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Chapter Text

The wheels of the royal carriage groaned as they dragged us northward, each turn of the road carrying us farther from the sun-baked stones of King’s Landing into air that grew colder, sharper, edged with pine and frost. Inside, golden hair gleamed like sunlight — Cersei, Myrcella, Tommen. Perfect lions of the Rock. And then there was me. Not golden, not shining. Just there.

Inside the carriage, golden hair gleamed like sunlight — Cersei, Myrcella, Tommen. Perfect lions of the Rock. And then there was me. Not golden, not shining. Just there.

The carriage jolted as the wheels struck the stones of Winterfell’s gate. Tommen leaned forward eagerly, pressing his nose to the slit of the window.

“Is it true they keep direwolves here?” he asked, voice bright.

“They’ll be the size of ponies by now,” I teased, earning a giggle from him.

Myrcella turned to me, her smile soft. “Do you think they’ll let us see them?”

“I’ll ask,” I promised, nudging her hand. “If you’re brave enough.”

For a heartbeat, the three of us shared a warmth the North’s chill could not touch.

Then Cersei’s gaze cut across the space, cool and sharp as a blade. “Mind yourselves,” she said, her voice smooth as silk but iron beneath. “This is no menagerie. We are guests of Winterfell, not children come chasing curiosities.”

Her arm curved around Myrcella, drawing her close, her fingers brushing Tommen’s hair. And though she did not look at me, the message was clear: whatever welcome awaited us, mine would not be found in her shadow.

Father rode ahead with Uncle Jaime, the King’s booming laughter carrying back through the wind as though even the cold Northern air bent to him. I wished I were riding there too, in the fresh air, instead of shut in the rattling carriage. A month of the same cramped walls and the same swaying motion had left me aching for release.

Yet as Winterfell’s towers rose ahead, impatience stirred sharper than weariness. I had longed for this — to see lands beyond the Red Keep, to glimpse the North I had heard spoken of in half-wary, half-admiring tones.

The road narrowed, lined on either side with men in grey cloaks, the direwolf of Stark bold upon their banners. Behind them gathered the household and smallfolk, faces upturned to witness the king’s arrival. Their eyes followed the gilded procession, hungry for a sight of the South they so rarely saw. A king’s coming was no small thing in the North, and neither was his family trailing in his shadow.

The carriage lurched to a halt, and I stepped out into the biting northern air. Grey stone rose around us, stark and ancient, swallowing the warmth of the sun. 

Father dismounted first, his voice booming: “Ned!” He embraced Lord Stark in a bear’s hug, laughter shaking the air, the years of distance between them collapsing in a heartbeat.

I had never seen him like this. At court, his mirth was loud, but always edged with wine or temper. Here, it was different. Easier. He was at home, I thought suddenly. More so than he ever was in the Red Keep.

When Lady Stark stepped forward, Father’s great arms swept her into a hug as well. “Cat,” he said warmly, the word rumbling like a memory. She stiffened slightly  — but Father only laughed again, unbothered.

I lingered behind the rest of my family, drawing my cloak tighter against the northern wind, but I saw it all: the way Lady Stark’s eyes flicked quickly to her daughters as if checking them against ours. Father’s booming laugh echoed against the stone. “You’ve got fat!” he bellowed at Ned, slapping his old friend on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. Laughter rolled through the courtyard, warm and familiar, though Mother’s lips never moved.

The Starks waited in a line beside their lord: his lady and five children, their faces pale and serious. One daughter curtsied low, her coppery hair gleaming. I noticed the way Joffrey’s gaze sharpened, fixed on her with sudden interest.

Beside her stood the eldest son, tall and broad-shouldered already though still young. His stance was steady, proud — a future lord in the making.  Another boy stood just behind them, his cloak plain, his expression quieter than the rest. He did not meet our eyes, but something in his silence drew mine for a heartbeat. 

Before Father could finish, Queen Cersei moved toward Lord and Lady Stark with all the grace of court, her smile perfectly measured. Lord Stark bowed his head and kissed her hand, his voice steady as he offered formal words of welcome. Lady Stark inclined her head in return, her courtesy cool but proper. Myrcella curtsied prettily, Tommen’s small bow a little clumsy, though it drew a soft laugh from his sister. Joffrey stepped forward with a sharp tilt of his chin, pride gleaming in his eyes.

Only after those greetings were done did Father sweep his arm toward us. “My children,” he declared with the same pride he used to hail his armies. “Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen…” His voice softened slightly when it fell on me. “…and my eldest, Lyanna.”

At the sound of my name, Lord Stark’s expression changed. Just for a moment — a flicker of something sharp and hidden crossed his eyes, like a shadow moving over water. It was gone almost as quickly, but I had seen it. Then his hand settled on the shoulder of the boy beside him.

“My heir. Robb.”

The name suited him — strong, simple, unyielding. He stepped forward with the confidence of one born to command, and when he bowed, the movement was sure, respectful, yet proud. His hair was auburn, catching threads of fire where the sunlight touched it, but his eyes — gods, his eyes — were the color of deep water, piercing and steady.

I found myself staring before I realized it. Not with the warmth Joffrey had shown the girl with copper hair, but with something quieter, something I could not explain. Curiosity.

I looked away quickly, forcing my gaze down to the packed earth. Yet in my mind, his blue eyes lingered like the cold northern wind.

Ned’s hand lingered on Robb’s shoulder a moment longer before moving down the line.

“My daughters,” he said, resting his hand lightly on the girl with copper hair. “Sansa.”

She dipped once more, graceful and composed, her smile small but practiced. Joffrey’s chin lifted a fraction higher, pride gleaming in his eyes as though she were already his.

Next came the younger girl, standing restless beside her sister. Her brown hair tangled in the wind, her gaze sharp and defiant as she met Father’s eyes directly, unflinching. “Arya,” Ned said, his mouth twitching faintly, as if only half-successful at hiding his amusement at her lack of formality.

Then the younger boys. “Bran,” Ned said, guiding forward a boy with eager eyes, who bowed quickly, almost bouncing with energy. At the end of the line stood a child still clinging to his mother’s skirts. “Rickon.”

But as the mirth faded, my gaze drifted to the one who had not been named. He stood slightly apart, his cloak plainer than the rest, his eyes lowered though his jaw was set firm. A shadow among wolves, I thought — and yet something in that silence seemed to watch more keenly than words ever could.

When the introductions ended, Father’s voice boomed again, echoing against Winterfell’s stone. “Take me to the crypts. I want to pay my respects.”

Cersei’s voice slipped in, honeyed but edged like glass. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”

But Father did not so much as glance at her. His hand clapped Ned’s shoulder, and together they turned toward the keep. Lady Catelyn and the children followed in a neat line.

I was left behind for a moment, standing in the courtyard as the household stirred around us. And then Cersei’s gaze cut toward me — sharp, cold, accusing, as if my father’s defiance had been my fault.

I lowered my eyes, hiding the twist in my chest, and followed after the rest. The courtyard swallowed me in grey stone and northern wind, and though I walked in the company of a king and queen, I had never felt more apart. Whatever Winterfell held for me, I would have to face it on my own.

Chapter Text

We were sent to our chambers soon after our arrival, while Father and Lord Stark vanished into the depths of Winterfell. Later I learned they had gone down into the crypts — where the dead Starks lay in cold stone, and where ghosts whispered louder than the living.

They walked together in torchlight, boots echoing against the flagstones. Before the likeness of a young woman carved in marble, Father paused.

“Did you have to bury her in a place like this?” His voice was rough with discontent. “She should be on a hill somewhere, with sun and sky above her—not locked away in shadows and stone.”

Ned’s reply was quiet, but unyielding. “She was my sister. This is where she belongs.”

Father lifted a hand, broad and calloused, and laid it gently against the cold stone cheek. For once, his touch was almost reverent. “She belonged with me.”

Ned did not flinch. “And yet you named your firstborn after her.”

The name hung between them until Father broke the silence, voice thick. “Lyanna. When I took the babe in my arms, gods, Ned… the same iron lived in her eyes. That’s what I remember most—not her face, not her voice, but her will. Fierce, unbending. She was… she was everything.” He swallowed hard. “I loved her, and I couldn’t save her. But at least I could give her name life again.”

Ned’s jaw tightened. Grief passed across his features like a shadow. “Some loves don’t release us,” he murmured.

Robert’s mouth twisted. “Nor do the wrongs tied to them.” His gaze lingered on the stone for a beat more, then he wrenched himself away with a shake of the head. “Enough. To the living.”

He drew a long breath. “Jon Arryn is dead. Poison, I’d stake my crown on it. King’s Landing stinks of secrets, and I’m too fat and too drunk to root them out alone.” He turned, torchlight cutting deep into the lines of his face. “Come south with me. Be my Hand. I need you, Ned. The realm needs you.”

Ned bowed his head, duty settling across him like a cloak. “If it is your will, Your Grace.”

Robert clapped his shoulder, rough and fond. “Good. Then let’s bind our houses again. Your daughter—the pretty one with the copper hair. My Joffrey. A stag and a wolf.”

“If it is her wish,” Ned said softly. He thought of the girl’s shy glance and of Catelyn’s worry, but he let the words rest.

After a pause, he asked, “And your elder daughter? Lyanna. She is of an age, and unpromised. I have a son yet unwed.” He remembered the dark-haired girl in the yard, standing just apart from her kin, watchful, alone.

Robert’s eyes darkened. “When I see her—my Lyanna—it stirs something I thought long dead. Not the woman I lost, no… but still, a spark of her. The way she lifts my mood, Ned, as if storms themselves quiet when she enters a hall.”

Ned’s mouth tightened. He thought of Cersei, of how those words would fester like salt in an open wound. The girl bears his sister’s name, he thought, and none of this is her fault.

Robert exhaled sharply, turning from the statue. “Your Sansa will be queen one day.” His tone softened. “Once, I dreamed of a queen named Lyanna Stark. It would have suited her better than wasting her life in this frozen keep.”

Ned said nothing.

Robert’s voice hardened again. “But my daughter is already a princess. And she’ll have choices enough.”

“Choices are not always wise,” Ned said.

“No,” Robert agreed, staring up at the stone Lyanna. “But they’re hers. Cersei forgets too often whose crown she wears. I’ll remind her soon enough.”

Ned said nothing. He pictured the queen’s tight smile, the cut of her words. He pictured the girl again—dark head bowed, standing just apart—and felt a stir of unwelcome protectiveness.

At length Robert turned away. “Come,” he said. “Tomorrow we will speak to our households. Tonight we will drink to old ghosts.”

They left the statue to its silence. The shadow of her name followed them.

Chapter Text

The chambers they gave us smelled of stone and smoke, so unlike the perfumed halls of the Red Keep. Mother busied herself with Myrcella and Tommen, fussing over furs and featherbeds, her voice sharp with irritation. Joffrey had already stormed off to parade himself about the yard. Forgotten in the bustle, I slipped away.

I pulled free of the silks I had traveled in, binding myself instead in heavier furs. Not crimson, not lion-gold. Black and golden-yellow — the stag crowned on its field. My choice, not my mother’s. It was a quiet rebellion, one she would sneer at if she noticed, but I was sixteen and old enough to decide how the world should see me.

I left my hair loose, save for two thin braids that framed my face — quick work of my own hands. Then, before Mother’s sharp eyes could catch me, I stole into the corridors.

The air in Winterfell was sharp and clean. It filled my lungs like ice water, clearing the heaviness of the road. The stink and swelter of King’s Landing felt like a bad dream compared to this stillness. Snow crunched beneath my boots. From the inner yard I wandered farther, drawn by the hush of trees beyond the walls.

The godswood was like another world. A sanctuary of ancient trunks, their bark grey with age, their leaves whispering though no breeze stirred. At the center stood the heart tree — white as bone, its red leaves drifting like blood across the snow. The carved face stared solemnly, eyes weeping red sap.

I stopped, breath caught. It was nothing like the Sept with its candles and stifling air. This was older, wilder, the air thick with a kind of peace that pressed close to the skin. I felt both intruder and welcomed guest, and for the first time since leaving King’s Landing, I felt quiet inside.

But I was not alone.

A boy stepped out from behind the great roots. His auburn hair caught the last of the afternoon light, his eyes dark-blue, sharp as winter water. He froze when he saw me.

We stared at one another across the snow.

“This place is for prayer,” he said at last, his voice cautious but not unkind. “Not wandering, princess.”

I lifted my chin, defiant though my heart raced. “Then perhaps I came to pray.” My lips curved faintly. “Do your gods forbid curiosity?”

A flicker of something crossed his face — surprise, perhaps amusement. But he masked it quickly.

“You’re far from Sept,” he said. “The old gods keep to their own ways. They don’t often answer southerners.”

I glanced back at the heart tree, its carved face solemn and bleeding sap. “Maybe that’s why I came. To see for myself. It’s quieter here than anywhere I’ve ever been. In King’s Landing, the air is always heavy. Here…” I drew a breath of the sharp cold. “…it feels like I can breathe.”

His eyes studied me carefully, searching. “You don’t sound like your brother.”

I arched my brow. “Which one?”

The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth. “The one who couldn’t take his eyes off my sister this morning.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, though not for the reason he assumed. “Joffrey has always thought himself very charming.”

“And you don’t?” he asked, as though testing.

“I know better,” I said simply. My gaze lingered on him a moment longer than I intended — the proud stance, the steadiness in his eyes. He looked so different from the men of court, who wore silks and smirks like armor. This boy, though heir to Winterfell, carried himself with a weight that seemed older than his years.

I looked away first. “And you. Robb, isn’t it?”

He inclined his head slightly. “Robb Stark.”

I hesitated before giving my own name. “Lyanna.”

At that, something flickered in his expression — a tightening of the jaw, a glance back at the heart tree as though it, too, remembered the name.

For the first time, I felt a thread of unease. My name had always been a stone between my parents; perhaps here, it was a stone in the North as well.

Before I could ask, he said, “You should return, princess. Your mother will notice you’re gone.”

I bristled, though he had spoken without malice. “And if she does?”

He looked at me fully then, and there was something steady in his gaze, not cruel but unflinching. “Then you’ll have to answer her. Not me.”

For a moment, silence stretched again between us, broken only by the drip of sap from the tree and the distant cry of a raven.

“So you came all this way north just to breathe?” Robb asked.

I met his eyes. “I came because my father ordered it. But breathing is a welcome discovery.”

That earned me the ghost of a smile, there and gone again. “You’ll need more than furs if you mean to breathe here long, princess. Winterfell air cuts deep.”

“I’ve known worse.”

He tilted his head. “King’s Landing is worse than snow?”

“Heat. Smoke. Crowds. Lies.” My voice sharpened without meaning to. “At least the cold is honest.”

His brows rose slightly, as though he had not expected honesty from me.

For a moment neither of us spoke. The red leaves rustled faintly, though no wind stirred. He broke the silence first.

“You stood apart this morning.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When your father presented you all,” he said simply. “The queen with her golden children, and you…” His eyes flicked over me, not unkindly, but studying. “Different.”

A tightness stirred in my chest. I wanted to retort, but the truth was plain enough. “So you noticed,” I said finally.

“Everyone noticed.” He held my gaze, steady and without mockery. “But not everyone will say it.”

I folded my arms over my black-and-gold cloak. “And what do you say?”

He hesitated, then shook his head faintly. “That I’ve never seen anyone defy the queen with just a color of cloth.”

I almost laughed at that — a sound half bitter, half relieved. “Small rebellions are the only kind permitted.”

This time, he did smile, quick and fleeting.

I looked again at the heart tree, its red sap glistening like fresh blood.

“Do you pray here often?”

“Not as often as I should,” he admitted, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “My father says the gods hear us best in silence. I suppose I’ve been too busy avoiding silence.”

“And do they answer, when you do?”

Robb tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not in words. More like… a feeling. As if they’re watching, weighing.” His eyes flicked back to me, steady. “Winterfell has a way of seeing who belongs and who doesn’t.”

Something in me stirred at his words, though I masked it quickly with a lift of my chin. “Well, they can watch all they like. I don’t scare easy.”

That earned a real smile from him — quiet, but unmistakable.

“You’re braver than you look, princess.”

“And you,” I replied, a spark of amusement slipping through, “are nosier than I expected.”

The sound of distant voices stirred from the castle walls — servants calling, the day drawing toward feast. The moment broke like frost beneath a step.

“You should return,” he said again, though this time his voice lacked the edge of command.

I lingered a heartbeat longer beneath the heart tree’s red gaze. “Perhaps I will.”

And then I left the godswood, my boots crunching in the snow, but the quiet between us stayed with me all the way back to the stone halls.

Chapter Text

By the time I returned to my chambers, the sun had begun its descent. Servants fluttered about with furs and gowns, Mother snapping at them as though the whole North might crumble if Myrcella’s braid was crooked. She cast me a sharp glance but said nothing of my absence. Perhaps she had not noticed. Perhaps she saved the words for later.

When the horns sounded, we descended into the great hall of Winterfell. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and smoke, laughter and music spilling through the rafters. Torches blazed, casting warm light against grey stone, though the cold lingered at the edges.

Father sat at the high table with Lord Stark, his booming laugh already carrying over the clatter of cups. Cersei sat beside him, every inch the queen even here, her smile thin and her eyes sharp.

I took my place a little apart, beside Myrcella. Tommen nodded sleepily into his trencher. Joffrey sat proudly at Father’s right, his gaze never straying far from Lord Stark’s eldest daughter, the copper-haired girl. She returned the look with shy, hopeful glances, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Your daughter, Ned,” Father said loudly, the wine thick in his voice. “A beauty, isn’t she? My Joffrey will make her a fine queen.”

The words rippled through the hall. Sansa’s eyes widened, her hand tightening in her lap. Cersei’s smile sharpened to glass. Lady Stark’s expression froze, and Robb stiffened where he sat beside his mother.

I said nothing. My gaze flicked to Robb once, just once, across the table. He was listening intently, his jaw set, his blue eyes flicking from his father to the king, then briefly to me.

I looked away quickly, back to the meat cooling on my plate.

The hall roared with noise — cups clashing, minstrels singing, hounds barking beneath the tables. Yet for me, the quiet of the godswood lingered still, the red sap and whispered leaves. And across the feast, I wondered if he remembered it too.

The hall roared on: minstrels piping, wine flowing freely, Father’s booming laugh echoing against stone. Yet even through the din I heard Cersei’s silken voice, aimed at Sansa, warm as honey and sharp as glass. “You’ll be a queen, child,” she said, eyes glinting like green glass in the firelight. “All you need do is love Joffrey, and one day you’ll sit beside him, with all Westeros at your feet. Can you imagine it?”

Sansa’s eyes widened with delight, her cheeks flushed pink with hope. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Cersei’s smile curved with satisfaction, her hand brushing Myrcella’s hair as though to seal the promise. Her gaze slid past me once — no pause, no word — and then returned to her cup.

I was older than the Stark girl, near-grown, with moon blood already marking me as a woman. Old enough for marriage, old enough for duty. And I knew my mother dreamt of it — dreamt of sending me far from her court, far from her perfect golden brood, a dark shadow removed from her table.

She smiled at Sansa as if she were the daughter she had wished for, while I sat at her elbow unacknowledged, unwanted.

And though I kept my face still, inside I burned.

Before the silence could sharpen further, Lady Catelyn spoke. “Your Grace,” she said with calm courtesy, “your elder daughter is lovely as well. A true princess.”

Her eyes lingered on me with a warmth I was not used to — a mother’s acknowledgment, as if she had noticed what Cersei would not.

Across the table, Robb’s gaze lifted briefly, his blue eyes meeting mine just for a moment before he looked down again.

Cersei’s smile did not falter, but her voice cooled. “Of course,” she said lightly, her eyes never truly resting on me. “The king’s firstborn is a credit to his line.” And with that, she turned back to her cup, dismissing the words as though they had been nothing at all.

Lady Catelyn said nothing more, but her glance told me she had noted the slight as keenly as I had.

By the time the torches burned low and my father roared with laughter at some woman draped across his lap, I had had enough. Mother dismissed us with her usual bite, snapping for us to return to our chambers. I obeyed outwardly. Inwardly, the rope around my neck only pulled tighter.

So I slipped out again.

The halls were quiet, the night sharp with frost. My boots carried me into the yard, where the stars burned hard above the battlements. A figure stood alone near the practice post, driving a knife into the wood again and again.

He was close to my age, perhaps older, his face shadowed but familiar. I remembered him from the morning — the boy who had stood apart, unnamed.

I paused. “You’ll ruin the blade,” I said, my voice breaking the silence.

He glanced at me, startled, then scowled faintly. “Better the blade than me.”

I tilted my head. “And what crime did the post commit?”

“Existing,” he muttered, and stabbed again.

I stepped closer, curiosity sharpening. “You weren’t introduced this morning.”

His eyes narrowed, guarded. “Not all of us are.”

I arched a brow. “So you’re either a ghost or a secret. I’d wager a secret. You look too solid for a ghost.”

For the first time, something like surprise flickered in his eyes — then the faintest twitch of a smile before it vanished. “And you. You’re not like your siblings.”

