When he was young, Robb used to run to his mother and hug her tight for no real reason. Sometimes, more oft than not, he kissed her cheeks and told her that he would find a wife as good as her and as beautiful as her, smiling proudly when his father laughed and his mother kissed him on the forehead with affection.
Time passed and everything was literally so fucked up that he actually rose the banner men—his father’s banner men in fact—for his father and sisters in King’s Landing, for his beloved brother Rickon and his crippled brother Bran; for Maester Luwin and the people in the north, for Theon Greyjoy and his adoration toward his father, but most of all, he did it for his mother.
Lady Catelyn Stark looked ten times older but just as beautiful when she arrived, and it took him everything not to run to his mother and hug her tightly like they used to. Her eyes were bright blue and pained and full of sadness as they stared into each other for what seemed like hours—and when she finally spoke, he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she told the Northmen to leave them alone.
He wrapped his arms around his mother’s thin waist; inhaled the scent of her long auburn hair, and everything felt so much better like it used to.