“This meeting is over.” Robb pushed past Lord Bolton and stepped out into the dewy morning grass, nearly walking straight into the woman as he moved. He was tired of being locked away in fabric prisons with the man, always barking down his neck about how he needed to be harder on the prisoners, about how he needed to get his hands dirty, to stop “pretending to be a saint, and start acting like a king.” Growling still, hands balled into fists, his teeth barred, he had planned to walk out into the woods, get his frustrations out alone, but as he bumped into the woman, he reached out to grab her shoulder and steady the both of them.
“Forgive me,” he said. Would Lord Bolton have been angered too by his manners? Insist every place he walked was a path of gold, and that he should act as such? “I--” He paused. He knew her face. Of course. Bolton’s daughter. That was his luck today. He inclined his head in forced politeness. “My lady.”