The words cut sharper than any blade. I swallowed hard, lifting my chin. “And you? You wear Stark’s face. Yet no one says your name.”

Silence stretched. Then at last he said, low, “Jon Snow.”

I let the name settle between us like frost. “Lyanna,” I answered simply.

At that, his eyes darkened — recognition, something unspoken. 

I watched the knife thud into the post, the wood splintering under his hand. “So,” I said at last, my voice even, “you’re Lord Stark’s son. But Lady Stark isn’t your mother.”

His jaw tightened. The knife struck again. “That’s right.”

The words came clipped, cold, as if he’d said them a hundred times and hated them each.

“And so you weren’t named this morning.”

He yanked the blade free, eyes fixed on the scarred post. “That’s the life of a bastard. No matter what name you carry, it’s never enough. Not here. Not anywhere.”

I stepped closer, my breath ghosting in the cold. My gaze lifted to the sky, where the stars burned sharp and clear, untouched by southern smoke. For a moment I said nothing.

Then, softly, “Sometimes I feel like a bastard too.”

He turned at that, brows drawn. “You’re a princess.”

I laughed, but it was bitter, thin. “A princess whose own mother looks at her as though she were a stranger. Who never seems to belong, no matter the hall. Tell me, Jon Snow—what’s the difference between being unwanted for your blood and unwanted for your name?”

He studied me, his grey eyes narrowing, as if weighing whether I spoke truth or just played at pity.

Finally, he said, “At least they gave you a name. A strong one.”

I looked back at him, at the steel in his voice, the shadows under his eyes. “Names can be a crown, or a curse. Sometimes both.”

Jon’s knife stilled in the post. He looked at me properly then, shadows in his grey eyes.

“You’re the first highborn outside my family who’s ever spoken to me,” he said quietly.

The words hung in the cold night, heavier than I expected.

I tilted my head, studying him. “And what did you think I’d do? Pretend you weren’t standing here? You’ve Stark written all over your face, whether they name you or not.”

His mouth twitched, something between a grimace and a smile. “Most prefer to look away. Easier to forget what doesn’t fit their world.”

I drew in a slow breath, my eyes lifting to the stars. “Then perhaps I don’t fit either. Maybe that’s why I saw you.”

He said nothing, but I felt the weight of his gaze on me, as if testing whether I meant it.

I turned back to him, lips curving faintly in something sharp. “Besides, if the old gods are watching, they’ll be pleased to see two outcasts keeping each other company. Makes their tree less lonely.”

That earned me the smallest huff of a laugh.

“I suppose you didn’t miss much at the feast,” I said, voice wry. “Except that your sister Sansa is promised to my brother Joffrey. It seems crowns and betrothals can be traded as easily as wine cups.”

Jon’s mouth tightened. “And you?”

I let out a short laugh, though it held no humor. “What about me?”

He leaned against the post, the knife still turning idly in his fingers. “You know many girls would beg for my brother Robb’s company rather than waste words on a bastard. He’s heir to Winterfell. Protector of the North, one day.”

His tone was flat, but his eyes searched for mine. Testing.

I looked at him steadily. “Then perhaps I’m not like many girls.”

That made him blink.

I let my gaze lift to the stars above, sharp and cold. “Besides… sometimes I think heirs and bastards are both chained by names they didn’t choose. The rest of the world only sees the title. Not the person.”

Jon studied me, the shadows of his face caught in torchlight. “And what do you see?”

I smirked faintly, sharp as the winter air. “A boy throwing knives at wood because he can’t throw them at the world. Honest, at least.”

His laugh was short, startled, but real.

And in that sound, for the first time since arriving in Winterfell, I felt the rope around my throat loosen.

Chapter Text

The hall had long gone quiet. The servants cleared the last of the trenchers, the fire burned low, and the castle had settled into sleep.

In their chambers, Catelyn Stark turned from the hearth, her gaze steady on her husband.

“You are leaving for King’s Landing,” she said quietly. “And you mean to take Sansa and Arya with you.”

Ned loosened the ties of his doublet, weary lines carved deep in his face. “It is Robert’s will. He would see Sansa betrothed to Joffrey.”

Catelyn’s brow furrowed. “Sansa is still young. Barely a maid grown. And if Robert is so eager to bind our houses… why not his elder daughter? Why not Lyanna, to Robb?”

Ned froze, the name striking him like a blow. Lyanna. He heard it too often these days, felt it in every glance at the girl who bore it.

Catelyn went on, steady, practical as ever. “He even named her after your sister, Ned. If the king wished for a true joining of our families, it would be the better match.”

Ned shook his head slowly. “She is a princess. Robert said it himself — she is higher than Sansa in the station. He would not give her hand so easily.”

“Robb is heir to Winterfell,” Catelyn countered, her voice firm. “When you ride south, he will be lord in all but name. He must wed, and soon. Better Robert’s daughter than some stranger from the Vale or the Reach. And did you not see how the queen looks at her? As though she were nothing at all. An empty place at her own table. The girl is not cherished in King’s Landing. She is adrift there. Here, Robb would not treat her so.”

Ned’s shoulders sagged, his hand running down the line of his beard. “I cannot go against Robert’s will, Cat. He is the king. His word stands.”

Catelyn studied him in silence, her face half-lit by the fire. Then she spoke, softer, almost reluctant: “Robb will need someone beside him, Ned. Not only for duty, but for strength. She has a fire in her, I saw it in her eyes. And fire may guard him when you cannot.”

Ned’s mouth tightened, his voice low. “If Robert has a will for her, he’ll speak it soon enough. Until then, we can only guard what is ours.”

The chamber fell quiet, save for the hiss of embers, and neither spoke again.

Chapter Text

The yard was hushed under frost, the kind of morning that bit at your skin until you learned to love the sting. Myrcella and Tommen still slept curled against featherbeds, Joffrey sulked somewhere, no doubt nursing his pride. Mother had vanished with her brothers, her voice echoing faintly down the stone halls.

I slipped outside, drawing my black cloak tight, and wandered the yard until I found a quiet corner where the snow clung undisturbed. The silence was a balm after the suffocating feast — the din of laughter, the sour tang of spilled ale, and the heat of too many voices crowding the hall.
“You don’t look much like a lion.”

The voice was crisp, dry as good wine. I turned to see my uncle Tyrion watching me, a goblet already in hand despite the early hour. His gaze glimmered with amusement.

I arched a brow. “That’s because I’m not one.”

He smirked. “No, but you sit in their den. Cruel joke, isn’t it? To be raised among lions when you wear the stag’s face.”

I tilted my head, matching his tone. “Cruel jokes are a Lannister specialty, aren’t they?”

That drew a genuine laugh from him, sudden and sharp. “Ah, sharper than you look. You’ll need that tongue.”

Tyrion swirled his wine lazily, his eyes glinting. “I saw you last night. Sitting beside your mother as if you were a ghost. Curious, isn’t it, how a queen hoards her children like jewels, yet discards the one that doesn’t sparkle the same?”

The words pricked, though I did not let him see it. I smirked faintly. “That’s because she prefers mirrors. I don’t reflect on her well.”

Tyrion’s laugh softened into something keener. “No, you don’t. And Robert, gods bless his wine-soaked heart, is still besotted with the memory of a wolf-girl he lost long ago. Your very name is a thorn in your mother’s side. And thorns…” He swirled his cup. “…are never cherished in a queen’s garden.”

I drew my cloak tighter against the cold. “Better a thorn than a petal. Petals wilt.”

His brows lifted in approval. “Spoken like someone who’s already felt the frost.”

A raven cawed overhead. Snow fell in slow, lazy flakes, dusting his cloak.

He regarded me for a long moment, then said, “I’ll give you one piece of advice, niece. I’ve survived this family by remembering: never bare your throat. Keep your teeth sharp, your wits sharper.”

“And if I do?”

He grinned, sly and crooked. “Then you might just surprise us all.”

For a moment, silence stretched. A raven cawed from the walltop, snow drifting down in lazy flakes.

His gaze shifted past me, toward the inner court where the clash of swords rang against the morning air. Two figures circled in the yard: one auburn-haired and proud, the other darker, quicker, his stance wary but sure.

“Ah,” Tyrion mused. “Ned’s sons. The heir and the bastard. Tell me—have you had the pleasure of their company yet?”

I followed his glance, catching sight of Robb Stark’s steady form, Jon Snow’s sharp movements. My chest tightened with memory—the godswood’s silence, the yard’s shadows.

“Should I?” I asked at last, voice light but edged.

Tyrion’s eyes glinted as the sound of steel rang from the yard. “The heir will give you duty, the bastard a truth. Both can be dangerous.”

I held his gaze, steady. “I never wanted duty forced upon me.” The words came easily, without hesitation.

But truth… My chest tightened, memory pricking like a thorn — the truth I already knew about my siblings, a truth I had buried because I must.

I forced a smirk, turning back toward him. “And as for the truth? Truth can be sharper than any sword. If the wrong ears hear it, truth breeds wars.”

Tyrion chuckled, swirling the wine in his cup. “No wonder I prefer you over the rest of Cersei’s brood. At least you don’t speak like you were minted from the same mold.”

Steel rang in the crisp morning air. Robb’s blade met Jon’s again and again, the rhythm steady as their breath clouded white in the cold.

“You’re slow today,” Robb said, shoving him back with a grunt.

Jon tightened his grip, dark hair falling in his eyes. “Or you’re too eager to prove yourself in front of the royal’s blood.”

Robb smirked, though his guard never dropped. “The queen’s daughter was watching.”

Jon parried hard, their swords clashing. “Which one?”

“The elder,” Robb said, his voice tightening slightly as he pushed forward. “Lyanna.”

Jon caught the blow, their blades locked. “What of her?”

Robb shoved him back, chest rising with effort. “She’s porcelain. Fine by the fire, but shatters when winter bites.”

Jon’s blade hung in the air a moment before he struck again. “You think you know her from one glance?”

Robb pressed forward. “I saw her in the godswood. She didn’t pray—just wandered, as if the place were a curiosity.”

Jon parried hard. “And you think that makes her fragile?”

The ring of steel echoed as Robb pressed hard, forcing Jon back.

“Father and the king already betrothed Sansa to the golden prince,” Jon said, his words clipped, bitter. “And they’re still here, drinking and feasting like nothing’s changed. Do you think you’d escape that fate, Robb? That girl—your mother will never find a better match for you. King’s blood, wearing the name of our aunt. She was born to be bartered.”

Robb’s jaw clenched. He shoved Jon back, anger flickering in his blue eyes. “She’s not mine. And don’t speak as if you know her fate.”

Jon pressed again, harder, his blade ringing. “I know the way it works. She doesn’t get a choice. None of us do.”

“She’s a princess,” Robb said, steady, echoing his father’s judgment. “That’s all there is to it.” He forced Jon back another step. “Pretty face, high station. She belongs in King’s Landing, not Winterfell.”

Jon circled, dark eyes narrowing.

For a heartbeat, Robb’s thoughts betrayed him: pale skin, green eyes too sharp to be meek, raven-dark waves that caught the torchlight. Beauty that could have stolen any man’s breath—his included. Guilt burned hot, and he struck harder to banish it.

“She’ll have no lack of admirers in the South,” he said firmly, as though the words themselves might scour her image from his mind. “Crowds of lords dancing around her, pressing flowers into her hands, draping her in jewels.”

Jon caught the blow, anger sparking in his voice. “You think that makes her free? It’s another kind of cage. The crown decides where she goes, not her.”

“Better a cage of gold than frost and hunger,” Robb said flatly, as though trying to convince himself. “She wouldn’t last a northern winter.”

Jon said nothing, his strikes quicker now, sharper. He remembered the girl in the yard last night — black cloak catching starlight, defiance in her voice when she said sometimes I feel like a bastard too.

But he bit back the words. Robb wouldn’t understand. Perhaps no one would.

Chapter Text

The chamber was heavy with firelight, warm enough that it stifled. The sharp scent of wool and beeswax clung in the air, and the only sound for a long while was the scratch of needles through cloth.

Cersei sat beside Lady Stark, gold gleaming at her throat, her expression poised in a mask of courtesy. Myrcella leaned against her, all softness and grace, her golden head bent close to Sansa’s auburn one. The two of them whispered and giggled over their stitches, trading talk of lemon cakes, gardens in bloom, and the splendor of the South.

Sansa’s cheeks glowed pink, her eyes shining as though she could already see herself among the rose gardens of King’s Landing, clothed in silks and jewels. Myrcella fed the dream sweetly, as if she were handing over sugared almonds.

Across the bench, Arya stabbed her needle clumsily through the cloth, scowling at the mess she was making. Her tongue poked between her teeth, determination warring with frustration. The thread tangled. The cloth bunched. At last she huffed, tossed it aside, and slumped back against the wall.

I sat between them all, a stranger in the warmth. My needle pricked neat little patterns almost by habit, but I hardly saw them. The air felt close, too close, as Sansa murmured about sweet princes and fair songs.  

Myrcella’s voice rang bright: “When we return to the capital, you must walk with me in the gardens, Sansa. They’re filled with lemon trees, fountains, birds that sing sweeter than any in the North.”

“Oh, I’d love that,” Sansa breathed. Her needle glided as though it sewed flowers into life.

Beside me, Arya snorted. “Birds and fountains. I’d rather have a sword.”

Her mother’s head turned, sharp. “Arya.”

But Arya was already sliding off the bench, her embroidery abandoned in a heap. Before Lady Stark could call her back, she slipped out the door, quick and light as a shadow.

“I’ll find her,” I said, laying my hoop aside before anyone else could rise.

Cersei’s eyes flicked to me, sharp as a pin, but she said nothing. Lady Stark only inclined her head, weary but grateful.

I stood with grace — the way I had been taught in the Red Keep, every movement smooth and proper, the training of a princess etched into my bones. In every line of me I carried courtly manners, even when I longed to shed them. A sharp contrast to Arya’s wild flight.

In truth, it wasn’t duty that moved me. It was an escape.

The chamber’s warmth had smothered me, the giggles of my sister and Sansa ringing false in my ears. Talk of lemon trees and princes was sweet enough for them, but to me it was dull, cloying. I wanted air — cold and sharp.

So I followed Arya’s footsteps out into the stone halls, and the fire’s weight fell away.

The cold struck like a blessing the moment I stepped outside. From across the yard came the steady clang of steel, blades ringing against one another in sharp rhythm.

I followed the sound and found them: Robb and Jon, circling with swords, their breath misting in the morning light. Robb moved like his father—strong, steady, measured—while Jon darted quicker, sharper, his face set in fierce concentration.

Not far off, Arya stood with a bow almost as tall as she was, Bran and Rickon cheering as she loosed arrows at a straw target. Half of them flew wide into the snow, but the other half struck the post or thudded into the edges of the target with satisfying force. She grinned with every shot, wild and bright, as though missing hardly mattered.

They noticed me as I crossed the yard, boots crunching softly against the frost. It was a strange contrast to the chaos before me—the clash of steel, the wild laughter of children, Arya’s hair flying loose as she reached for another arrow.

Robb lowered his sword first, though he kept his guard half-raised. “The yard isn’t for princesses.”

I lifted a brow. “Neither is Arya a septa. And yet she seems perfectly content.”

Arya turned, her grin widening when she saw me. “Finally! Someone who doesn’t look ready to die of boredom.”

Jon pushed dark hair from his eyes, his voice flat. “Words won’t keep you warm in winter.”

I met his gaze coolly. “Neither will silence.”

That earned me a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—before he looked away.

Arya came bounding toward me, bow in hand, her cheeks flushed from the cold. “I wish you were my sister, not Sansa. She only cares about stitches and songs. At least you don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

Her words caught me off guard. I only smirked and brushed a strand of hair back from my face. “Careful, Arya. Sisters bicker.”

“I’d rather bicker than sew roses,” she said fiercely.

Bran laughed. “She never bickers—she fights.”

Rickon chimed in, “And runs faster than anyone!”

Robb shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Arya’s different. She’s a Stark through and through. You…” His eyes flicked over me briefly, hesitating. “…you don’t belong to this yard.”

For a heartbeat, the yard fell still. The clang of steel faded as Robb’s eyes met mine, cool and measuring, the faintest hint of disdain shadowing his face.

I knew that look. I had seen it before — not in King’s Landing, where lords showered me with compliments, hoping for favor, for a match, for a crown. Down there, I was flattered, courted, treated like a jewel. Here, in the North, Robb Stark’s gaze carried none of that. No flattery. No courtesy. Only judgment, sharp and cold as the air itself.

It stung more than I expected. And it angered me.

I turned from him deliberately, letting my attention fall on Arya, who still clutched her bow with flushed cheeks and eager eyes. A small smile curved my lips as I crouched slightly to meet her gaze.

“May I borrow that?” I asked softly. “Just for a minute.”

Arya blinked, then grinned as though I had offered her a secret. “Of course!” She pressed the bow into my hands with something close to delight. I rose again, straightening with the grace drilled into me.

If Robb Stark meant to measure me with cold eyes, then let him measure this.

I drew the string back, the bow heavier than I’d imagined, but my grip steady. The yard had fallen quiet, even the younger boys holding their breath.

The arrow flew — not to the very heart of the target, but close enough to thud into the straw just shy of center. The sound cracked through the cold air.

For a moment, silence.

Then Arya let out a whoop, bouncing on her toes. “Did you see that? She’s better than me already!” Bran and Rickon clapped wildly, their voices carrying across the yard.

I let the bow fall to my side, my lips curving into a small, polite smile. I handed it back to Arya, smoothing the gesture with courtly grace. “Shh. You don’t want our mothers to find us out here, do you?”

Arya giggled, hugging the bow to her chest, but her eyes were bright with admiration.

I turned, meeting Robb’s gaze. He said nothing, though his jaw was set tight, his blue eyes shadowed with something he couldn’t quite hide — surprise, and perhaps the faintest spark of doubt in himself.

Jon slid his blade back into its scabbard, stepping closer to his brother. His voice dropped low, meant only for Robb’s ear. “Not so porcelain after all,” he murmured. “Seems you were wrong.”

Robb’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He turned back to the practice post without a word.

But I had seen the way his eyes lingered before he looked away.

The sounds of laughter and clashing steel were cut short by the sudden appearance of Lady Catelyn in the gallery above the yard. She descended quickly, skirts whispering, her expression stern. For a fleeting moment, I thought her gaze might fall on me with the same cold judgment I knew so well from my mother. But instead, there was something else in her eyes — a flicker, not of scorn, but of something nearer to concern. Perhaps even a sliver of admiration.

Her voice was sharp as she addressed the others. “Arya. Back inside. You need to start packing your things.”

Arya groaned but obeyed, clutching her bow.

Catelyn’s gaze shifted to Bran and Rickon, who were still chasing each other about. “And you boys — lessons with Maester Luwin. At once.”

Then she turned to Robb, her voice softening just slightly. “Robb. Your father is waiting. He wishes to speak with you before he leaves Winterfell.”

Robb nodded, sheathing his sword. His eyes lingered on me for the briefest moment before he followed after his mother.

Not once did she glance at Jon. Not once. The absence was sharp enough to sting, though I kept my face still. It felt like déjà vu — the same way my mother looked through me, as though I were an empty place.

Finally, Lady Catelyn turned to me. Her tone shifted, polite but firm. “Princess Lyanna, you should return to the castle as well. It’s chilly. You’ll catch a cold.”

I inclined my head, lips curved in a small smile. “Don’t worry, Lady Catelyn. I’ll go soon.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer, then turned and swept the rest of them away. The yard emptied in her wake, save for Jon, who bent to gather Arya’s scattered arrows from the snow.

I hesitated, then crossed to him, kneeling to help. The frost bit through my skirts as I plucked an arrow from the ground.

“The princess shouldn’t be doing this,” Jon said without looking up.

I tilted my head, smirking faintly. “Do you mean picking arrows… or bending in the snow at all?”

He gave the smallest shrug. “Both.”

I ignored the jab, brushing snow from the shaft of the arrow. “Where did you learn that?” he asked at last, his tone quieter. “I doubt the queen allows her daughter to play with bows.”

I laughed, though the sound came out bitter. “Gods, no. If she knew, she’d tear the fletching from my hands. She doesn’t allow me to do anything that doesn’t sound princely enough. My uncle Jaime taught me, when he wasn’t training in the yard himself. Strange, isn’t it?”

My voice dropped low without meaning to, softer, shaded with the weight of something unsaid. Even if I don’t look like a Lannister.

I cleared my throat quickly, glancing aside. “My mother worries about appearances. She doesn’t let me hold anything that might roughen my hands, doesn’t let me eat sweets after dinner — worried that a single blemish might frighten away some pampered lord she’s waiting to marry me off to.”

The words hung cold between us, as sharp as the frost underfoot.

Jon looked at me then, truly looked, his grey eyes unreadable.

Jon bent to gather another arrow, his voice low. “I understood what you meant. The truth of it. You’re right — I know what it is to be out of place. To be unwanted. But still… you’re a princess, Lyanna. You have more choices than most.”

I gave a short laugh and shook my head. “Choices?” My voice dripped with dry amusement. “Yes, I can choose which dress to wear. Which necklace gleams better in the firelight. Whether I prefer venison or pheasant at dinner. Grand choices, Jon Snow. The kind that change nothing.”

