You're going to look after him with me. You're not leaving, Roslin. You can't."

She tried to speak again, but the effort seemed too much, her words fading into a faint exhale as her eyes began to close. Robb's heart pounded in his chest, each beat an agonising reminder of how fragile this moment was.

The Maester looked up, his expression grim but not hopeless. "She's weak, my lord. We've stopped the bleeding for now, but she's lost a great deal of blood. She will need time to recover... if she can."

Robb's breath caught in his throat, and he nodded, his grip on Roslin's hand never faltering. He didn't care what it took, how long it would take—he just needed her to survive. Their son needed her. He needed her.

For the longest moment, the room was filled only with the soft sounds of their newborn's cries and the hurried movements of the midwives, trying to stabilise Roslin. Robb watched as they worked, his heart aching with every second that passed, knowing that all he could do was wait and pray.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Maester stepped back, wiping his brow. "She's stable for now, but her condition is fragile. Rest is what she needs most."

Robb's body sagged with relief, but his heart remained heavy. He bent down, pressing a kiss to Roslin's forehead, her skin still cold beneath his lips. "I'm here, Roslin," he whispered, "and I'm not going anywhere."

He stood there for a long while, cradling their son in one arm while holding Roslin's hand in the other, watching over both of them. The battle wasn't over yet, but they had made it through the worst of the storm.

And for that, Robb would forever be grateful.