The tent was a sanctuary of shadows, the flicker of a lone wax candle casting golden ripples across the heavy canvas walls. Outside, the camp buzzed with the distant clamor of men and steel, but within, the air was thick with silence, charged like the moment before a storm broke. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, stood like a figure carved from tension, his auburn hair catching the light like embers. His eyes, stormy and restless, locked onto the lord before him, a mirror of his own youth, yet softer, unburdened by the weight of crowns and war.

His hands, calloused and trembling, reached out, not to strike but to grasp, to pull the young man closer until their chests nearly touched. The space between them crackled with something unspoken, something that had simmered beneath the surface for too long. The other boy's breath hitched as Robb’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, rough yet tender, as if he were afraid to shatter what little peace they had found. Because the two of them were only that, boys, threading on the cliff of decency and taunting the unknown.

“I can’t—” Robb began, his voice breaking, but the lad silenced him with a touch, his own hand rising to cradle the King's face. The gesture was enough to unravel him, his resolve crumbling like a dam under the weight of too much pressure. Their lips met in a kiss that was both fierce and fragile, a collision of desperation and longing. It was not gentle, nor was it slow, it was the kind of kiss that spoke of battles fought and losses endured, of nights spent alone with only the cold for company.