He frowned, lips pressing thin, and for a moment he said nothing. His tone was quiet, edged with bitterness. “And yet many girls would sell their souls for that. For lords chasing them, for suitors courting them.”

I gathered the last of Arya’s arrows from the snow and held them out to him with a smirk. “And how many of those suitors do you think see me? Not Lyanna. Not a girl. Only a princess. An opportunity to sit closer to the crown. A warm place in court.”

The arrows passed into his hand. Our eyes met for a heartbeat — his grey, mine green — and for once, there were no titles between us.

Jon slid the bundle of arrows beneath his arm, his gaze still fixed on me. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind curling through the yard. Then he gave a short, humorless breath.

“You think you’re the only one unwanted?” His jaw tightened. “I’ve been reminded of it every day of my life. I’m a bastard. I’ll never inherit land, or name, or Father’s pride. My place is the Wall, if I’m lucky. Nothing more.”

I studied him, the honesty raw in his voice. He rarely offered it, I realized, and I had no idea why he gave it to me now. Perhaps because I had given him mine.

“At least you’re a man,” I said softly, the words cutting sharper for the truth they carried. “At least you’re free. No one expects you to marry out of duty. No one will dress you in jewels and trade you to some mannered, dull lord, to endure him for the rest of your life while you give him heirs.”

He frowned, unsettled, but I pressed on.

“You think your lack of name is a curse? I’d call it freedom. You carry no crown, no title, no weight of duty you never asked for. That’s your power, Jon Snow. The world looks past you… but at least it doesn’t bind you.”

I gave a short, bitter laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “Believe me—gold and silk are the most overrated things in the realm.”

His grey eyes held mine, steady and unreadable. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there—understanding, yes, but also doubt, as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe me.

Then he huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “You don’t sound much like a princess.”

I smirked faintly, gathering the last arrow from the snow and pressing it into his hand. “Good. I’d hate to bore you.”

With that, I turned and crossed the yard, skirts brushing against the frost, the cold biting sharp against my cheeks.

I cursed myself for saying too much, for letting Jon Snow of all people see further than I ever intended. The cold bit at my cheeks as I walked away, but it was nothing compared to the chill I’d left behind.

Chapter Text

Part I – Robb’s POV

The frost crunched under the horses’ hooves as they rode out into the pale morning. Their breaths steamed in the cold, hounds barking at the scent of game. Robb shifted in his saddle, the familiar weight of sword and bow at his side. He had ridden hunts before with his father, but never with a king.

King Robert was in his element, booming laughter rolling through the trees, his face ruddy with wine from breakfast. “Ah, the air of the North! Makes a man feel alive.” He clapped Lord Stark on the shoulder so hard that even Robb winced at the sound.

Jon rode a little behind, quiet as ever, his dark eyes watchful. Joffrey was further ahead, gold hair catching the weak sun, his mouth already set in a pout.

“Seven hells, it’s cold,” Joffrey muttered, shivering into his fine cloak. “How can anyone live in this frozen waste?”

Robert wheeled his horse toward him, eyes blazing. “Cold? You call this cold? Gods, boy, your sister Lyanna hasn’t uttered a word of complaint since we left King’s Landing. She bears it better than you, trembling like a maid.”

The words struck sharper than Robert knew.

Robb’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling against the reins. He told himself it meant nothing — only a king’s careless boast — yet it lodged in his chest all the same. He had believed that soft southern girls couldn’t endure the North. He had told himself as much only yesterday.

And now the king himself praised her, while Joffrey sulked into his cloak.

Robb glanced sidelong at Jon. If Jon heard the words, he gave no sign, though Robb thought he saw the faintest curl of his mouth — a half-smirk, gone as quick as it came.

Robb fixed his gaze forward, but his mind betrayed him. It wandered back to the yard yesterday — the moment Lyanna Baratheon had taken Arya’s bow and loosed an arrow close to center. A princess with a bowstring between her fingers.

Did she ride as well? The thought came unbidden: skirts lifted, legs steady against the saddle, raven-dark hair loose in the wind. Heat pricked his cheeks. He scowled and shoved the image away. Seven hells, what was he doing, thinking of her like that?

Hooves crunched beside him. Jon had urged his horse forward, grey eyes cutting toward him, sharp as the air itself.

“Tell me, brother,” Jon said, voice pitched low with a trace of mockery. “Is it the frost that makes your cheeks so red?”

Robb forced his eyes ahead. “Mind your horse, Jon.”

Jon’s smirk lingered, though he said nothing for a while. Then his voice came quieter, edged with something that almost sounded like pride. “She’s not what you think.”

Robb didn’t need to ask who.

“Lyanna,” Jon added anyway, the name stark in the cold air. “She spoke to me last night. Honestly. Highborn girls don’t waste words on bastards. But she did. Different, that one.”

Robb kept his gaze ahead, jaw set. A part of him bristled at Jon’s words — not for the pride in them, but for the echo of truth he couldn’t shake. He remembered her eyes flashing green in the torchlight, remembered the bowstring taut in her hands. He shoved it aside.

“You’ve known her for two days,” Robb said flatly. “She’s the king’s daughter. Soon enough, they’ll be gone back south, and you’ll be riding to the Wall with Uncle Benjen. Best not to occupy your mind with things that won’t matter after.”

Jon’s lips curved into a dry, humorless smile. “And yet you think of her too. I can see it.”

Robb’s hand tightened on the reins, his voice iron. “What I think of is Winterfell. When Father leaves, it’s mine to hold. The bannermen will look to me, the North to me. That is where my mind lies, Jon Snow. Not with her.”

Jon’s smirk lingered, but he said nothing more.

Part II – Lyanna’s POV

Cersei was absent. No surprise — she had likely exhausted her store of courtesy and retreated to her brother’s company, while my father thundered through the woods chasing game with Lord Stark and his sons. I envied how easily she could slip away, though I doubted Lady Stark would ever permit the same of me.

The solar was warm, firelight flickering across hangings worked with direwolves. Lady Catelyn sat straight-backed in her chair, Sansa at her side with her careful stitches, Arya frowning at her tangled thread, Myrcella chattering softly.

I had brought a small box with me, lacquer gleaming in the firelight — gifts chosen before we left King’s Landing, hidden until the right moment.

I began with Lady Catelyn. “For you, my lady,” I said, placing the case in her hands. Inside lay a brooch of silver shaped like a trout, its scales set with tiny blue stones that caught the light like river water.

A flicker passed her face — surprise, then something steadier. She looked at me closely before inclining her head. “You are thoughtful, Princess.”

I turned to her daughters. From the box I drew two hairpins, delicate but strong. One was gold, shaped with roses; the other silver, twined like running vines.

“In the South, ladies pin their braids high,” I said, placing one in Sansa’s palm and the other in Arya’s. “It shows the neck, elegant but still practical. My mother always told me a woman’s hair should be her crown.”

Sansa’s eyes lit as though she could already see herself crowned with roses. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

Arya eyed hers warily until I leaned closer and murmured, “And if it dulls, it’s sharp enough to stick into a boy who annoys you.”

Her grin broke wide. “I like it.”

Lady Catelyn had been watching all the while — not with my mother’s cold judgment, but with something quieter. Caution, yes, but also a hint of approval. At that moment, I knew nothing of how much this small gesture — this gift given out of respect — would change my life.

Part III – Catelyn’s POV

That evening, when the hall had quieted and her daughters were abed, Catelyn sat before the fire with her sewing set aside. The silver brooch rested cool in her palm, the blue stones catching the firelight like rippling river water.

It was a thoughtful gift — too thoughtful to be mere courtesy.

She thought of the girl who had placed it there. Princess Lyanna Baratheon was lovely, yes, but not in the brittle, polished way of her mother. There was sincerity in her, and a courtesy that felt natural, not drilled into her. Catelyn could not imagine a more suitable wife for Robb.

And yet Robert would never allow it. He seemed to believe his daughter was too fine for the North, too much of a jewel to be left in Winterfell. And Ned… Ned did not want her here at all. Her very name was a wound that had never healed.

But Catelyn had seen what Robert and Ned would not. She had seen the way the queen’s gaze slid over her daughter, cold and dismissive. Cersei smiled for Joffrey, cherished Myrcella, indulged Tommen — but for the dark-haired girl, nothing. Not even recognition.

Catelyn had never divided her love so. Sansa and Arya were different as sun and shadow, yet both were hers, and she loved them wholly. The queen, though, cast her own child aside as if she were an inconvenience.

Something in Catelyn stirred at that. A quiet instinct, almost maternal, surprising in its strength. Protectiveness, sharp and sudden.

Her gaze fell to Robb’s cloak drying by the hearth. One day he would bear the North’s weight. He would need a wife who was more than soft hands and sweet words — one who could bend without breaking.

Her fingers closed around the brooch. Perhaps Lyanna Baratheon was more suited to the North than anyone yet realized.

Chapter Text

The morning was bright with frost, the kind that made breath curl white in the air and laughter ring sharper. Catelyn lingered in the gallery overlooking the inner yard, her hands folded within her cloak as she watched the children below.

Bran and Rickon dashed through the snow, shrieking with glee as they pelted each other with half-formed snowballs. Arya darted among them, quick as a fox, her laughter carrying clear. Tommen, timid at first, had been pulled into the game, and now his giggles mingled with Bran’s. Even Sansa joined, though her play was gentler, hovering nearer to Myrcella as if to keep her company.

But it was Lyanna Baratheon who drew Catelyn’s eye. Her dark hair was loose from its braids, her cheeks flushed red with the cold, her skirts dusted with snow. She was laughing — truly laughing — as she chased Rickon in circles, letting him tackle her into the drift, both of them breathless with mirth. There was no trace of courtly poise in her then, no mask of courtesy. Just a girl, alive and unguarded.

Beside her, Queen Cersei watched too, though her gaze never wavered from Myrcella and Tommen. She called out once, sharply, when Tommen stumbled, though the boy only laughed and rose again. Myrcella’s cheeks glowed, her golden hair damp with melting flakes, but her mother’s expression remained tight, as though even joy were something to be endured.

Catelyn descended the steps into the yard, boots crunching softly on frost, and came to stand beside the queen. She inclined her head.

“Your Grace,” she said lightly, her eyes still on the children. “It seems the morning is lively. Our sons and daughters have found their joy in the snow.”

Cersei’s lips curved, but not with warmth. “Tommen and Myrcella don’t enjoy the cold,” she said.

But Catelyn had seen their laughter, and children did not hide joy so easily. Her gaze shifted to where Lyanna knelt, helping Rickon pack a snowball while Arya shouted encouragement. The girl looked wholly at home among them.

Catelyn caught her chance. For the girl. For Robb. Perhaps even for the North. She drew a breath, keeping her tone mild. “Your elder daughter seems happy. She wears the snow well.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “She is old enough to know better than childish games. At her age, I was already wed to Robert. Heavy with her.” Her mouth thinned, her gaze sharp on the girl. “But Robert keeps her at his side, no matter how I remind him that she is nearly a woman grown.”

The words cut like a knife. Catelyn folded her hands within her cloak. “Perhaps willfulness can be tempered with duty. The North values both strength and loyalty. In time, such traits may serve her well… as a wife.”

Cersei laughed low, bitter as old wine. “Ah. So that is the thought. To tether her here in the frost, beside your wolf son. How very northern of you.”

“A marriage binds more than two children,” Catelyn answered evenly. “It ties houses, steadies kingdoms. And it keeps kin where they are cherished.”

The queen’s gaze gleamed like ice. “Cherished? Do you truly believe that child is cherished in my house? Look at her.” She gestured toward Lyanna, who had just let Rickon topple her into the snow, their laughter ringing off the walls. “Snow on her hair, mud on her hem. Robert named her for his ghost and looks at her as if she were some precious relic. To me, she is nothing but a shadow cast where I never asked for one.”

Catelyn’s heart thudded, but her voice stayed calm. “If she is a burden to you, then perhaps in Winterfell she may find a place where she is not.”

Cersei’s lips curved again, cruel amusement lighting her face. “A fine match, then. Your Robb may have her, if Robert can be made to see sense. She was made for snow, not courts. If Winterfell will have her, so be it. Better she haunt your halls than mine.”

Her words fell like frost between them. Catelyn turned her face away, lest the queen see the flicker of triumph that rose in her.

Above the laughter of children, the threads had already begun to tighten.

Chapter Text

Cersei Lannister seldom crossed the threshold of Robert’s chambers. Their marriage had long since soured into formality: his whores, her cold disdain. Yet that evening, she carried a flagon of wine in her own hands, the ruby liquid catching firelight as she poured it into the king’s goblet.

Robert looked up from his seat, surprised. His broad face was already flushed with drink, his shirt half unlaced, his eyes bleary but still sharp enough to mark her unusual gesture.

“Well,” he grunted, taking the goblet. “You never pour for me. What’s the game, woman?”

She smiled faintly, smooth as silk. “No game, my king. Only a wife offering comfort after a long hunt.”

He snorted, but drank deep, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Hunt was nothing. No stag worth the chase.” His gaze narrowed. “You didn’t come here to speak of stags.”

Cersei moved closer, letting her hand linger briefly on the flagon. Her voice was light, conversational, honed to sound effortless. “I spent the morning watching the children in the yard. They play well together, despite the cold. Tommen laughed so hard I feared he would lose his breath. Myrcella shone like spring.” 

Robert grunted again, reaching for more wine. She poured.

“And Lyanna,” she continued, careful as a blade, “she laughed with them as though she belonged there. I have rarely seen her so at ease.” 

Cersei continued, her tone sharpened by practiced care. “She likes this place. She said she felt free here, unburdened, as though the North suited her. She even spoke of Robb Stark. With such honesty — not courtly flattery, not girlish fancy — but plain words from the heart.”

The lie slipped from her lips as smoothly as the truth; she had been so good at it her whole life that even she sometimes believed herself.

Robert’s brows knit. “Robb Stark?”

“A good match,” she said smoothly. “Handsome, strong, raised to duty. And she already favors him, Robert. I know what I heard — and I am her mother. Who better than a mother can know her child’s heart?”

Robert drank again, his great hand tightening around the goblet. “Lyanna… she is my firstborn…” His words trailed off, lost in the ghost of a name he never spoke without pain.

Cersei pressed the advantage, her tone soft as silk. “I am her mother. I know her heart better than any. She wants a life here. And what better match than Robb Stark? Lord Stark’s heir, Warden of the North to come. It binds houses, strengthens oaths, and keeps her where she is happiest. Would you deny her that?”

The king’s eyes clouded, the weight of wine and memory pressing heavy upon him. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he grunted, voice low. “Robb Stark. A good boy, true steel in him. Not like that golden-haired peacock of mine.” He spat into the fire. “Maybe there’s sense in it.”

Robert stared into the flames, the goblet heavy in his hand. At last, he muttered, “Strange. First time I’ve heard you speak of her without scorn.” His gaze flickered, distant. “But you’re right in one thing —  A wolf to guard her… aye, I believe he could be better to her than most I’ve seen at court.”

Cersei raised her cup, her smile smooth and poisonous as ever. “Good. The Starks have gained more in these few days than most houses do in a lifetime. Their lord becomes Hand of the King, one daughter soon to wear a crown, and now their heir promised a princess. Winterfell will be well-favored indeed.”

She drank, green eyes gleaming in the firelight. Let Robert drown in his wine and ghosts, let Ned Stark clutch his honor like armor. Wolves might think themselves favored now — but winter always takes its due.

The godswood lay hushed beneath a pale sky, the weirwood’s red leaves stirring faintly in the cold breeze. Robb stood before it, his breath misting white, the set of his shoulders stiff.

“It is done,” Catelyn said quietly. “The king has spoken. Your father gave his consent.”

Robb did not turn to her. His hands curled at his sides. “And Lyanna?”

“She will be informed as well.”

His jaw tightened. “So I’m to be betrothed to a girl who’ll hear of it last. As if her life mattered less than mine.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “Not that it changes anything. We’ve barely spoken. She hardly even notices me. I’m no perfumed lord in silk like she’s used to. I’m the North — cold, duty, stone. She’s South, bred for courts and crowns. Winterfell would break her.”

Catelyn laid a hand upon his arm. “Do not be so quick to judge, Robb. Do not forget — I am of the South as well.”

At that, he turned, frowning.

“I was younger than you when I came to Winterfell,” she went on. “I knew little of your father. I was meant for his brother Brandon, before the Mad King killed him. Your father and I did not love each other when we wed. But with time, with trials, with children… love grew strong. Stronger than I ever thought possible.”

She studied him, voice firm. “Lyanna may yet be the same. You did not see it, but I did. She brought gifts for me and your sisters, unasked. She played with your brothers as though they were her own. She is nothing like her mother. Not some porcelain doll wrapped in silk. You judge her only by where she was born, not by who she is.”

Robb hesitated, eyes narrowing. “Mother… you speak as though you arranged it yourself.”

“I did not,” she said steadily. “The king’s will and your father’s word made it so. But I would be lying if I said I was displeased. You will bear the weight of Winterfell when your father rides south. You will need a partner who can share it. And for all her youth, I believe Lyanna might grow into that.”

His mouth tightened. “And if she doesn’t? If she never comes to love me?”

Catelyn’s gaze softened, though her words carried iron. “Then you will not shame her. You are your father’s son — honorable, steadfast. There is little age between you, and by the gods, Robb — you are comely enough. That alone can spark affection.” Her voice dropped, fierce with conviction. “And I have seen the way the queen looks through her own child. No mother should look at her daughter so. One way or another, Lyanna would be wed. Better to you, to the North, than bartered to some cruel stranger. You are the better choice for her, Robb. In every way.”

Robb’s gaze lifted to the pale, bleeding face of the weirwood. His lips pressed thin. “Even so,” he murmured, “she should have been asked. She deserved that much.”

Catelyn said nothing more. She let her hand rest a moment longer on his arm, steady as stone.

Beyond the godswood walls, Lyanna Baratheon laughed in the snow — unaware her fate had been sealed without her voice, without her choice.

Perhaps it was Cersei’s tongue that bent Robert’s will, not the girl’s heart. Yet Catelyn told herself it did not matter. She believed she had done this for Lyanna’s good — and for her son’s.

The weirwood only wept its red sap in silence, as if the old gods alone knew the truth.

Chapter Text

Steam curled heavy in the chamber, fogging the stone walls, carrying the faint scent of lavender oil. I sank deeper into the bath, letting the warmth seep into my bones after the morning’s play in the yard. The cold of the North lingered in my skin, but here it melted away. For once, I felt almost at peace.

The door creaked.

I turned, startled, as Queen Cersei swept into the room. Her red silk trailed like blood, her face carved in cold serenity. With a flick of her hand, she dismissed the maids. They bowed and scurried out, the door shutting softly behind them.

The chamber fell silent but for the drip of water and the crackle of the hearth.

She had taken me at my most vulnerable — stripped of furs and silks, with only bathwater between us. I pressed my lips into a thin line, refusing to cover myself. If she sought shame, she would find none here.

“Have we begun the journey plans yet? When do we leave for King’s Landing?” I asked coolly, my voice sharper than the steam around us.

Cersei’s smile curved, faint and cruel, her golden hair damp from the bath’s heat. “Soon,” she said, her tone a blade wrapped in silk. “But not you.”

The words stilled me. My chest tightened. “What do you mean?” I asked, quiet, though the question burned hot on my tongue.

Her eyes gleamed, savoring the strike. “Your father has decided. You are betrothed — to Lord Stark’s heir. Robb. The young wolf.”

The bath seemed suddenly colder. My fingers curled beneath the water, nails pressing into my palms.

Robb Stark. The boy with the straight shoulders and the piercing, icy eyes. Eyes that looked through me as if weighing and measuring every flaw. I had seen him sparring in the yard, seen him laugh with Jon, seen him frown at me as though I were some fragile southern trinket that would shatter in the frost. A dutiful son, a true Stark.

What life awaited me beside him? Stone walls and endless frost, mornings in godswoods and nights in drafty halls. Sons and daughters bred for duty, my every choice weighed as if the North itself demanded it. I was not yet seventeen, yet my whole life was to be shaped by bonds I did not choose — cold as snow, quiet as silence.

“So that’s it,” I said at last, my voice flat, scorn scraping each word. “A marriage made, and the last to know is the bride. How fitting.”

Cersei moved closer, her steps deliberate. She sat on the edge of the tub, silk brushing against wet stone, and lifted a cloth a maid had left behind. She dipped it into the steaming water, wrung it out slowly, and pressed it to my shoulder.

To any other eye, it might have looked motherly. But her touch was poison.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” she murmured. “A match in the North suits you better than King’s Landing ever did. You were never mine, Lyanna. Too dark, too willful. Robert’s daughter, through and through. Now you’ll be their burden.”

My head snapped toward her, my eyes sharp. “Robert’s daughter? You already forget it was you who bore me under your heart. You who gave me breath. My mistake, then, was not being born of the man you loved. And now you would give me the same fate — to a man I barely know, to a life I did not choose.”

