"Do I know .. ?" Ned begins to echo, brows gathering with confusion. As though suddenly aware of his surroundings, his gaze forces itself from the beautiful, shining visage of his son to the world around them - the fog, the fountain, the dirt underfoot, the vague silhouettes of buildings lurking in the distance. He'd thought, for the briefest of moments, that it had been an afterlife of some kind - meant to closely resemble a small village somewhere near home, though not exactly - after all, it'd be foolish to expect the realm of the Old Gods to resemble that of man.

The lack of familiarity with the area coupled with Robb's curious question gives Ned pause, and when he brings his eyes to gaze upon the familiar sight of his son, he notices what he hadn't noticed before -

The slimness of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks. The protrusion of cheekbone where there'd previously been the plump flesh of youth. Eyes still like his mother's, but weathered and weary - ones that have seen too much death, too much loss. He's older than Ned remembers in the yard at Winterfell. He'd been but a boy then, and though apparitions of that boy - joyful, exuberant, sharp - still linger behind those saddened eyes, the man opposite him is not that boy at heart.

Not anymore.

"Where are we, Robb?"