"How could it be?" Ned inquires, brow stitching together with confusion and bubbling panic. He cannot seem to reconcile the small child he remembers and the grown man at his side, though he would be hard pressed not to admit that there were obvious similarities between the two. Nor can Ned ignore the fact that this man's voice is most certainly of the North; the drawls and curves of his manner of speaking are proof enough of that. "How could I have closed my eyes for but a moment to open them again and see you grown?" There's less accusation and more bewilderment in Ned's tone now, gazing down at his hands as he holds them in front of them, turning them back and forth on their attached wrists, as though he might find an answer in the callous and scars that litter his skin.

He flinches at the feeling of the cloth, but settles down quickly enough once he realizes - and feels - the desired effect.

"You are my son," he says, hands lethargically back at his sides, eyes scanning Robb's face. "You look so much like your mother." The lowering in temperature thanks to the cooler water seems to bringing some sort of lucidity back, if only a modicum. After a long silence, Ned lifts a heavy hand to place it on his son's forearm. "I know what happened," he says, words slurring like a drunk man's but with far more conviction and strength behind them, however weak Ned is from the sickness. "Margaery told me about Walder Frey, his daughter, your chosen wife. How you've carried this guilt with you ever since." The grip on Robb's arm tightens slightly, before his hand drops back to the bed. "You've made me proud from the moment they'd set you in my arms, and -" he hesitates, mouth and throat dry and hoarse, before inhaling a breath and forcing himself to continue, "- And I've loved you since then. None of that's changed. There's nothing you could do, Robb, to change that. You don't need to seek forgiveness, because there's nothing to forgive."