Her hand shot up suddenly, gripping my chin, nails digging into my skin until it stung. Her green eyes gleamed with triumph.

“You want truth, child?” she hissed. “You know how you were conceived? On my wedding night. Your father was half-mad with wine, and when he climbed onto me, do you know what he whispered in my ear?” Her lips curled, her voice like venom. “Lyanna. Her name. Not mine. Never mine.He loved her more, even in death, than he has ever loved me.”

Her grip on my chin tightened, nails biting into skin. “Back then, I was young, foolish enough to hope. I thought with time, with children, with years of marriage, he would forget her. I screamed for hours bringing you into this world, torn apart to give him his firstborn daughter. And what did he do? He named you for her.”

Her hand dropped away, sharp and dismissive, though her eyes burned. “From that day, I knew. Your name was proof enough. And every time I looked at you, I saw only that he gave his heart to a corpse, and left me with his crown.”

She straightened, gathering her skirts as if to shake me off her entirely. “And now,” her smile curved, cruel and cold, “I return the favor. Lyanna goes back to Winterfell.”

My throat tightened, but I forced the words out, low and steady. “I am not that woman. I never knew her. Yet because of a name I did not choose, because of choices my father made before I was even born, I carry her shadow.”

Cersei leaned closer, her voice soft, almost sweet. “And soon, you will carry the North as well. Enjoy your wolf, girl. Their beds are cold, their hearts colder. You’ll find no songs, no warmth, no love. Let them bear you, if they wish. I am done.”

I lifted my chin. “Better burden of frost than chains of gold. At least in the North, I won’t rot pretending to be a queen who can’t even rule her own bed.”

Her eyes flared, just for a heartbeat, but she smoothed it away with a smile.

“Sharp tongue,” she said softly. “But sharp tongues break as easily as they cut. You think this life is cruel? Wait until you spend your years with that boy in stone halls, birthing wolves while winter howls outside. You’ll beg for the silks and the songs you sneer at now.”

I leaned back in the water, feigning ease, though my heart raced. “And you? Do you ever beg, Mother? Or do you just drink your bitterness until it tastes sweet?”

Her hand froze, cloth still on my shoulder. The smile faltered, though only for a breath.

I pressed on, voice like steel beneath the steam.

“Perhaps I am chains to you. But chains don’t only bind — they can cut too. We’ll see which I become.”

She dropped the cloth back into the bath, the splash loud in the silence. Rising swiftly, she swept her silks around her, her green eyes alight with something fierce — anger, or perhaps fear.

“Enjoy your defiance while it lasts,” she said. 

I watched her leave, the steam swallowing her figure as the door shut behind her. The bath was still warm, but I felt only the chill she left behind.

Chapter Text

Steel rang in the yard, the sound sharp against the chill air. Robb’s blade swept low; Jon caught it with a grunt, boots sliding on the frost.

“You’re too gruff for a man betrothed to a princess,” Jon said, breath misting as their swords locked. “Half the Seven Kingdoms would kill for that chance. Shouldn’t you be courting her instead of trying to take my head off?”

Robb shoved him back, blue eyes flashing. “Neither of us asked for this match. Do you think she wanted me for her perfect husband? She probably hates me already.”

Jon smirked, circling with his blade raised. “Strange words from you. The girls were always hovering over you.”

Robb’s reply came quick, sharper than steel. “Don’t compare them. The daughters of cooks and grooms aren’t princesses. Lyanna Baratheon is not the same.”

Jon parried, sparks flying as steel clashed. His voice came quieter, biting. “And what did you expect? That your mother would find you someone less noble? She’s grooming you for more than Winterfell, Robb.”

Robb hesitated, lowering his guard a fraction. “What has my mother to do with it? This was the king’s will. Nothing more.”

Jon stopped, dropping his blade to his side. His grey eyes were dark, unreadable. “I overheard her,” he said at last. “Your mother. Speaking with the queen. Persuading her. Saying Lyanna would never find a better husband than you.”

Robb froze, breath sharp in the cold air. “Lie,” he said at once, though the word cracked. “She told me herself — it was the king’s will. And how would you know? She never even speaks to you.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. He turned, setting his sword aside.“She doesn’t need to. I was passing by. I heard enough to know that while Sansa is promised to the prince and may wear a crown, your mother still seeks the perfect match for you. The heir of Winterfell, her favorite son.”

Robb’s blade hung limp at his side. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Jon bent to retrieve his scabbard, his voice low. “You were always the chosen one, Robb. You just never had to notice.”

Robb’s blue eyes narrowed, piercing. “So what are you saying? That you want her for yourself?”

Jon’s grip tightened on the hilt. For a moment, he almost said yes. Almost. But instead he shoved Robb back, breath sharp. “I’m saying she deserves a choice. More than either of us ever will.”

The words hung between them, heavy as steel. Robb felt the sting of them, though he couldn’t say why. She’s not mine, he told himself — yet the image of Lyanna’s dark hair catching the frost rose unbidden, and a strange unease knotted in his chest.

He forced his sword down, breaking the clash. “Enough.” His voice was clipped, colder than he meant it. “So—you’re leaving for the Wall. That’s decided?”

Jon lowered his blade too, eyes narrowing. The sudden change of subject was transparent, but he let it pass. “It is. Father thinks it’s best.”

Robb gave a short nod, though his jaw was tight. “Then fight me while you’re still here, brother. The Wall won’t give you many chances to draw steel.”

Their swords rose again, the conversation buried beneath the rhythm of blows — but the words, and the girl who had sparked them, lingered unspoken in the frost between them.

The castle buzzed with movement. Servants hurried with bundles, maids carried gowns, guards shouted in the yard as horses were readied. The Starks prepared their farewells, the feast to mark the royal departure already stirring kitchens and halls.

I wanted no part of it. No more of my mother’s poison, no awkward courtesies, and Seven help me, no strained conversation with Robb Stark — as if speaking of our betrothal might crack his perfect icy facade. I didn’t even want to imagine how the news sat with him. A southern princess, chained to him by duty. He must dread it as much as I.

So I slipped away into the quiet shadows of the library. The smell of parchment and dust was a balm. Books could not wound with names or chains. They only whispered softly when you turned the page.

But I was not alone.

“Ah,” came a voice from between the stacks. “The runaway bride herself.”

I turned, lips pressed thin, and found Tyrion Lannister lounging in an armchair, a cup of wine balanced in his hand, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Shouldn’t you be at the feast preparations?” I asked coolly.

He waved his cup lazily. “And watch Cersei scowl at every servant, and Joffrey remind us all of his golden hair? No, thank you. I prefer books — they drink less wine than I do, but they complain less too.”

Despite myself, I smiled faintly. “Then we are alike. I came here to escape.”

His eyes narrowed, quick as a hawk. “Ah. And what is it you’re fleeing, niece? The tender embraces of your mother? Or the cold stares of your betrothed?”

The word stung. Betrothed. I folded my arms, leaning against the shelf. “Both, perhaps. Or the sound of my own fate rattling.”

Tyrion chuckled, swirling his wine. “At least you will be far away from this bloody family. If there is mercy in the gods, Cersei’s poison will not reach beyond the Neck. Consider that a blessing, if nothing else.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “Strange. You speak of your sister as though she is not yours at all.”

His smile thinned. “Blood ties make poor shackles. I know that truth better than most. You and I, my dear, we are the unwanted children — she despises you for your dark hair, and I for my stature. How amusing that in our family, appearance is destiny.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Then what is mine? A southern princess to shiver in the snow? A name borrowed from a ghost?”

He raised his cup in a mock toast. “Better a ghost than a golden fool. Trust me, Winterfell may be cold, but it is honest. You may find more peace there than you ever could in King’s Landing. No courtiers whispering in silk, no Lannister smiles sharpened like knives. Only wolves, and wolves do not lie about their teeth.”

I smirked faintly. “So my marriage is a kindness, then?”

“Kindness?” He snorted. “The Starks are many things, but kind is not one I’d choose. Still, your Robb seems decent enough. And better yet, he is not Joffrey.”

For the first time since hearing of my betrothal, I almost laughed. “That is faint comfort.”

Tyrion’s grin widened. “Take comfort where you can, child. That is the only way to survive in this world.”

I sank into the chair opposite him, the firelight catching on the green of my cloak. “Then perhaps survival will have to be enough.”

“Survival,” Tyrion said, raising his cup again, “is more than most of our family ever achieves.”

“And what of you, uncle? You’ve already satisfied yourself with emptying all of Winterfell’s wine stores and attending every brothel between here and the Wall. Soon you’ll return to King’s Landing — capital of lies and schemes. You might already feel nostalgic for it.”

Tyrion smirked, lifting his cup. “Nostalgic? Hardly. King’s Landing stinks of sweat and secrets. At least here, the stench is honest — horse dung and cold air. The North does not pretend to be anything other than what it is. I almost prefer it.” He sipped, then added with a twinkle in his eyes, “But alas, brothels are in short supply.”

I arched a brow, lips twitching despite myself. “And what will you do when the Starks have nothing left to pour for you? Linger here and freeze, or slink back south to your lions’ den?”

He spread his hands. “Ah, I am destined for south. A dwarf has little place among wolves. My brother has a throne to polish and my sister has intrigues to weave — and they will want me near, if only to keep an eye on me.” His smile thinned. “Though I confess, I have considered a detour to the Wall. I’ve always wanted to see what lies at the end of the world.”

That drew a laugh from me, bright and sharp in the hushed chamber. “The Wall? You know there aren’t women there. I can’t picture you surviving a fortnight.”

Tyrion chuckled, unbothered. “I hear the Wall is tall enough to make even the mightiest man feel small. Perhaps it will make me feel average for once.” He raised his cup in salute, eyes gleaming. “And as for the lack of women — well, one must adapt. Books and wine, I am told, travel easier than courtesans.”

I shook my head, still smiling faintly. “You’d be an unbearable company for the Black Brothers. They’d probably toss you off the top before the first snowstorm.”

“Ah, but then,” he said with mock solemnity, “I’d die as I lived — irritating the world with my existence.”

My laughter echoed softly among the shelves, chasing away, if only for a moment, the weight of betrothal.

Tyrion swirled his cup idly. “And speaking of the Wall… Stark’s bastard leaves soon as well. I think I’ll enjoy his company on the road.”

I blinked, straightening in my chair. “He leaves too? Already?”

Tyrion’s eyes glinted, sharp as a blade catching light. “Ah, so you’ve taken notice of the bastard. Curious. You speak of him with more warmth than you ever do your golden brother.”

Heat crept unbidden into my cheeks, and I cursed myself for it. “I only wondered,” I said quickly, keeping my tone cool. “He has been… kind. More than most.”

Tyrion chuckled into his wine. “Kindness is a rare coin, especially in our family. Best hold tight to anyone who offers it.” His grin widened, sly and crooked. “Still, I’ll mark this day in my memory — the first time my niece betrays her composure over a boy.”

I rolled my eyes, forcing a smirk to mask the warmth in my face. “Don’t flatter yourself, uncle. I’m only considering how dull Winterfell will be once half the company departs.”

“Mm,” Tyrion mused, swirling his wine. “Dullness, yes — but you’ve already admitted something greater. You prefer the company of bastards and imps over lords and princes. A curious taste.”

I leaned back, crossing my arms, and let a faint smile play at my lips. “Perhaps. But I find their company far more honest than most courtiers’. Honest company is rare enough to treasure.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and genuine. “Then you may survive this marriage after all, niece. For if you can stomach the likes of us, you can stomach anything.”

Chapter Text

The great hall blazed with fire and noise. Torches spat resin and smoke, hounds skittered under long tables, and the smell of roast meat hung heavy as a cloak. Laughter rolled like a drumbeat—king’s laughter most of all. Robert’s crown sat crooked on his brow, his beard wet with wine, his voice filling every corner as if the stones themselves were his to command.

I took my place among the queen’s company and felt smaller than I had in the bath, smaller than in the snow. Silk and gold could not keep out the draft that tunneled along the floor, or the colder current gnawing behind my ribs.

Father did not look at me when he lifted his cup. He roared for more venison, bellowed some tale of a boar that had once gored a man clean through, clapped Ned Stark’s shoulder with the old battle-fellow’s fondness. He could cross the world with one hand and bind a life with the other without ever turning his head to see whom he had tied.

Robert slammed his cup down hard enough to make the trenchers rattle. “A toast!” he bellowed, his voice booming off the rafters. “To old bonds renewed, and to new ones forged. To my daughter Lyanna—” he swung his cup toward me, sloshing wine—“and to young Robb Stark, who will make a fine Lord of Winterfell. May the gods grant them sons strong as wolves and daughters fair as queens!”

The hall erupted in cheers, men thumping the tables, cups lifted high. Robb inclined his head, stiff and silent, his blue eyes fixed on the wood grain before him.

I sat very still, the blood pounding in my ears louder than the din. A single careless roar, and my life was sealed in wine and words. Father did not even look to see if I raised my cup. He had no need. Kings did not ask. 

Sansa sat bright-eyed beside her mother, cheeks flushed with the warmth of the hall and of the prince at the high table. Joffrey preened, golden as a candleflame, drawing her gaze like a moth. Poor moth. Poor flame. They had not been asked, either. Songs never counted consent. Still, some stubborn splinter in me had believed I differed in my father’s eyes—firstborn, named for a ghost he worshiped. I had thought the name might mean he saw me. I was wrong.

Myrcella leaned toward me once, a shy smile half-offered, half-withheld, as if her mother might snatch it away. Tommen stole sugared nuts and fed them clumsily to a hound beneath the table; the hound adored him for it. Across the dais, Cersei was a statue of poured gold, her smile thin as a knife edge. Jaime lounged with the easy grace of a man who had never been told no. Tyrion, God bless him, raised his cup to me from lower down the table, as if saluting an ally marooned in a hostile country.

Ned Stark lifted his goblet when Robert demanded a toast to old victories and new bonds. Lord Stark’s face did not move much, but I saw the tautness in it, the held breath. Lady Catelyn’s gaze found mine over the rim of her cup. There was no triumph in it, no schemer’s gleam—only assessment, and, buried beneath, a steadiness that did not feel like pity.

Robb Stark sat one seat removed from his father, shoulders square, spine straight as a spear. He had dressed for duty, not display: dark wool, a sober pin, the look of a young lord who understands that eyes measure more than jewels. He did not stare. He did not sulk. But once, when a servant leaned between us to lay down a trencher, his glance struck mine like the first bite of winter air—piercing, kept to a heartbeat, gone.

If he smiled, it was the ghost of one. If I returned it, I couldn’t swear to it. The hall swallowed both our faces again, and the torches hissed as if pleased.

Minstrels tuned their lutes; a piper skirled a northern air that set the rafters humming. When the first song began, men thumped the table in time, and my father thundered the chorus, getting half the words wrong and caring not at all. Every note throbbed against my throat. The feast pressed close around me—meat, heat, mirth—until I could hardly draw breath. I raised my cup and found wine had turned to iron.

A hand brushed mine—Myrcella again, braver this time. “Will you dance?” she whispered, a child’s hope flickering. Cersei’s gaze slid sideways; the hope dimmed. I laid my fingers lightly over Myrcella’s and shook my head with a smile I tried to make warm. “Another night,” I lied gently. She nodded, as if lies could be stitched into comfort.

Father called for more music. Father called for more wine. Father did not call for me.

I tried not to watch him. I tried not to count each careless joy as a fresh weight laid upon my chest. A story about a war camp; another about a girl in a tavern who had kissed his beer-foam mustache. The men laughed. Ned Stark did not. I saw that, at least.

A serving boy slipped and spilled gravy across the flagstones, and Cersei’s mouth tightened in that practiced, pretty way that meant someone would pay for it later. I felt the old pressure of her nails again, phantom pain along my jaw. When I looked away, my gaze snagged once more on the Stark heir—on the unreadable calm he wore like armor.

What would he be like, when the hall was empty and the fires banked low? Would that calm crack and show the boy who laughed with Jon in the yard? Would he turn colder, as the North required? Would he be gentler than his eyes, or harder than his silence? I could not decide which was kinder to imagine.

They brought out baked apples and sharp cheese, the sort of honest fare Winterfell seemed to prefer over sugared peacocks. I ate none of it. Words tasted like rind. Songs tasted like smoke.

Halfway down the lower tables, Tyrion caught my eye again and tipped his cup in a smaller, sober salute, as if to say: breathe. I tried. The breath clogged.

Beside the high table, Sansa leaned forward to whisper something to the prince; he smiled the way boys smile when they know they are being watched. Lady Catelyn put a hand on her daughter’s arm, not to still her, only to anchor her. I wondered how it would feel to be anchored by a hand like that. I wondered how it would feel to fall and find anyone there at all.

I drank. The wine was dark and patient. It burned less than I wanted.

If there was grief in me, it hid behind anger. If there was fear, it wore my mother’s face. It was easier to be bitter at my father—at his careless cheer, at the way he loved a dead woman more cleanly than he had ever loved the living one he had made. Easier to be hard than to be hurt.

The minstrels began another song. I set my cup down and felt the ring of it in my bones. The room tilted; the torches breathed. A thought skittered through me, small and bright: Where is Jon?

I looked for the dark head and the watchful eyes and did not find them. No place for bastards at a king’s farewell, I told myself. And then—more sharply—he means to leave before dawn. To slip away like smoke. To take his farewells where no one can see.

The noise swelled, threatening to drown me—songs and laughter, the scrape of trenchers, my father’s booming voice rolling above it all.

I rose. No one noticed. When I slipped between bench and wall, no one called my name. The hall roared on without me, full of wine and song and careless cheer.

The door opened, and the corridor breathed me out into the cold. The air struck clean as truth.

The castle lay hushed beneath the winter sky. Torches guttered low in their sconces, and the revel from the hall was muffled by stone, a dull roar far behind me. My skirts whispered over flagstones as I slipped into the night, the cold searing sharp against my cheeks.

In the yard, I found him. Jon Snow, bent over his horse, tightening the girth with steady hands. Ghost padded at his side, pale as moonlight, eyes red as embers. A second mount waited, its saddle still empty — no doubt meant for my uncle, who would need to be dragged north insensible, drowned in his own wine.

I almost laughed, almost pitied Jon for that burden. Almost.

I stepped from the shadows. “Sneaking away in the middle of the night, Snow?”

He straightened at once, hand still on the saddle, the cold lantern-light carving sharpness into his face. Surprise flickered in his grey eyes, quickly smothered. “I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“I noticed,” I said simply, drawing nearer. My breath misted between us, curling like smoke. “You weren’t at the feast. I thought you’d already gone.”

Jon gave a half-shrug, his hands returning to the tack. “There was no place for me at the king’s table. Better to prepare now. We ride at first light.”

I tilted my head, watching him work. “The next time I see you,” I said softly, “you’ll be in Black.”

He paused. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to mine. In the silence of the yard, his answer came low, almost tender. “And the next time I see you, you’ll be Lyanna Stark. Lady of Winterfell.”

My throat tightened, but I forced a faint smile. “That name sits ill on me.”

Jon’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Ill or not, it will be yours.”

We stood there a long breath, two shadows in the frost, neither daring more.

I stepped closer, letting my fingers trail along the saddle leather. “You know,” I said lightly, “I was thinking I’d enjoy your company more.”

Jon froze for the briefest heartbeat, then straightened, a flicker of something in his grey eyes before duty shuttered it away. “I think you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy Robb’s company.”

I gave a small, humorless laugh. “Robb? No. I think I’m about to marry the icy Wall itself. Fitting, isn’t it? You’ll be tied to one, and I to another.”

For the first time, a sound escaped him — a short, surprised laugh that ghosted in the cold air. “You’re the first I’ve ever heard speak of him like that.”

I arched a brow, smirking. “Hurts your feelings? Believe me, Jon Snow, compared to what I call Joffrey when he’s not listening, it’s practically a compliment. Even when it comes from my mouth.”

His lips twitched, the laugh still lingering in his eyes though his face remained guarded. “Then I suppose Robb should count himself lucky.”

“Lucky,” I echoed, tasting the word with bitterness. “Strange kind of luck, when neither of us had a say.”

Jon’s gaze flicked to me then, steady and unflinching. The lantern’s light caught the sharp lines of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. “Places like the Wall don’t ask what you want. Winterfell won’t either. Some places just… take you. And you either stand, or you fall. Don’t let this place break you. The North is cold, but it shapes steel, not glass.”

Something in me tightened at the raw truth in his tone. For once, no sarcasm came. “And what if I can’t stand it?” I asked, softer than I meant to.

His throat worked, as if he were swallowing words too heavy to speak. “Then you lean on those who will help you,” he said at last. “Robb’s stronger than he looks.”

I blinked, startled by the gentleness in his voice.

He looked away quickly, pulling at the reins. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’ll be gone before dawn.”

I forced a faint smirk to cover the ache in my chest. “Then I suppose this is goodbye.”

Jon gave a short nod, his jaw tight. “Goodbye, Princess.”

I turned, but his voice caught me one last time, low and reluctant. “Robb… he’ll do his duty. He won’t mistreat you.”

The words were plain, almost grudging — yet in them was a care he couldn’t voice.

