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Her body is warm through his furs when she hurls herself into his arms, weak and sobbing and thanking the Gods old and new that he’s come home. Robb averts his gaze, pretends he sees nothing but Jon is visibly uncomfortable. Her red hair flies around her in the light wind and the oldest of Ned’s children finds himself thinking of the ‘fire kissed’ Ygritte, who he had left with her wildlings. It is for that reason, he tells himself, that he allows himself to raise a hand and place it reassuringly on her back, which only makes her cling tighter. Her fingers fist in his furs, her fingers the colour of snow as she buries her face in his chest, muffling the sobs which rack her body.
One hand hanging limp by his side, the other pressed gently to her back, Jon tried to make eye contact with his half-brother who was doing everything he could to avoid it. “Your Grace,” Jon spoke, clearing his throat. While Robb pretends not to hear, her eyes snapped up at that, her muffled sobs and thanks and pleas stopping for just a moment, just enough for her to look up at him.
“Oh your face,” she wails, her eyes focussing on the thin, white scars which map out one of the many stories he has from beyond the wall. “What happened to it?” She sounds distraught as her cold fingers trace the scars, her fingertips shaking as they ghost against the skin.
He stumbles for a moment, unsure what to tell her. Its one of the few stories that doesnt involve the Others, Wildlings or his brothers attacking him, however, one of the less exciting ones and he doesn’t elaborate. “It was a bird who did it,” he says, simply. “Flew right at me.” She lets out another soft wail at that, pushing her face back against his chest and muttering about ‘bloody birds’. He doesn’t point out that there was a time when she would have done more damage to him than the bird ever could. Neither does Robb.
“Your Grace,” he repeats, louder this time and there is no denying Robb hears him this time, the auburn haired man turning to face him. It has been near three years since the two had last spoken, since they had said their goodbyes in Winterfell and much had changed. Neither are the green young boys who sparred with wooden sticks but Robb has aged beyond his years. The crown, it seems, did not rest easily on his head and he looks weary and tired. “If we may speak in private?”
Robb shifts uncomfortably, still not quite meeting his eye as he moves his weight from foot to foot. “Dacey – Lady Mormont,” he calls across the cavernous hall and Jon smiles softly when he realises his brother is blushing at his slip-up. Dacey Mormont crosses the room without so much as a glance towards Jon and his predicament, her eyes glued to her king. “Would you be so kind to clear the hall? My brother and I would like some privacy.” She nods with all the severity of a soldier and Jon wonders if she is more than a soldier to Robb, more than just a bannerman, though he stays quiet fearing his voice will spark up another question from the woman at his chest.
The hall begins to clear, a man Jon vaguely remembers as an Umber the last to leave and Robb finally deems it fit to meet his eye. They’re the last, it seems. The last in the room and the last Starks. Jon’s eyes flicker to the woman before him, her face still buried in his chest and tries to ease her back, guiding her away from him by the elbow. Her face is etched with hurt when she looks up. “My Lady,” he says as politely as possible. He’s had such little interaction with real ladies in recent years. Only the Lady Baratheon and her little, grey-scaled daughter. “My lady, perhaps you should retire to your chambers? You look exhausted.”
A small smile tugs at her lips and she looks at him with such affection that it scares him. “Our chambers,” she says. “Our chambers, Ned.”