From the shadows of the yard, Robb Stark stood still as the frost around him. He had followed when he saw her slip from the hall — half from duty, half from something he could not name. What he found froze the words in his throat.

Lyanna stood with Jon by the horses, her dark hair loose against the pale lantern-light, her breath curling white into the air. She was smiling — faint, but real. He had not seen her smile like that since Winterfell had first opened its gates to her. And the one who drew it from her was not him.

Jon’s voice carried low across the stones, his grey eyes fixed on hers as if there were no world beyond that yard. Their words were too quiet for Robb to catch them all, but one cut clear through the cold: “Lady of Winterfell.”

The title twisted like a blade. His betrothed. His father’s will. His king’s decree. And yet, here she was, seeking Jon’s company. For the first time in their lives, it was Jon who held a woman’s gaze, not him. And not just any woman — the one sworn to Robb himself.

No scandal touched them, nothing of impropriety. Still, the sight stung worse than betrayal. Her remark lingered, sharp as frost: “I think I’m about to marry the icy Wall itself.”

Was that how she saw him? Not a man, not a lord, but a wall — cold, unyielding, duty carved into flesh and bone. He had not asked for her, no more than she had asked for him, but the thought gnawed like hunger. To be bound together by crown and king, and yet seen as nothing more than stone.

Robb’s fingers curled tight around the hilt at his belt, though there was no foe to strike but the truth. He told himself it did not matter. By tomorrow, the king would ride south, and Jon would ride north, and Lyanna Baratheon would remain. She was his betrothed, not Jon’s. The king’s word was law.

And yet, as he turned away, the cold sharper than steel in his chest, Robb knew the image would follow him. Lyanna in the lantern-light, her smile for another. Jon’s eyes meeting hers as if the world itself had narrowed to two.

He walked back toward the hall, his breath clouding before him, the sound of the feast rising faint and hollow. Duty was a shield, but even shields grow heavy in the cold. And tonight, it did nothing to keep him warm.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow was gone before dawn. No speeches, no embraces, not even the courtesy of farewell. Just the crunch of hooves fading into the dark, Ghost’s pale shadow vanishing at his side. Tyrion Lannister rode with him, half-drunken but sharp enough to keep Jon company on the long road north. It was fitting, perhaps, that they slipped away unseen. Bastards and dwarfs rarely received the weight of ceremony.

By morning, Winterfell’s yard seethed with noise and steel. Horses stamped in the frost, banners tugged at the wind, trunks were lashed to wagons. The king’s laughter boomed above it all, loud and careless, filling every stone of the yard as if it were his hall to claim.

Lord Stark stood with his children gathered close, Robb at his side, already dressed as though he bore his father’s mantle: dark wool, the direwolf pin, a stance too steady for his years. He embraced each of his sisters in turn, holding Arya longer than her squirming would allow, pressing a soft kiss to Sansa’s brow. Catelyn Stark was weeping openly as she drew both daughters into her arms. She kissed their hair, whispered words too soft for me to hear, and held them as if she might never again. When she turned, her husband was there, and for a moment the Lady of Winterfell buried herself against his chest, his arms tight around her. The sight caught me — that raw, unhidden devotion. I had never seen anything like it from my mother. Not for me. Not ever.

Cersei did not spare me so much as a glance. She fussed over Myrcella’s braids, straightened Tommen’s gloves, her green eyes fixed only on the children she claimed as hers. To her, I was already gone — no daughter stood in this yard.

Robert clasped Lord Stark’s arm with the old soldier’s fondness, then turned to Robb. One great paw squeezed his shoulder, nearly crushing it. “You’ll do well, boy,” he rumbled, loud enough for all to hear. “The North will need you strong. And you’ll keep my girl in line, eh? She’s got her mother’s temper, Seven help you.”

The men laughed, but Robert wasn’t done. He turned to me, pressing a kiss against my brow. Wine and sweat clung to his beard, but his voice softened for a heartbeat. “You’ll find no truer place than here, little one. Remember that.”

It was the closest he had ever come to blessing my fate. I almost believed him. 

Then Myrcella flung herself into my arms. Her golden hair smelled of lavender and smoke, her cheeks blotched red from the cold. “You’ll write to me,” she demanded, her voice trembling. “Every night, like you used to read to me before sleep.”

Tears pricked my eyes, but I only smoothed her braid. “Every night,” I promised.

Tommen hugged me clumsily, cheeks burning, before darting back to his hound. My heart ached — they were not Robert’s blood, not truly, yet they were the only warmth my family had ever given me. In that moment, I thought bitterly: we did not need to share a father to share love.

Then Joffrey approached, his smirk sharp as a knife. “Pity you’ll be stuck here in this frozen dung heap,” he drawled, loud enough for the yard to hear. “Though perhaps it suits you. You’ve always been more wolf than lion. No wonder Mother can’t bear to look at you.”

The words sliced sharper than the wind. My lips parted, but no retort came quick enough.

Before I could speak, Robb’s voice cut through — calm, even polite, but edged with steel.

“My lord prince,” he said, bowing just enough for courtesy. “Here in the North, we don’t turn our backs on kin. Even those we claim not to love. Perhaps when you’ve weathered one of our winters yourself, you’ll understand what it means to protect your blood instead of scorn it.”

The yard stilled. Joffrey’s smile faltered, brittle as glass. He muttered something and stalked toward his horse, golden cloak snapping in the wind.

The gates opened. The royal party, Lord Stark, and his daughters rode out together, banners snapping until the snow swallowed them whole. The yard grew quieter as the last hoofbeats faded. Catelyn herded Rickon and Bran back inside. Servants resumed their work, stable boys shouting, hammers ringing. Winterfell’s pulse returned.

Only Robb remained by the gate.
For the first time since our betrothal was spoken aloud, we were alone. The castle felt smaller, its walls pressing close.

I turned to him. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

His head shifted slightly, blue eyes cutting toward me. “Done what?”

“Answering Joffrey,” I said, sharper than I meant. “I can handle him just fine.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “People usually say thank you. Do those words sound strange to you, princess?”

“They sound unnecessary.”

He huffed a short laugh. “Strange way of showing pride. Most would be glad to have someone cut a prince down for them.”

“I don’t need cutting done for me,” I shot back. “If I wanted Joffrey on his knees, I’d manage it myself.”

His brows lifted, faint amusement flickering. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I won’t be anyone’s burden, Stark. Not yours, not his, not anyone’s.”

Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then Robb’s smirk faded. His voice was low, steady.
“You are now in my home. And for fate’s joke, we are to be one family. I protect those who live under my roof. Even from their own kin. Such a lovely family you have.”

My throat tightened. “Don’t speak of my family. You know nothing.”

His gaze was piercing, cold as the air between us. “From what I saw, I know enough. In the South, it seems all it takes to be hated is to inherit your father’s hair.”

The words struck deep, but I forced a smile sharp as glass. “In the South, you can be hated for less.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” His eyes lingered on me, steady, assessing. For once there was no audience — no father, no bannermen, no brothers. Just me. And under that calm, I thought I caught the faintest flicker of curiosity.

“Still, you’re in my hall now,” he said, his tone softening a fraction though his guard stayed firm. “That makes you my concern.”

“Concern?” I arched a brow. “Am I livestock to be accounted for?”

“Not livestock,” he answered easily. “But you’ve a talent for wandering into trouble. Godswood at dusk. Yards at midnight. Even the Wall isn’t safe from you.”

My lips parted. A rush of heat climbed my cheeks. “You were following me.”

Robb’s mouth curved, the closest I’d seen to a smile. “Following? No. Making sure you didn’t slip and snap an ankle in the frost. Someone has to keep the king’s daughter in one piece.”

I crossed my arms. “So you admit it—you were eavesdropping. Lurking like some girl behind a wall.”

He tilted his head, maddeningly calm. “I was curious. What was it that you found so urgent to discuss with my brother at that hour?”

My brows rose. “Curiosity? So it isn’t a stranger to you after all. Funny — you judged me quickly enough for the same.”

“Should I report every step to you now?” I asked, voice sharp. “Where I walk, what I say, when I breathe?”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes. Was that jealousy, hidden under his lord’s composure?

He smirked, shaking his head as if to drive it off. “Gods save me from this.”

I turned from him, skirts whispering against the frost, unwilling to let him see the small tug at the corner of my mouth. Let him think me ungrateful, unyielding. Better that than to give him the comfort of victory. Better that than to let him guess how much his eyes still followed me as I walked away.

Chapter Text

Catelyn’s POV

Winterfell was quieter without her daughters. Too quiet. The soft strains of Sansa’s singing, Arya’s quick-footed clatter down the corridors, their quarrels sharp as sparrows — all of it gone south with the king’s train. Their absence pressed on Catelyn like the weight of snow on a roof: silent, steady, impossible to ignore.

She busied her hands, as she always did when sorrow threatened to settle. She oversaw the kitchens, walked the yard, mended Robb’s shirts though she had maids enough for the task. Yet no duty could fill the silence left behind by her girls.

And in that silence, she found her eyes turning more often to another.

Lyanna Baratheon. Dark-haired, green-eyed, the girl who bore her father’s name like a burden. Catelyn had seen her at the farewells: stiff in the yard, her smile breaking when Myrcella clung too tightly, her face composed even as Robert toasted her betrothal without sparing her a glance. The queen had looked through her entirely, as if she were smoke.

Yes, Catelyn thought. The girl was alone here. And perhaps she needed someone.

That evening, after supper, Catelyn went to her chamber. Lyanna sat near the hearth, hair unbound and falling in a black curtain as she drew a comb through its length. The firelight picked out threads of bronze in the waves. For a moment, she looked younger — not a betrothed princess, but a girl of sixteen.

“The room is drafty,” Catelyn said softly as she stepped inside. “We must see more furs brought in before the next snow. Or, if you would prefer, you may take Sansa’s chamber. It is larger. Warmer.”

Lyanna looked up quickly, eyes narrowing just a little, as if braced for some hidden barb. She seemed ready to refuse out of instinct, but her hand stilled against her hair.

“I am used to draughts,” she said at last, her voice calm, though her fingers betrayed her.

Catelyn smiled faintly. “So was I, when I first came here. Riverrun is not the North, but I learned the stone can feel colder than water. Warmth makes the winters easier.”

Lyanna studied her for a long moment, cautious, almost searching. “You mean when you wed Lord Stark.”

Catelyn inclined her head. “Aye. I was no older than you are now. Meant for his brother once, and instead given to him. He was a stranger to me then. This hall was a stranger too.” She let the words hang, quiet and even. “But roots take hold, even in hard ground. In time, I found both love and strength here.”

Something shifted in Lyanna’s expression, the mask slipping to reveal a flicker of curiosity. She lowered the comb slightly, her voice low. “You and Lord Stark seem… steady. I’ve never seen that between my parents. I always thought marriages were only pacts.”

Catelyn’s chest tightened. She reached across the space, laying her hand gently over the girl’s. “Some are. But not all. There can be honor in vows. There can be tenderness too.”

The fire cracked. For a long moment, Lyanna said nothing. Then, her voice came soft, almost reluctant. “What is he like?”

Catelyn tilted her head. “Robb?”

A faint nod, eyes lowered. “I know little of him. He frowns like your lord, and he wields a sword well. But if I am to be tied to him…” Her mouth curved with a humorless smirk. “I’d rather not think of him as a complete stranger.”

Catelyn’s smile softened, pride warming her words. “He is stubborn, like his father. Loyal to the marrow. He loves the hunt, the yard, the sound of wolves on the wind. He carries duty with a steady hand. But he laughs, too — more easily than Ned, though he hides it.”

Lyanna’s gaze flickered up, catching hers. There was something wary in it, but also hungry, as if she had long waited to hear a parent speak so of their child.

She lowered her eyes quickly, returning to her hair. “Loyal. Stubborn. Laughing when no one looks. Perhaps I will manage.”

Catelyn reached gently, drawing the comb from her fingers. The girl stiffened, but did not pull away as Catelyn ran it through her dark hair, slow and careful. The strands shone in the firelight, soft as silk beneath her hand.

“You have beautiful hair,” she murmured. “The kind that makes men look twice — though you hardly need it.”

The words hung in the warm air. For a heartbeat, Lyanna’s breath caught. Her mother had never spoken such things, never cherished what she scorned. Robert’s ghost, Cersei had named her; a reminder. But here was Catelyn Stark, a stranger in blood, smoothing her hair with a touch both gentle and firm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Lyanna turned her face toward the fire so the woman would not see the shine in her eyes.

Catelyn said nothing more. She only kept combing, steady as snow falling outside the walls.

Chapter Text

The next day, I braced myself at last.
It was daylight, thin shafts filtering cold through Winterfell’s stones, when I made my way toward the place I had been avoiding since our arrival. The crypts. The resting place of the woman whose name I bore. The ghost who had somehow shaped my life, though I had never seen her face.

I did not know whether I was repeating her fate or repaying some debt of blood that had nothing to do with me. But still, my feet carried me downward, stone steps damp with the chill of earth, the torches hissing faintly on the walls.

The guards at the entrance only nodded as I passed. Inside, silence pressed close, broken only by the drip of water and the slow shuffle of my steps. I moved carefully, as though the very air were sacred, as though I might wake the long-dead if I trod too heavily.

And then I found her.
The stone effigy lay still, her features carved with a beauty I could only half-imagine. The Lyanna Stark. The woman for whom I was named. The woman who had altered the course of kings and kingdoms, and somehow, without ever lifting a hand, had altered mine.

I stood before her and did not know what to think. She had never known me. I had never known her. Yet I carried her name, and soon enough, I would carry her house as well. Lyanna. Stark. Words that weighed heavier than the furs on my shoulders.

I wondered about my father. What had driven him to name me so? Was it guilt? A desperate attempt at redemption? The last thread of a love he had never loosed? He had rebelled for her, they said. He had brought down a crown because of her, or perhaps because he could not save her. And now… had he left me here as some sort of repayment?

Perhaps he was cleverer than most gave him credit for. Perhaps he had always known Cersei would never cherish me — so he left me where the North might. Or perhaps he had simply grown weary — and leaving me here was the easiest way to be rid of me.

The thought tightened in my chest like a snare—

and then a voice broke the silence.

“I was beginning to think you’d already run away.”

His voice was calm, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I caught the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. Robb Stark stepped closer, his boots soft on the stone, though he stopped short of crowding me. Respectful. Careful. Always measured.

“Run away?” I asked, lifting a brow. “And now, finding me here, you’re disappointed?”

His smirk deepened. “Disappointed? No. Only surprised you chose to linger in the dark when there’s sunlight above.”

I turned back to the effigy before me, the carved face of the woman whose name I bore. The stillness of her features seemed almost disapproving. “Sometimes the dark holds more truth than the sun.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then Robb came to stand beside me, leaving a hand’s breadth of space between us. Not too close, not too far. His eyes lifted to the stone woman. “To my regret, I know little about her,” he said quietly. “Father never told us much. But whenever her name was spoken, there was… a sadness about him. A grief that never left his face.”

I studied the statue in silence. “I don’t know what drove my father to name me after her,” I said at last. The words slipped sharper than I intended. “He knew it wouldn’t make my life easier. I was only born, and already I carried a weight that wasn’t mine to bear.”

Robb’s voice dropped lower, thoughtful. “Perhaps he couldn’t let go. Perhaps giving you her name was his way of keeping her alive.”

A bitter smile touched my lips. “Or perhaps he was driven by wine.”

That earned me a short huff of laughter, quick and startled, though it faded as swiftly as it came. “Maybe both,” he allowed. His eyes, blue as frost, flicked toward me. “But either way….”  his eyes flicked to me, steady, “—you’re not a shadow. You stand on your own.”

I turned then, a smirk tugging at my mouth despite myself. “Is that your way of saying I’m more trouble?”

The corner of his lips lifted, quick as frost melting in sunlight. “Trouble, perhaps. But not a ghost.”

Robb glanced at me. “If you’d wanted time alone, I’d have left you there.”

I turned, smirking faintly. “No, actually. I don’t think there’s much left to say to stone. Besides, what would I do down there all day? Count the cobwebs?”

That won me the ghost of a smile. He stepped aside to let me pass first, giving me my way without argument. We climbed back into the daylight, the snow crunching under our boots.

“Why were you looking for me anyway?” I asked as we crossed the yard.

“My mother couldn’t find you.” His smirk edged wry.

The yard bustled around us — stableboys hauling hay, women balancing baskets of cloth, a guard calling orders. Life in motion, unbothered by kings or betrothals.

“She was worried about you,” Robb said after a moment, quieter now. “My mother, I mean. She just wanted to be certain you were well. I thought I’d better make sure you hadn’t stolen a horse and vanished into thin air.”

I stiffened, the words striking some raw place. “You probably already think I’m her daughter, the way she hovers.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it so bad? To be cared for?”

I stopped, forcing him to pause with me. My voice slipped sharper than I intended. “I’m not used to it. I’ve had maids hover, yes, fussing with silks and jewels. But Lady Stark… she came to me last night, offered me Sansa’s chamber, even brushed my hair.” My laugh was brittle. “It felt strange. Too strange.”

For a moment, Robb said nothing. But something shifted in his face — guilt, faint but there. Jon’s words about his mother arranging the match must have weighed on him. Yet he didn’t speak of it, and I realized he wouldn’t.

Instead, he said, careful and steady, “She meant it kindly. She only wants you to feel at home here.”

The sharpness in me eased. I looked at him, and for once let the words come softer. “Lady Stark is a good woman. You and your siblings are lucky to have her.”

Robb’s gaze held mine, blue and earnest. “I don’t know the source of your mother’s hatred. But whatever it is… you didn’t deserve it. No child ever does.”

The words struck deeper than I wanted. I forced myself to smirk, slipping the mask back on. “Don’t waste pity on me, Stark. I’ll only throw it back at you.”

Still, as we walked, the thoughts curled tight inside me. Everyone assumed Cersei despised me for carrying Lyanna Stark’s name… that secret sat heavy in me, sharp and dangerous, a wound I had never shown.

So I covered it with words instead. “Despised by my mother, ignored by my father — it’s hardly unique. But I wasn’t alone. I had uncles who didn’t treat me as a shadow. That was enough.”

Robb walked beside me in silence, but I caught the way his glance lingered — not pitying, not cold, but something steadier. Something that unsettled me more than cruelty ever had.

Robb cleared his throat, as if shifting from words too heavy. “This isn’t King’s Landing,” he said at last. “You’re not caged here. No one will keep you to gilded halls or endless courtesies. You’re free to do what you wish. Walk where you like. The library, if you want books. The yard, if you want to shoot a bow. Even the godswood, if you want quiet.”

I blinked at him, half-smiling in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

He tilted his head, blue eyes steady. “Yes. Something wrong with that?”

“You make it sound as if Winterfell is a fair,” I said dryly. “A bow here, a book there. Try your luck at the weirwood.”

His mouth twitched. “Better that than a cage. You’re not a prisoner here, Lyanna. Whatever else you think of this place… it won’t bind you the way the South did.”

I studied him, the steadiness in his voice, and for a moment I couldn’t summon the sarcasm I usually wielded like armor. Freedom was a word I’d never trusted — too easily promised, too easily revoked. Yet here, in this cold yard, with his eyes on mine, it almost felt real.

So I smirked to cover it. “We’ll see, Stark. If I end up breaking my ankle in the yard, I’ll be sure to blame you.”

His smirk lingered as we walked. “If you’re serious about the bow, let Ser Rodrik watch you. He trains every lad here — and keeps half the hounds alive by sheer miracle.”

I arched a brow. “And what, you think I’d accidentally shoot a dog?”

“Or a groom. Or me,” he said dryly. “Ser Rodrik’s whiskers would bristle clean off if he saw you loose an arrow without his say.”

A laugh escaped me, quick and sharper than I meant. “So I must win the approval of the great Ser Rodrik Cassel before I can touch a bow?”

Robb shrugged, feigning solemnity. “It’s Winterfell law. Written in the stones.”

I rolled my eyes, though my lips curved despite myself. “Gods. And here I thought King’s Landing was ridiculous.”

Robb’s smirk lingered, the faintest spark of amusement softening the frost in his eyes. For once, I didn’t mind the silence that followed. The yard bustled on around us — stableboys shouting, hounds barking, the clang of iron on stone — yet in that small space between words, Winterfell felt almost… lighter.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I followed Robb Stark’s suggestion. The archery yard lay hushed, morning holding its breath as frost silvered the straw butts and the targets wore thin rinds of ice like halos. The air had that knife-edge stillness the North seemed to favor—no chatter, no boys running, no Ser Rodrik barking corrections. Only the faint creak of leather and the small sounds a castle makes when it wakes.

Good. No witnesses.

I chose a bow from the rack—its curve familiar enough, though heavier than the ones in the Red Keep—and weighed it in my hand. The string sang low when I plucked it, a promise rather than a threat. I set my feet, rolled my shoulders back, and nocked an arrow.

The first shot went wide—bit the edge of straw and shivered there, stubbornly clinging. Not shameful. Not worthy, either.

The second arrow flew cleaner and thudded closer to the painted circle. My breath came in soft white puffs. I forgot to count how many more I loosed—draw, touch, breathe, release—until the dull ache in my forearm turned to heat, and the soft bite of the string left faint lines on my fingers.

When one shaft quivered almost true—near enough to center to taste it—I felt something sharp and savage spark in my chest.

“Closer,” a voice called from above, “but you’re still holding it wrong.”

I stilled. Looked up.

Robb Stark leaned against the gallery rail, winter-blue eyes on my bow hand. He wasn’t smirking yet, but he looked perilously close to deserving one.

Of course.

He took the steps down like the yard belonged to him—not quickly, just with that sure, quiet weight that made guards stand straighter as he passed. Boots crunched. Frost sighed under him.

Without asking leave, he stepped to the shooting line, drew an arrow from the quiver at my hip with a grazing brush of fingers, and nocked it as if the movement were a habit older than his voice. One breath. A smooth pull. Release.

The string snapped; the shaft hissed; the straw jumped. Dead center. He hadn’t even looked as if he were trying.

“Show-off,” I said, folding my arms to keep from rubbing warmth back into the place his hand had skimmed.

“Example,” he said mildly, and offered the bow back.

I took it, mimicking the set of his shoulders, the lift of his chest, the thin line of focus he wore like a second skin. I loosed. The arrow struck too far left and hung there, buzzing with its failure.

“Your elbow,” he said, stepping closer. His hand slid along my forearm, gentle but certain, and lifted my elbow a fingers-breadth. “Higher. You’re collapsing the draw.”

Heat prickled under the wool. The yard was cold; my face was not.

“And your back,” he added, voice dropping as he moved behind me, palm settling light between my shoulder blades. “Straighten here. Hips steady. Let the bones take the work, not the hands.”

The closeness stole a beat of breath. Everything narrowed—the white of my exhale, the tick of a loose strand of hair against my jaw, the warmth of his palm anchoring me without pressing. I set my jaw, raised the bow, and drew.

“Again,” he said softly.

I did. The arrow thudded inside the inner ring—close enough that triumph jumped, then faltered when I saw his face.

Robb’s eyes went to the target, then returned to me with that infuriating calm. “Better,” he said. No grin. No praise. A measured verdict, like a lord weighing grain.

“Closer is still not center,” I shot back, too quickly.

“Closer is what keeps you alive until center,” he said, tone even. “But the target won’t care for almost. And neither will winter.”

I lifted my chin. “Do you practice these speeches, Stark, or do they simply fall out of you when you’re being insufferable?”

A flicker tugged at the corner of his mouth—there, then gone. “Depends who’s listening.”

I nocked another arrow before my temper could choose my words for me. Draw. Settle. The string bit. My shoulders burned. I loosed—and watched the flight with a kind of hunger. The shaft struck truer, kissing the ring beside the heart.

Robb tipped his head, considering. “Better,” he repeated, softer. It should have pleased me. It didn’t. Not enough. Not yet.

“Easy word,” I said. “You think you can do better every time?”

“I know I can.” No arrogance—just fact, and gods, that was worse.

“So prove it,” I snapped.

His brows lifted a fraction, like a man who’d been waiting for precisely that retort.

“Let’s make it interesting,” he said.

I turned to face him fully. “Interesting how?”

“A wager.” He didn’t bother to dress it in courtesy. “You strike center from this line, I owe you a wish. If you miss—” he stepped close enough that the frost of his breath mingled with mine “—you owe me.”

The boldness of it ticked along my skin. “And what would you claim, if I lose?”

“I’ll decide when you miss,” he said, annoyingly sure.

I scoffed to hide the jump of my pulse. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Confident enough.”

I set my feet. The yard seemed to hush, as if the stone itself leaned in. Draw. The string sang from finger to ear; the burn along my back settled into a clean line; the world pinned itself to the small painted heart.

Release.

The arrow flew true—truer than any before—but kissed just outside the center and stood there quivering like a needle.

My triumph rose, then dropped, and I hated the drop enough to meet his eyes without flinching.

Robb looked from the target to me with that same maddening calm, but now there was the faintest glint behind it—satisfaction held on a tight rein. “Close,” he said, quiet. “But not enough. The wish is mine.”

“Seven hells,” I muttered. “You rehearse that smugness before a mirror.”

His mouth curved, the ghost of a grin he wouldn’t quite grant me. “I told you: confident enough.”

“So?” I managed, sharper than I meant. “What debt do you mean to collect—shall I polish your boots?”

“No,” he said, and the answer came faster than I expected. “You’ll ride with me tomorrow. Beyond the gates, the air is clearer. You’ll understand the North better out there than you ever could in a yard.”

I tilted my head, tasting the word. “Ride. That’s the wish?”

“So this is how Stark men court,” I said, letting the smirk come. “Trick a girl into wages until she’s forced to ride at their side.”

“I don’t need tricks, Princess.” The glint in his eyes sharpened, not cruel, not soft—simply certain. “Just tomorrow. Be ready at first light.”

“You’re awfully sure I’ll obey.”

He was already turning toward the stable arch. Over his shoulder, the words came back low and steady: “I don’t wager to lose.”

I watched him go until the yard swallowed the dark of his cloak. Only then did I let out the breath I’d been holding, long enough to fog the bowstring white. The target waited, speckled with my almosts. I nocked one last arrow, set my elbow the way he’d placed it, straightened my back where his palm had anchored me, and loosed.

The arrow split the ring beside the center and bit deep. Not the heart. But close enough to make me want the dawn.

Chapter Text

The next morning I rose early, dismissing the maids my mother had pressed upon me before my journey north. Her gift had been more duty than care, and I had no desire for their fluttering hands. With practiced fingers I brushed through my hair, then parted the front strands into two slim braids, binding them back so they would not fall across my face while riding.

Yesterday I had half-played a game with Robb Stark, pretending to be less impressed than I truly was. But inside, the thought of riding beyond the castle walls on open ground quickened my heart more than I cared to admit.

I dressed for the cold northern morning — snug dark leather trousers, soft but strong against the chill, gloves lined with fur, and over it all my cloak, black as midnight and edged with golden stitching that gleamed faintly in the firelight. Fur lined the collar, warm against my throat, the colors of my father’s house worn proudly here in this alien keep.

When I descended into the inner yard, the air was sharp, my breath misting before me. Robb stood waiting near two horses. One was a great black beast, broad-shouldered and proud, the sort of mount a Stark lord would ride. Beside him waited a smaller yet no less striking creature: a mare the color of new-fallen snow, her pale mane flowing like silk.

The sight drew an unguarded smile from me before I could school my features.

“You came,” Robb said, his tone lightly teasing.

I arched a brow as I drew nearer. “Did you expect me not? I lost, and I keep my word. That is what princesses do.”

His lips curved into a smirk. “How honorable of you.”

I barely spared him a glance, for my eyes and my hand were already upon the white mare. I tugged off my glove, stroking the smooth line of her neck. She was calm beneath my touch, and after a moment she nudged me with her soft muzzle, as though claiming me in return. My smile deepened without my willing it. It was the first true smile I had felt since setting foot in Winterfell.

Robb’s gaze lingered, not on the mare but on me. “Do you like her?” he asked, his voice quieter.

“She is very beautiful,” I answered honestly, glancing back at him.

His expression softened, the faintest trace of warmth breaking through his usual composure. “Then she’s yours. A gift… for our betrothal.”

I froze, my eyes widening. I had not expected such a gesture.

Robb caught the flicker of surprise and amusement danced in his own eyes. “Forgive me if it disappoints. Perhaps you hoped for some sparkling trinket to pin in your hair?”

A laugh nearly escaped me, remembering the little pins I had given Sansa and Arya not long ago. No doubt they had already boasted of them to their brother. I let my lips curl into a sly smile as I moved toward the saddle.

“Do you begrudge them their treasures?” I asked lightly.

Robb tilted his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Not at all. Though it seems my sisters win princesses’ favors more easily than I do.”

I raised a brow, feigning solemnity. “What would you have me give you, my lord? A pin to match theirs? Perhaps a silver comb for that wild hair of yours?”

He barked a laugh, running a hand through his auburn curls as though to prove the point. “If I wore a comb in battle, the bards might sing of me for the wrong reasons.”

“Then what gift would please you?” I pressed, smirking as I set my foot in the stirrup.

Robb leaned closer as if confiding in me. “Ride beside me this morning without falling off, and I’ll count it as a gift enough.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, though my smile betrayed me. “You are very bold, Stark. Perhaps too bold.”

“And yet you’re smiling,” he returned easily.

He leaned slightly toward me, one brow raised. “Shall I offer you a hand, Princess?”

I narrowed my eyes, though a playful smirk betrayed me. “Don’t even dream of it.”

And with that I swung into the saddle myself, settling astride the white mare. She shifted beneath me, steady and sure, and I stroked her neck once more in silent thanks — though my smile was thanks enough for Robb Stark.

I guided her forward until I rode at his side. The Winterfell gates groaned open and the cold morning air rushed to meet us. Robb urged his black stallion forward with easy confidence, and I guided my mare beside him. Her hooves struck lightly against the frozen ground, and for a moment I was aware only of the steady rhythm of our mounts and the whiteness of the fields beyond.

I glanced sidelong at him, then at the pale creature beneath me. Stroking her neck, I asked, “Does she have a name?”

Robb turned his head, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “I think it’s right for her owner to give her one.”

The words warmed me more than the fur on my shoulders. Pride stirred in my chest, though I fought to keep my expression composed. My fingers played absently through the mare’s snowy mane as I considered. After a few moments of silence, I spoke softly.

“Ivory,” I said at last.

Robb’s gaze lingered on me. “Ivory,” he repeated, as though testing the sound of it. “Strong, simple, beautiful. It suits her. And her rider.”

I arched a brow at him, smirking. “Careful, Stark. Your flattery is slipping through again.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Flattery? No. Just truth. Though I’ll admit I enjoy seeing you smile more than I should.”

I looked ahead quickly, unwilling to let him see the warmth rising to my cheeks. “Perhaps Ivory will be less easily charmed than her mistress. She’ll keep you humble.”

Robb’s stallion snorted, and he gave me a sidelong grin. “Then I suppose I shall have to win her trust as well. A harder task, do you think?”

“Much harder,” I replied smoothly, stroking my mare once more. “She already prefers me.”

“Then I’ll just have to be patient,” Robb said, eyes glinting as he turned back to the path. “Starks are stubborn, Princess. We know how to wait.”

The cold air bit at my cheeks as we rode beyond the walls, but the warmth of his presence beside me kept my thoughts from the chill. His stallion moved with practiced grace, and he sat tall in the saddle, as though he belonged to this land as much as the pines and snow.

“How easily you shifted,” I said, voice low, almost wondering. “From the man who once looked at me like a doll beneath your glare — something pretty, delicate, meant only to endure your attention — to this one beside me now. Tell me, Robb Stark, have you always been like this? Or did you save it for later?”

Robb’s lips curved, though not into his usual smirk. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. But… maybe you’re right. At first I thought of you as too princess-like — the kind who might cry over a stained dress or a broken comb.” His gaze stayed on the road as his stallion carried him forward. “But now I see it’ll take more than a broken comb to shake you.”

I tilted my head, letting out a faint laugh. “The Robb Stark himself cherished me with a compliment. Mark the day in history.”

Robb gave me a sideways look, lips twitching. “Don’t grow too proud of it. I don’t give them often — only when the moment deserves it.”

The pace quickened. Ivory’s hooves struck light against the frosted ground, her mane whipping back like silk in the wind. Robb urged his black stallion faster, and for a heartbeat I let him lead — then I pressed my heels into Ivory’s flank and surged forward, laughter spilling from me before I could catch it.

“Keep up, Stark!” I called over the rush of air.

He glanced back, blue eyes flashing with amusement, and leaned low against his horse’s neck. The stallion thundered forward, pulling even beside me. For several lengths we raced neck-and-neck, the cold biting our cheeks, our laughter chasing us as much as the wind did.

At last, Robb slowed, raising a hand, and I reined Ivory in beside him. We came to a halt in a small clearing — a stretch of pale, open ground surrounded by a crown of bare trees, their branches etched dark against the sky. Our horses’ breath steamed in the air, mingling in white clouds.

Robb leaned back in the saddle, catching his breath, his hair damp where it had slipped free from the tie at his neck. “Not bad,” he said, still smiling. “For someone who claimed she could hardly ride.”

I tossed my head, feigning haughty pride. “Ivory does most of the work. Clearly she prefers me.”

“Clearly she enjoys a challenge,” he returned, patting his stallion’s neck.

I slid from Ivory’s back, boots sinking into the frost. She tossed her head but stayed steady, as if sensing my intent. Robb was still fussing with his stallion’s bridle, his gaze turned away.

A reckless thought struck, quick and sharp. Before I could talk myself out of it, I bent, scooped a handful of snow, packed it tight, and let it fly.

The snowball smacked against his shoulder with a satisfying thud.

Robb stilled, slowly turning his head toward me. Snow clung to his cloak. For a heartbeat his blue eyes narrowed, all stern lord-in-training… then his mouth curved into a grin.

“You didn’t just do that,” he said.

I smirked, feigning innocence. “Oh, forgive me. My hand slipped.”

Robb blinked at me once. Twice. My heart leapt — not with fear, but with the thrill of the game.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

His smirk was wolfish. “Wouldn’t I?”

The snowball burst against my cloak, scattering flakes into my hair. I gasped, half laughing despite myself, and stooped for another.

“You bastard!” I bent quickly, gathering my own clump of snow and hurling it. It struck him square in the chest.

His grin widened. “Good aim.”

“Better than with a bow,” I said smugly, already stooping for another.

The yard of Winterfell seemed far away — no eyes watching, no duties binding. Just snow, cold and sharp, flying back and forth between us. We darted between trees, ducking, laughing, slipping. Robb caught me once with a strike against my arm, and I retaliated with two that left his cloak dusted white.

“You fight dirty,” he accused, brushing snow from his hair.

“Only when I’m winning,” I shot back, breathless with laughter.

I bent for another handful, but the ground betrayed me — slick with ice beneath the snow. My boot slid, and before I could catch myself, I stumbled forward with a sharp gasp. Strong hands caught me around the waist, steadying me before I hit the ground.

The world stilled.

Robb’s grip was firm, his breath quick against the cold. My palms rested against the hard leather of his jerkin, his body warm even through layers of fur. His face was close — closer than it had ever been — blue eyes catching mine, flecks of frost in his auburn hair. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

The laughter between us lingered in the air, but it was softer now, charged with something else. My lips parted, the sharp cold forgotten.

I smirked faintly, trying to mask the rush in my chest. “So this is what becomes of the Young Wolf — reduced to catching clumsy girls in the snow?”

His mouth curved — not his usual smirk, but something smaller, gentler. “If it keeps you on your feet, I’ll suffer the shame.”

I meant to pull back, to slip free before the moment grew heavier than I could bear. But my boot shifted in the snow, and his hand tightened briefly at my waist, holding me steady.

For one suspended breath, I thought he might close the distance. For one suspended breath, I thought I might let him.

Then Ivory snorted loudly, tossing her head, breaking the spell. I stepped back quickly, brushing snow from my cloak as though nothing had passed.

Robb cleared his throat, glancing toward the trees. “You’re reckless,” he said, though the softness in his tone betrayed him.

“And you’re far too serious,” I retorted, scooping one last snowball and tossing it lightly at his boots. “Call it even?”

His smirk returned, though his eyes still lingered on me with that unreadable depth. “Even… for now.”

Before I could slip from his hold and return to Ivory, his hand lingered, just for a breath.
“Wait,” he said quietly. His fingers brushed lightly through my hair, dislodging a few stubborn flakes of snow. The touch was careful, almost hesitant.
Our eyes caught — blue and green, the cold forgotten between us. My heart thudded once, sharp and unsteady.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Not usually. But I’ll make allowances this once.”

The moment stretched, fragile as frost on glass, before he cleared his throat and stepped back. “It’s time we returned.”

We rode in silence, though the quiet between us was not the same as before. When the gates of Winterfell closed behind us, stableboys hurried forward to lead the horses away. Robb excused himself to his duties with a brief nod, as steady and composed as ever.

I made my way back to my chambers, the warmth of the fire waiting — but it was not the fire that curled heat beneath my skin. The smile lingered on my lips, unshaken, as I thought of the glimpse I had seen of Robb Stark — not the dutiful heir, not the solemn wolf, but something softer, hidden, and mine alone to remember.

Chapter Text

The days soon found their rhythm — quieter, colder, but steadier than I had ever expected.

Mornings began in the yard, bow in hand. No longer stolen moments as in King’s Landing, but honest practice. Ser Rodrik barked his corrections with no hesitation, tugging at my stance, muttering about my elbow, nodding when an arrow struck true. My arms ached, my spine burned, yet I welcomed it. Across the yard Robb trained with his men, steel ringing against steel. After that ride beyond the walls, something between us had shifted. Our glances held longer, our exchanges warmer — teasing instead of barbed, laughter instead of silence. Sometimes I caught him watching me loose an arrow, and I almost thought he enjoyed seeing me edge closer to the center.

The time after training often belonged to Ivory. The mare had grown familiar with my step; she would nudge her soft nose against my shoulder as soon as I approached. I brushed her white mane until it gleamed, her breath huffing warm against my hands, and slipped her apples stolen from the kitchens. She took them delicately, as though she knew they were a secret between us. In those quiet visits, I felt freer than I ever had in King’s Landing — no eyes weighing me, no mother’s judgment, only the bond between girl and horse.

Evenings brought quieter hours. Lady Catelyn sometimes called me to her solar. She stitched wool for her boys while I set my hands to embroidery. My stitches were neat, steady — and she praised them kindly, though I noticed she seemed gladder for my company than my skill. She shared stories of her youth at Riverrun, of her sister Lysa, of Sansa’s first steps and Arya’s first scowl. I listened more than I spoke, but I didn’t mind. Her voice warmed the silence. And sometimes, in rare turns, I shared too — tales of Myrcella sneaking honeycakes, of Tommen chasing kittens through the halls. Lady Catelyn smiled at those, and I found myself smiling with her. Perhaps she only wanted company — a daughter’s company — and I was glad enough to give it. In her voice there was no sharpness, no scorn, only the softness of a mother speaking of her children. It struck me then how rare that had been in my own childhood — and how easily I could have loved it.

In the afternoons, after soaking the ache of bow and string from my body in a steaming bath, I often joined Maester Luwin. He spread his maps across the table, testing Bran and Rickon on their knowledge of the realm. The boys wriggled in their seats, direwolves stretched at their feet — Shaggydog’s ears twitching, Summer’s tail thumping on the flagstones. When the questions grew too difficult, the boys leaned unconsciously against the warmth of their beasts, comforted by the nearness.

When they stumbled, I stepped in.

“The rose is House Tyrell,” I explained when Bran frowned at Highgarden’s sigil. “Green and gold. Their words are Growing Strong.”
The boys’ eyes lit up, and Maester Luwin gave me a small approving nod.

He pointed at the sun-and-spear. “And this?”
“House Martell,” I told them gently. “Their seat is Sunspear. Dorne has always been the most stubborn of all the kingdoms. They bow only when it suits them. Their words are unbowed, unbent, unbroken. It sounds less like a motto, and more like a warning.”

Rickon piped up, pointing at a crowned stag. “That’s yours!”
I smiled, brushing his hair back. “Yes. House Baratheon. A black stag crowned in gold, on a golden field. Our words are Ours is the Fury.” Rickon looked at my hairpin, shaped in delicate stag horns, and grinned. “Like on your hair.”

Bran’s brow furrowed. “But your father is the king. Who rules Storm’s End?”
“My uncle Renly,” I said, pride slipping into my tone. “He is a member of the king's small council, but his bannermen keep Storm’s End well. He always looked after me.”

“And your father has another brother,” Bran pressed.
“Yes,” I answered, straighter now. “Lord Stannis rules at Dragonstone.” My tone cooled, less warmth there. “I’ve only seen him a few times. He is… strict. A man of duty, not court.”

The boys bent over the map again, hunting for the island keep. I guided their fingers. “Here. It once belonged to the Targaryens, before their fall.”

Before they could ask more, Maester Luwin dismissed them with a smile. Their shouts echoed down the corridor as they bolted for the yard, direwolves bounding at their heels.

I lingered to help him roll the maps and stack the books.

“You are mindful, Princess,” the maester said. “And wise beyond your years.”
His words startled me. In King’s Landing, Maester Pycelle had always seemed off-putting — droning, suspicious, perhaps even false. As the rest of the Small Council, he cloaked his intent beneath courtesy and wearisome words. Here in Winterfell, Maester Luwin was different. Honest. Direct. As was Ser Rodrik, with his whiskers bristling like a hound’s, and the rest of the household. They did not hover over me as though I were made of glass, nor treat me as if I might crack under a glance or a breath of wind. Their plainness was almost a kindness.

“It was my uncle Tyrion,” I admitted, a smile tugging at my lips. “He taught me to read before I could walk. Sat me on his knee with books of houses and histories until I grew too heavy for his lap.”

The old man’s smile warmed. “A good teacher, then. And a clever student.”

I left him then, carrying the quiet pride of that moment with me.

And somewhere between the ache of morning practice, the warmth of Ivory’s muzzle against my palm, Catelyn’s stories by the fire, and the laughter Robb drew from me in the yard — I began to feel it.

Not a cage. Not exile. Something closer to belonging. Somewhere between frost and fire, I had found a place that felt like mine.

Chapter Text

The godswood had become my refuge.
Its silence was different from the silence of stone corridors. Here, the wind whispered through red leaves, and the carved face of the heart tree looked on with its ancient stillness. I leaned against its pale trunk, a book balanced in my lap, words of Winterfell’s long-dead lords flowing beneath my fingertips.

It was not duty that kept me there, but something else. A quiet wish to belong. To know the names carved in the stones beneath my feet, to understand the house I had been tied to.

A soft rustle broke the stillness. I lowered the book. Grey Wind padded between the trees, paws soundless on the damp earth, his yellow eyes catching the light. Over the weeks, he had grown used to me, no longer bristling or growling, but circling once before settling close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.

I smiled faintly, running my fingers along the page. “So, it’s you again,” I murmured. “Do you think I read aloud badly, or do you enjoy the sound?”

Another voice answered instead.
“Stole my direwolf, Princess?”

My head snapped up. Robb stood just beyond the weirwood’s roots, a smirk tugging at his mouth, blue eyes glinting with the tease.

I smirked back, closing the book around my finger. “Stolen? Hardly. Can a direwolf be stolen? I’d wager he simply enjoys my company more than yours.”

Robb arched a brow, stepping closer. “Apparently, as the rest of my family does.”

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Jealous?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, though his gaze softened. “Hardly. Grateful, more like. You’ve spared me from my mother’s worry — from being her only shield against the empty places my father and sisters left behind. And from my brothers, who seem far livelier with you about.”

I blinked, caught by the honesty beneath his tone. “I thought you liked spending time with them.”

“I do,” he said simply. “But the North is large. It takes more and more of me to keep it in order.”

My fingers brushed the closed book. “And you came here… for rest?”

He let out a slow breath, glancing at the face of the heart tree before his gaze returned to me. “To find some, perhaps. Or have you already claimed this place as your own?”

A laugh escaped me, quick and light. “Could I?”

Robb’s smirk curved again, though quieter now. “Should I start being afraid? That soon I’ll need your leave to walk in my own home, Princess?”

“Gods, no,” I said, shaking my head. “If you’re seeking solitude, I wouldn’t disturb it.”

I made to rise, slipping the book shut, but he moved quicker than thought. His hand caught my wrist, warm and firm, stopping me.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice low. “I’ve not yet had my fill of your company.”

The words, the suddenness of his touch, froze me. My breath caught, my pulse stumbling. His fingers loosened almost at once, as though realizing what he’d done. He drew his hand back, expression guarded.

I looked at him then — not with my usual smirk, not with sharp words, but with something stripped bare. My voice came quieter, steadier.
I’ve just thought you’d prefer peace… instead of my loud mouth filling it.”

Robb’s mouth curved, his voice low but edged with amusement. “I’m rather fond of your mouth.”

The words struck deep, sharp as an arrow. My eyes snapped to him, wide. He seemed to realize at once, clearing his throat and looking away quickly, though a faint flush touched his cheek. “I meant,” he said, tone stiff, “your tongue - the way you speak. Your humor. The sarcasm.”

I turned my gaze away as well, pretending far greater interest in the still pool at the center of the godswood. Ripples of reflected red leaves swayed on its surface. “Do Starks enjoy sarcasm, then? I thought you…”

“Boring?” he supplied, his smirk returning in the corner of my eye.

I let my lips curl. “I never said that.”

He shifted beside me, adjusting his posture against the heart tree — his shoulder brushing mine just barely, perhaps by accident, perhaps not. “We’re not made of ice and stone, Princess. Despite what your South thinks of us. We’re no strangers to laughter. Or to warmth.”

My smirk deepened, though my pulse had quickened at the brush of his shoulder. “Strange. My mother always said northern hearts are cold… and colder still their—”

I stopped short, heat rushing to my face before the words escaped.

Robb caught it. Amusement sparked in his blue eyes as he turned his head slightly toward me, his voice pitched lower, almost daring. “Finish that sentence.”

Seven save me. The flush climbed my neck, warming me far more than my cloak. I forced the words past my lips in a half-whisper. “And their beds are colder.”

His smirk spread, wolfish now. “So that’s what fills the pretty head of yours? Northern beds?”

I gasped, scandalized — and jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow, laughing despite myself. “Gods, no! It was my mother’s words, not mine. And she’s hardly an authority I hold dear.”

Robb only looked more entertained, his blue eyes alight. “So you disagree with her?”

How in the seven hells had I landed here, discussing beds with the heir of Winterfell? Only because of this mouth he claimed to like so much — a mouth that always ran faster than my sense.

I snatched up the book at my side and aimed a playful swat at him. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Stark.”

But his hand shot out, catching my wrist before the book could land. His fingers wrapped firm and warm around mine, halting me in mid-swing.

Robb didn’t release my wrist this time. His fingers held fast, thumb brushing lightly against my skin as his eyes glinted with mischief.

“Ah, there it is,” he murmured. “The perfect façade of a princess cracked by her own book. Tell me, was that violent streak always hidden beneath silks and jewels… or was it born here, in the North? Between archery lessons and feeding that mare you spoil with apples?”

His smirk widened, wolfish, far too sure of himself.

My breath caught, though I forced a scoff. “Enough, Stark. Keep talking and I might aim higher next—”

I never finished.

Robb closed the space between us with sudden certainty, his lips finding mine. Warm, impossibly soft against the cold air, too gentle for the boy who sparred like steel in the yard. My eyes flew wide — first in shock, then in something stranger, sharper.

The book was still clutched in my hand, half-raised as if to strike. But the instant his mouth touched mine, I forgot it. My fingers slackened, the weight of the leather cover all but meaningless against my palm.

It was my first kiss. The first time anyone’s lips had touched mine. The strangeness of it stole the air from my lungs — yet the sweetness of it rooted me to the spot. Instinctively, I let my eyes fall shut.

At first, I was still. Robb’s mouth moved carefully, tenderly, as if he feared one breath too rough would break the moment. Driven by instinct more than sense, I answered — tentative, uncertain, but enough.

His grip eased from my wrist, sliding upward until his hand cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed my cheekbone, and the tenderness in the gesture undid me more than the kiss itself.

The book slipped finally from my hand, forgotten, landing softly in the roots of the heart tree. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady strength of his hand, and the dizzying realization that I did not want to pull away.

When the breath in me thinned, Robb finally parted our lips — though only just. Our noses brushed, our foreheads nearly touched, his breath still warm against my mouth.

I still tasted him, sharp and clean, like winter air over iron, a flavor that lingered on my lips and sent a shiver through me stronger than the cold.

For a heartbeat, silence held us. My mind was blank, emptied of words, emptied of thought.

It was Robb who found his voice first. “I lied,” he murmured, his gaze steady on mine. “I like these lips not only for their sharp remarks, apparently.”

He pulled back a fraction, mischief glinting in his eyes.

I blinked at him, caught completely off guard. “You’re insufferable,” I managed, though my voice betrayed me with its unsteady edge.

His grin deepened. “For a girl who speaks of cold beds, you seem rather undone by a single kiss.”

The heat rose to my cheeks. I scoffed, forcing sharpness into my tone. “And for a man so intent on his duty, you seem rather eager to forget it.”

“Perhaps you should keep your weapons to arrows, Princess,” Robb said, though his voice had softened, the tease gentled by something heavier.

At last, his hand slipped away. He straightened, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I should go,” he murmured, softer than I’d ever heard him.

And then, without another word, he pushed away from the tree and strode off, leaving me stunned in the quiet.

I sat there, breath ragged, lips tingling, as if he had claimed my first kiss as easily as he had claimed a ride through the frost — with action, not courtesy, not sweet words. How Northern of him. Or rather… how Robb of him.

Despite myself, warmth spread through my chest, curling deep, steady as a flame. Slowly, as though the motion itself might summon him back, I lifted my fingertips to my lips, tracing the faint swell left by his kiss.

As if holding my lips could hold him, too.

Chapter Text

Robb’s POV

The yard rang with the clash of steel. Frost still clung to the flagstones, and Robb’s breath misted white with each exhale. Ser Rodrik’s blade came down hard, heavier than his years should allow, and Robb caught it, boots sliding half a step before he steadied himself.

“Better,” Ser Rodrik grunted, pressing him back before breaking away. “Your guard is sharper this morning. Keep it that way.”

Robb nodded, chest heaving, and reset his stance. They went again, steel on steel, until the ache in his arms burned familiar. The rhythm was steady, practiced — but hollow.

Jon should’ve been here. Jon always sparred with him after breakfast, their blades ringing until they were both bruised and laughing. Now Jon was gone, bound to the Wall. Father gone too, south with the king. For the first time, the weight of Winterfell sat heavy on Robb alone.

Ser Rodrik pressed him once more, then lowered his blade with a huff. “You’re distracted, lad.”

“I’m fine,” Robb answered too quickly.

The old knight gave him a look but said nothing, sheathing his sword. “I’ll see to the squires. Don’t wear yourself to splinters.”

When Rodrik left, the yard felt too wide, too empty. Robb wiped his brow, staring at the straw dummies lined against the wall. The air bit cold, yet his thoughts burned hot and restless.

It wasn’t only Jon’s absence, or his father’s. It was her.

Lyanna. 

Robb had expected her to be like her mother — sharp, proud, cold. A girl of silks and courtesies, better suited to King’s Landing who would wither in the frost. He had braced himself for it.

But she wasn’t.

He saw her now in stolen moments: loosing arrows until her arms shook, snow in her dark hair as she walked Ivory through the yard, laughter quick and unguarded when she thought no one heard. She teased him sharp as a blade — and instead of breaking against her, he found himself wanting to laugh with her.

And last night—

Robb exhaled sharply, running a hand through damp hair. Gods. He could still feel the weight of her wrist in his hand, the warmth of her lips against his. He hadn’t meant to kiss her, not truly. But she had laughed, nudged him, and his restraint had frayed. Reckless as a boy, not a lord, he had leaned in.

And she hadn’t pushed him away.

Robb gripped the sword hilt tighter. He was Lord of Winterfell now in all but name. The men looked to him, the household too. He had no business stealing kisses beneath the heart tree like some lovestruck youth.

Yet even as he told himself so, the memory returned — her breath mingling with his, her eyes closed, the faint tremor of her lips answering his.

Lyanna.

The name struck through him again, heavier now. Not just the ghost his father mourned, but the girl here in Winterfell. The girl who would be his wife.

Robb tightened his grip on the sword hilt, grounding himself. He knew his duty. The North came first. His house came first. But for the first time, that duty and his own want did not stand apart.

He lowered his sword at last, the clang of steel on stone echoing in the yard. Lyanna would not come to the training fields until later, he knew. She liked her mornings slower, with books or the company of Maester Luwin. Still, his eyes strayed toward the arch where she usually entered, as if expecting her dark hair to appear.

Robb shook his head at himself, forcing a humorless smile.
Gods save him. One kiss, and already the yard felt emptier without her in it.

“Practicing against the wind? No wonder you look so fierce.”

Her voice carried across the yard, bright with amusement. Robb nearly faltered mid-swing, his grip tightening on the sword before he let it flow naturally back into guard. That was what she did to him — one remark and his rhythm was broken.

He turned, and there she was. Lyanna stood at the edge of the yard with that confident smirk of hers, green eyes glinting. Her hair had been bound in a way he hadn’t seen before — smaller braids threaded across her crown, gathered into one thick plait that spilled loose over her shoulder. It made her look at once regal and untamed. Her cheeks were touched pink, likely from the frost… though Robb dared to think his presence might have played a part too.

He lifted his sword, angling it toward her with mock solemnity. “Want to try?”

Her brows arched, eyes widening for a heartbeat before narrowing again. “So now you’ve upgraded your opponents? From the wind… to a girl who’s never held a sword before?”

Robb’s smirk deepened, his mood shifting quicksilver between jest and earnestness. “You’ve already learned how to hold a bow. Seems only fair you learn a sword too. Come then — I’ll fetch you a wooden one, so you don’t end up chopping off that braid you worked so hard on this morning.”

Robb strode to the weapons rack, tossing her a practice sword. The wood was worn smooth from years of boys beating each other bloody under Ser Rodrik’s eye.

Lyanna caught it clumsily, her smirk flickering. “And what am I supposed to do with this? Impress you with how fast I can drop it?”

Robb chuckled, circling her as if she were already his opponent. “You’ll manage. You’ve surprised me before.”

Her grip shifted uncertainly along the hilt. “Archery is different.”

“Not so different,” he said, stepping behind her. His hand brushed hers, adjusting her stance, then lifted her elbow higher. The touch was steady, but far from impersonal. 

Robb stepped closer, his tone shifting from teasing to instructive. “Not like that,” he said quietly. “Your feet—keep them steady. Widen the stance, here.”

Before she could protest, his boot nudged hers into place. Then his hand came up, brushing lightly against her spine. “And straight in the back. Balance isn’t in the arms — it starts here.”

The warmth of his touch seeped through leather and fur, his nearness stealing her breath for a moment. His hand lingered just long enough before he stepped back, though his gaze flicked — unbidden — to the curve of her lips. For a heartbeat too long, he looked, then forced himself to turn his eyes away, clearing his throat.

“Better,” he said, voice steadier. He raised his own wooden blade, showing her a few quick nudges, the easy, practiced rhythm of someone trained since boyhood. “If I strike like this, block with the flat. Not the edge. Otherwise, you’ll jar the whole arm.”

He swung lightly, slow enough that she could catch the motion, guiding her sword into place with a sharp tap. The wood met wood, her grip awkward but firm enough to hold.

Lyanna tried the block again, but the wooden blade quivered in her hands. Robb’s smirk deepened.

“Too stiff,” he said. “If you hold it like a hammer, you’ll be on your back before you know it.”

Her brows arched. “And I suppose you’d enjoy that sight, Stark?”

For half a heartbeat he faltered — then he let out a quiet laugh, the color rising faintly at his ears. “Only because it would mean I’d won.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes, though her lips curved despite herself. “Mm. How very noble.”

He stepped in closer, adjusting her stance again. His fingers brushed along her knuckles, shifting her grip, then slid briefly to guide her wrist. She forced herself not to jerk away, though her breath hitched.

“Your hand’s shaking,” Robb said, softer now. “Don’t think of me standing here. Think only of the strike.”

She shifted her grip again, the weight of the wooden blade still foreign in her hands. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered, half under her breath. “You’ve been holding a sword since you were—what? Five? I’ve been holding needles. Stitches and silks, and only lately a bowstring.”

Robb’s laugh came warm and unguarded, surprising even himself. “Not far off. Ser Rodrik stuck a wooden blade in my hand before I’d grown out of nursery tales.” He smirked, angling his sword with casual ease. “But bruises teach quicker than embroidery, I promise you that.”

She smirked at him, eyes sparking.
“So this is how you charm your betrothal? Instead of strolling with her in a garden, tucking flowers in her hair, or giving jewels to match her eyes, you’d rather cover her in bruises?”

Robb’s grin softened, though the tease lingered in his tone.
“I’m not looking to bruise you. But learning to hold a sword can’t hurt. Might even save your life one day.”

Then his brows lifted, a flicker of mischief returning.
“And how many southerners have already tried to win you with jewels to match your eyes?”

The question slipped before he could stop it. And when her expression stilled, something tightened in his chest. He hadn’t meant it cruelly. He only wanted to tease.

Lyanna’s POV

I froze at his words. The question yanked me back — back to King’s Landing, where since I turned fourteen men twice my age sought my company in order to crawl closer to the crown.

I remembered the long walks in the royal gardens, their endless polite talk about nothing. The trinkets they pressed into my hands: necklaces, brooches, pins — meaningless jewels now collecting dust in drawers, half of them already given to my maids. None of it had meaning.

Robb Stark hadn’t played the lord with me. He hadn’t tried to dazzle me with trinkets or drown me in polished courtesies. He gave me a horse — a living, breathing creature to care for, to ride whenever I wished, to carry me beyond the walls when I needed air.

What began as chains — a betrothal forced without my voice — was changing, piece by piece, into something else.

Each day I spent in Winterfell, Robb Stark gave me pieces of freedom.

He made his home feel like mine. He gave me the freedom to rise early for archery, to bear the ache in my spine after training, to decide for myself when I would walk the godswood paths or spend an hour brushing Ivory’s pale mane, her breath warm against my hands.

I hadn’t even noticed how natural it felt — to live on my own rhythm. To pull a bowstring not out of duty, but because I liked it. Because it gave me control. Because it gave me power. And now here he was, teaching me to hold a sword.

Robb’s gaze lingered as he lowered his sword, catching the stiffness in my shoulders, the way my fingers clenched too tightly on the hilt. His voice gentled.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to hurt you — or to belittle what you’ve known before.”

The words caught me, and for once I didn’t mask them with a smirk.
“No, it’s fine,” I said quietly. A flicker of something raw slipped past my guard. “It’s just… these past weeks here in Winterfell, I’ve been given more than I ever had in King’s Landing. More meaningful things.”

Robb stilled, the honesty disarming him more than any blow. He had grown used to my sharpness, my teasing walls. This glimpse beneath them was something else entirely.

After a pause, he cleared his throat. “If you wish, I could keep teaching you. Ser Rodrik wouldn’t deny you the chance to learn the sword — but if it makes you more comfortable…” His mouth curved, a touch of mischief returning. “Perhaps you’d rather my company than his?”

I rolled my eyes, letting the sharpness slide back into place. “You’re too busy with your lordly duties, Stark. I hardly think I’d be honored with such a sacrifice of your precious time.”

“Not hours,” he countered smoothly. “Half an hour after your archery. No more. You’d hate it otherwise.” His tone softened, careful. “Only if you want it.”

I lifted my chin, smirking despite myself. “Then half an hour it is. Though I warn you — it will likely be the most dreadful half-hour of your day.”

Robb’s lips curved, his blue eyes catching the light. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

I smirked, but the memory of his lips ghosted still. Somehow, I doubted it too.

Chapter Text

Over the next two weeks, Winterfell’s rhythms settled around me like a cloak. Each morning I gave up my “precious half-hour” to Robb Stark — though by now, I couldn’t deny it had become less a lesson and more a habit. Robb was always waiting in the yard, blade in hand, as if he had known I would come. At first, he pressed a wooden sword into my grip, but it felt foolish — a child’s toy, awkward and clumsy in my hands. After one particularly sharp remark from me and his infuriating grin in return, he finally relented. The wooden blade was traded for practice steel.

At first, I had only learned the blocks, stiff and awkward, my grip too tight, my back bent until he pressed me straight again.

Robb corrected me endlessly — my stance, my grip, my guard. His touch at my elbow, his hand shifting mine on the hilt, the press at my spine when I forgot to keep straight. In the beginning, every brush of him had sent heat to my cheeks; now I told myself I was used to it. Almost.

By the end of the first week, my blocks no longer jarred the sword from my grip. By the second, I could hold longer before my arms trembled. My progress was slight, the kind a boy of eight might have matched, but it was mine. And every time Robb smirked with faint surprise at an improvement, I felt a pride that I would never admit aloud.

Still, our sparring had its games. Robb amused himself with my clumsiness; I defended with sarcasm sharp enough to make him laugh.
Between blows, between mock-duels and bruised knuckles, something unspoken held between us — a wordless pact not to name the kiss beneath the heart tree, but not to forget it either.

Outside the yard, Winterfell stirred with its own purpose. Lady Catelyn had set the household alight with preparations for Bran’s tenth nameday — no courtly spectacle, but marked with all the warmth the North could muster.
She oversaw it all herself — inspecting the guest chambers, ordering the masons to mend cracked hearths, commanding the servants to light fires early so no lord would find cold stone waiting for him. She checked the wine cellars twice, consulted with the cooks on every dish. Winterfell was a keep of stone, but for her son’s nameday, Catelyn Stark made it blaze with life.

Even Maester Luwin had relented, releasing Bran and Rickon from their lessons for the week. The two boys could scarcely be kept indoors, darting about the yards with their wolves snapping at their heels, shouting and tumbling in the frost. Their laughter carried through the keep — a sound I had grown fond of.

For my part, I found myself folded into the work as naturally as breath. Robb was busy most days, swallowed by his lordly duties, and I only saw him across the table at supper. But Lady Catelyn welcomed my help. I trailed her through the kitchens, offered a second pair of eyes when she checked the guest chambers, held parchment and ink while she dictated orders. She was grateful for the company, and I, strangely, found myself grateful for the purpose.
The queen had never asked me to help with anything. Yet here, in Winterfell, I found myself useful.

Bran’s nameday drew near, and the hall was made ready. A small feast, Catelyn said, only family and household, and those bannermen close enough to reach Winterfell before the snow deepened. Still, there was an air of anticipation to it. Bran was ten now, almost a man grown by northern measure, and it showed in the way he puffed his chest when he spoke of it.

Steel clattered as my blade caught his, and for once I didn’t stumble. Robb’s wrist flicked, testing my grip, but I held firm. His brows lifted, surprised, before he stepped back and lowered his sword.
“Good,” he said, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re getting stronger.”

I smirked, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “Or maybe it’s you who’s getting weaker — sparring with a girl who only just learning how to keep her feet.”

Robb huffed a laugh, sliding his blade back into its sheath. “Careful. If word spreads that I lose to a princess with more embroidery than calluses on her hands, Ser Rodrik will never let me live it down.”

“Not embroidery anymore. Now bows and bruises. And perhaps you, if I practice harder.”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Gods save me from your sharp tongue. It cuts worse than steel.”

Our laughter spilled into the cold yard, light enough to make the frost feel less bitter. Then Robb straightened, brushing snow from his sleeve. “All right. I need to go.”

I tilted my head, feigning offense. “So impatient to leave my company, Stark? Or is it just that Lord Duty never waits for you?”

His smirk curved wry. “Not this time. The lords have started to arrive. By midday, before Bran’s feast, we’re riding out to hunt.”

“Hunt?” I arched a brow. “With your bannermen? And you’re taking your ten-year-old brother with you?”

Robb’s eyes softened. “I promised him. Father did the same for me. Now that he’s gone south, it falls to me.”

I studied him for a moment, still catching my breath from the spar. “I always thought hunting was for men’s amusement. Wine and horns, boasting about whose spear flew truer.”

He gave a quiet laugh. “It is. For some. But when you ride with bannermen, it isn’t only a sport. It’s… building bonds. They judge you in ways they’ll never admit aloud. How steady you sit a horse. How quick your eye is. How sure your hand with the spear.”

I tilted my head, my smirk giving way to thought. “Strange way to measure loyalty.”

Robb’s gaze lingered on me, steady as stone. “The North is loyal, yes. Fiercely so. But loyalty still needs a man to prove he’s worth it. A lord unworthy of his house won’t keep his bannermen long — not here. Not where winters bite.”

I fell quiet at that, his words heavier than jest, heavier than the boyish smirk he so often wore with me. For a moment, I saw not only Robb Stark, sparring partner and teasing betrothed, but the young lord of Winterfell — carrying a weight no girl in King’s Landing had ever spoken of.

I tilted my head, still chewing on his words. Then the corner of my mouth curved.
“So I suppose the feast’s main dish will be a stag, personally felled by Robb Stark’s hand? At least some respect to your betrothal and her house sigil.”

His laugh came quick, low in his chest. “A stag? If I aim for that, Princess, the feast will be delayed until next year’s name day.” He smirked, eyes glinting. “What would you have me chase instead? Squirrels?”

I lifted my chin, smirking back. “At least you’d be sure to win.”

Robb shook his head, the laughter still in his voice. “You’ll find Northerners aren’t so easily swayed by pretty tokens. They’d sooner call me a fool than a lord if I wasted a hunt like that.”

I arched a brow. “Then it’s fortunate you’re not chasing me. I’d not make it so easy for you.”

His gaze caught mine at that, steady, unreadable, and for a moment the jest between us hung sharper than either of our swords. Then he cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
“Come. If I don’t see to the hounds, they’ll eat better than we do tonight.”

When Robb and I parted ways in the yard, I returned to my chambers to shed the sweat of training. The bathwater was still faintly steaming when I rose from it, my skin tingling from the heat against the chill air.

I chose my gown carefully — golden, though not the gaudy gleam of the Lannisters. This was deeper, warmer, the shade of earthen Baratheon gold, with fine black embroidery at the neckline and cinched close at my waist. My hair I left loose down my back, heavy and dark, though I pinned the sides with two small golden clips, their shapes curled like stag’s horns. Simple. Strong. Enough.

When I descended, the Great Hall already smelled of spiced meats and honeyed bread. Lady Catelyn was everywhere at once, moving with that quiet grace of a woman who had overseen a thousand feasts and still fretted over every candle, every plate. I trailed after her willingly, helping where I could — directing servants to check the torches, ensuring the wine jugs were filled, smoothing the smaller details she sometimes overlooked in her larger concerns.

“Thank you, Lyanna,” she said once, brief but warm, her hand brushing my arm before she moved on. And though she disappeared into the bustle almost at once, the words lingered with me, warm as a secret kept safe.

Then the horns sounded — low, clear, rolling through the stone halls. A signal from the gates. The hunters were returning.

A cheer rose from the yard, boots striking against the cobbles, dogs baying in excitement. I moved to one of the windows, catching sight only of flashes: men laughing, a cart laden with venison, the banners of House Umber and House Glover rippling in the cold breeze. From the cheer of the men and the bright cries echoing up the stairs, it was plain the hunt had been successful.

Bran darted past me in the corridor, cheeks flushed, his eyes wide with delight. “They brought down a stag!” he gasped, his voice tumbling over itself with excitement. He clutched at the sleeve of my gown, tugging. “A stag, Lyanna! Did you hear? Robb threw the spear himself!”

I laughed, smoothing his tousled hair. “Did he now? Well, then, I suppose you’ll need something to make your own mark on hunts, won’t you?”

I drew him aside and pressed the gift I had hidden these past days into his hands — a small hunting dagger, its hilt carved with the shape of a direwolf, silvered teeth bared. The boy’s gasp was sharp and quick, his fingers tracing over the wolf’s head as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

“For me?” Bran whispered.

“For you,” I said simply. “But mind your mother — it’s not a toy.”

He grinned, too wide to contain, then bolted off again down the hall to show Rickon, his small boots striking against the stone. I shook my head, smiling despite myself.

When at last the evening fell, the hall filled with the warmth of fire and food. It was no royal feast like the one for the king’s visit, yet somehow it felt richer for it — the rough laughter of bannermen, the clatter of mugs, the scents of boar and venison filling the air. Familiarity rather than grandeur. Home rather than spectacle.

The high table gleamed with polished wood and silver plates. At the center sat Robb, broad-shouldered, the mantle of Winterfell already fitting across him as though he had worn it all his life. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat with her quiet dignity, Bran and Rickon pressed close, already filling their mouths with more enthusiasm than grace.

And at Robb’s left, one seat remained empty.

I crossed the hall and took it. Not Lady Stark yet, not his wife — but still placed at his side, as though I had already begun to belong there.

Robb glanced at me as I sat, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile, blue eyes glinting faintly in the firelight. “You came,” he said, low enough only I could hear.

“Did you expect I wouldn’t?” I murmured back, smoothing the folds of my gown. “It’s Bran’s night.”

His smirk softened, almost imperceptibly, into something else. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”

And with that, the feast began.

The hall rang with laughter and cheer, goblets sloshing with wine as Bran’s name was toasted again and again. Robb leaned closer at times, his voice pitched low to whisper a lord’s name in my ear — Umber, Glover, Cerwyn — his hand brushing the table as if steadying me through the introductions. I tried to keep pace, to remember them all, but half slipped through my grasp like water.

But Lord Umber I remembered.

He was broad as the oak benches themselves, his beard thick and bristled, his hand heavy on the table as he bellowed his toast. “To Bran!” he roared. “May he grow strong as his father, sharp as his brother!” The hall answered with cheer. He drank deep, slammed his goblet down, and raised it again — the flush of wine blotching his cheeks.

“And to the young wolf, Robb Stark!” he thundered. “Lord of Winterfell, Ned’s hair on his head — though still a boy, eh? A boy lucky in his lot. One stag to fill our bellies—” his laugh rumbled, thick and coarse, “and another to warm his bed.”

The words struck like a slap. I froze, goblet half-raised, the wine trembling against the rim. In King’s Landing, such venom would have come sheathed in silk, whispered behind hands, never dared aloud. But here it was raw and brazen, cutting through the hall like a blade.

My throat locked. I could not answer — not as a princess, not as a betrothed girl, not as a woman who suddenly felt every eye press against her.

But Robb did.

His chair scraped hard against the stone as he rose, blue eyes sharp, his jaw tight with something colder than anger. “Careful, Lord Umber,” he said, his voice carrying low but steady across the hall. “You toast my brother’s strength, then call me boy. You praise my father’s name, then insult the woman he entrusted to my house. Which of those toasts should I believe?”

The laughter faltered. The hall shifted, uneasy, as Umber blinked through his drink.

Robb’s voice did not waver. “You may call me young. I am. But I am also heir of Winterfell, and I’ll not have my betrothed spoken of as though she were some camp follower to be tossed in jest. She is the daughter of a king. Under my roof she is Lady, and she will be treated as such.”

The silence hung thick, broken only by Bran’s small, nervous shifting at his seat.

Robb lifted his goblet, his gaze never leaving Umber’s. “To my brother Bran,” he said evenly. “And to the honor of Winterfell — which we all share.”

Others raised their cups quickly, voices echoing the toast. Even Umber, muttering into his beard, drank with the rest.

I stared at the firelight flickering in my wine, pulse loud in my ears. No one had ever spoken for me like that — not my father, not my mother. The sting of Umber’s words lingered, but sharper still was the shock of Robb’s defense, steady and public, a shield I had not known I possessed.

When I dared glance at him, his jaw was still set, the muscle tight beneath his skin. But beneath the table, his hand found mine. His fingers closed gently around my own — steady, grounding — a silent reassurance that said clearer than words: don’t pay attention. He’s drunk.

The tension in my chest eased just enough, and I couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at my lips in answer.

Chapter Text

Lyanna’s POV

The night wound down slowly, like embers burning low. The great hall was still alive with the sound of laughter and tankards thudding against the table, bannermen trading stories loud enough to stir the rafters. Robb remained out of duty more than desire, answering jests, raising his cup, carrying himself as his father would have. Lady Catelyn saw to the flow of wine, speaking to the stewards and servants as though her mind never rested.

I, however, had no such obligations. When my polite smiles had worn thin, I excused myself and slipped quietly from the hall.

In my chamber, the silence welcomed me. I sank into the chair before my mirror, tugging the pins loose from my hair one by one. Each dark strand fell heavier against my shoulders until my braid unraveled completely. I drew the comb through slowly, as if smoothing not only the tangles of my hair but the tangles of thought lodged in my chest.

The feast’s laughter still rang faintly in my ears, but beneath it echoed one man’s crude words. A stag for the belly, another for the bed. I had smiled, as I was trained to smile, and let the goblet shield my expression. But now, alone, the remark stuck deep. Was that how they would see me? A prize won, no matter my birth, no matter my will — just a girl meant to warm Robb Stark’s bed and breed his heirs.

The slow scrape of the comb calmed me, steadied me. But then—

The door creaked.

I turned, half-startled, and found a small figure in the frame. Rickon. His hair was mussed from sleep, his little fists clutching a carved wooden wolf and a heavy book pressed to his chest. His eyes were bleary but wide, uncertain.

“Rickon?” My voice softened at once. “What are you doing here?”

He blinked at me, shifting his toy from one hand to the other. “They’re still celebrating,” he mumbled, voice small. “Mama’s with them. And Robb. And Bran said he’s too tired to play. I couldn’t sleep.”

My chest ached. Setting the comb aside, I rose and crossed to him, kneeling so my eyes met his. “Come in, then. I’ll keep you company.”

His face brightened, some of the weariness melting into relief. “Truly?”

“Truly.” I closed the door behind him and guided him toward my bed. “Now—do you want a story?”

Rickon nodded eagerly, climbing up onto the blankets with his wolf toy tucked beneath his arm. He curled against me without hesitation, small and warm, seeking comfort as if it were the most natural thing. I arranged the cushions behind us, took the book from his hands, and smoothed a page open.

“Which one, hmm?” I asked gently, brushing a lock of hair from his brow.

“Someone brave,” he said at once, his voice muffled by the toy wolf pressed to his cheek.

I smiled faintly. “Then how about Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt?”

Rickon nodded solemnly, settling closer, and I began. My voice stayed soft and even, telling of Torrhen’s choice to yield his crown rather than see his people burned beneath dragonfire. It was history, yes — but to Rickon, it became a story. His little breaths slowed, his grip on the toy slackened. Before long, his sniffling deepened into the heavy rhythm of sleep.

I continued to read in a whisper, though my eyes lingered more on his peaceful face than on the words. Something warm settled in me, easing the sharp edges the feast had left behind.

A knock at the door broke the quiet. I didn’t want to stir him, so I called softly, “Come in.”

The door opened, and Robb stepped inside. His hair was tousled from the long evening, his jerkin loosened, though his eyes still carried the sharp awareness of command. He paused when he saw us — Rickon curled fast asleep against me, the book open across my lap.

A grin tugged at his mouth as he crossed his arms and leaned against the frame. “There he is. I’ve been searching half the castle for him, and instead I find him fast asleep in my betrothal’s bed.”

A laugh escaped me, too quiet to wake Rickon. “Jealous, Stark?”

Robb chuckled low. “Hardly. You two look so well together, I almost don’t want to ruin it.”

Still, he stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. His voice gentled. “But I should take him back. He’ll be stiff come morning if he stays here.”

I nodded, smoothing Rickon’s hair one last time. “He came to me with his book. Said he couldn’t sleep. I didn’t have the heart to turn him away.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Robb’s eyes softened as he bent to scoop his brother into his arms. Rickon stirred, half awake, mumbling something incoherent before tucking his face against Robb’s shoulder.

“Come on, little one,” Robb murmured, adjusting the boy’s weight with ease. “You’re still a bit too young to be sharing ladies’ beds.”

I smiled at that, covering my mouth to stifle another laugh. “He’ll grow into it, I’m sure.”

Robb glanced back at me then, his smirk faint but his gaze steady. “Seven help me if he takes after you.”

The words caught something in my chest, and I smiled back despite myself.

I bent to pick up what Rickon had dropped — his wolf toy and the book. The little wolf’s ears were chewed soft at the edges, its belly worn from small hands clutching it night after night. I knew it was his favorite. If he woke before dawn, it would comfort him to find it close.

So I followed Robb quietly down the corridor. He had opened the chamber door with the heel of his boot, careful not to wake his brother as he carried him inside. I stopped in the doorway, watching as he set Rickon down with a tenderness that stirred something in me — the kind of gentleness more fitting of a father than a boy of seventeen.

It made me think of Tommen, of Myrcella. Of reading to them on nights when my mother was too busy with court. For me, it had felt natural to gather them close, to read softly until their breathing slowed. And now here, it didn’t feel strange at all to do the same for Rickon.

Robb bent, arranging the cushions, tucking the blanket beneath his brother’s chin. I stepped closer and placed the book on the bedside table, setting the toy wolf just under Rickon’s hand. He sighed in his sleep, curling toward it instinctively.

We left together, the door shutting with a soft click behind us.

The hallway was quieter here, lit only by the flicker of torches in their sconces. Robb’s steps slowed until he looked at me. “Are you alright?”

I forced a small smile. “Of course. It’s not exactly injuring to read a short story to your little brother.”

His lips twitched, but his voice was steady. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

My eyes dropped away from his. I knew what he meant. That word — stag for the bed. The memory pricked at me again, raw. I tried to sound indifferent. “Well. It was unexpected. That’s all.”

Robb stopped, turning until he faced me fully. His voice lowered, firm but quiet. “Don’t take it to heart. Northern tongues grow loose after a few cups of wine. It wasn’t meant—”

I wrapped my arms around myself, as though seeking warmth. My voice came softer. “It’s just another truth I must accept, isn’t it? That that’s all I am to them.” My eyes flicked to his, quickly, then away again. “How will your bannermen look at me when I’m your wife?”

For a heartbeat, Robb only studied me. Then he let out a small huff, somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “So now you worry what my bannermen think. Funny — I can hardly remember a time you’ve ever worried about my opinion.”

The corner of my mouth tugged upward despite the weight in my chest. I jabbed him lightly with my elbow. “Shut up. I don’t care what you think. It’s inevitable, you’ll just have to accept me.”

He mirrored my smirk, though his eyes softened. “Exactly. And so will they. They’ll have no choice but to accept you.”

The playfulness faded slightly in his expression, replaced by something steadier. “You don’t know them yet. That’s why you’re uneasy. But it can be fixed.”

My brows rose. “And how do you suggest I fix it? By following you on hunts with your bannermen?”

Robb laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Gods, no. There’s an easier way. Lighter.” He paused, considering. “I’ll show you — if you’d like.”

My curiosity pricked. “At this hour?”

He glanced toward the window slit, where the sky outside was already black with deep night. “It’s late. But if you’re not tired…”

I tilted my head, lips quirking. “You’ve set my curiosity pricking, Stark. And I don’t much feel like sleeping.”

Robb’s smile flickered, quiet and sure. “Then follow me.”

We turned down another corridor, our steps muffled on the stone. He led me to a door heavier than the rest, banded with iron. The solar. Once Lord Eddard Stark’s, now his son’s. Robb pushed it open, and the air inside was warmer, thick with the faint scent of smoke and parchment.

A great wooden table dominated the room, its surface scarred with years of use. The map spread across it was unlike any I had seen before. Not the polished scrolls of King’s Landing that showed the Seven Kingdoms as neat colored blocks, but something alive with detail — the whole of the North drawn in ink and care. Every holdfast and keep marked. Rivers, forests, ridges. Even the Wall, etched in sharp strokes at the map’s edge.

I stepped closer, drawn to it, my fingers hovering above the parchment without touching. “I’ve never seen a map like this.”

Robb struck a taper to one of the candles and moved it nearer, the golden light spilling across the inked lines. His voice was low, almost reverent. “This is the North, as it truly is. Not how the southrons draw it, as an afterthought. Every bannerman. Every land. Every oath.”

The candlelight caught his features as he leaned over the table, and I found myself studying not the map but him — the weight in his expression, the steadiness that felt older than his years.

I leaned over the map, tracing the ink lines with a fingertip until it circled a keep drawn near the sea.
“This one,” I murmured. “Bear Island. I’ve heard of it.”

Robb’s hand slid gently over mine, steadying it before guiding my finger more firmly to the mark. His palm was warm, calloused from training.
“House Mormont,” he said softly, his voice close enough to stir the loose strands of my hair. “Old blood, proud blood. The women rule there now. They’re small in number, but fierce — no army in the North fights harder than the Mormonts. Their sigil is the black bear, on green.”

He shifted our joined hands further inland, his thumb brushing lightly against mine as if by accident.
“And here,” he went on, guiding me north. “The Umbers. Greatjon rules from Last Hearth. Loud, strong as an ox, half mad when he drinks — but his loyalty is iron. Their sigil is a roaring giant, breaking chains.”

I tried to focus on the words, to fix each fact in my memory, but his nearness was overwhelming. His chest brushed my shoulder when he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he spoke.

He drew our hands eastward, where the ink marked another keep.
“Karhold. The Karstarks. They are kin to us — their name comes from Karlon Stark, who founded their line. Fierce men, proud of their closeness to Winterfell. Their banner shows a sunburst of white on black.”

I nodded faintly, though the details swam in my mind, blurred by the way our hands had intertwined fully now. Robb’s fingers threaded through mine, his hold gentle but sure.

And then, at last, he guided us toward the Dreadfort, sketched in dark strokes along the Weeping Water.
“The Boltons,” he said, his tone changing. Quieter. Measured. “Lord Roose Bolton rules there. Cold as the stone in his walls. His banner is a flayed man, hung red on pink.”

I narrowed my eyes at the sigil he indicated. “Gods. A flayed man? Who in the world would choose such a thing?”

He gave a short laugh, though his tone steadied quickly, like repeating words he’d heard from his father. “Disturbing, yes. But Lord Roose Bolton is one of my father’s most trusted bannermen. A shrewd commander. An experienced warrior.”

I tilted my head, green eyes glinting with something between jest and unease. “Still… I doubt I’d trust a man who flies his enemies as his banner.”

Robb’s lips quirked, though his gaze stayed on mine a fraction longer than before. “Perhaps not. But in the North, strength comes in many shapes — even grim ones.”

“Mm,” I hummed, not wholly convinced. “So the North is giants, chains, and flayed men?”

That coaxed a real laugh from him, his head tilting toward me until our faces were almost brushing. My breath caught at the closeness.

“Well,” I went on quickly, smothering my nerves with jest, “if I must judge by sigils, I think I prefer the peaceful ones. Like mine. A crowned stag. Harmless. A gentle creature. Practically meek compared to flayed men and roaring lions”

Robb’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Harmless?” He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Your father raised that harmless stag in rebellion — toppled three hundred years of dragon kings, seized the Iron Throne for himself. If that’s harmless, Princess, I shudder to see dangerous.”

I narrowed my eyes, a smile tugging despite myself. “All right, you’ve made your point. A sigil doesn’t define the man.”

“Sometimes it does,” Robb said softly. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

His gaze lingered, cheeks almost brushing mine as his voice dipped lower. “So. Is that how you see yourself? Harmless? A gentle creature?”

I tilted my chin, refusing to look away. “You don’t agree?”

Robb’s mouth curved, though his eyes were steady now. “A stag isn’t harmless,” he murmured. His thumb brushed lightly over my knuckles where our hands were still joined on the map, the faintest squeeze, grounding yet unsettling. “Wolves, lions, bears — they bare their claws in the open. Stags endure. They know when to stand, when to strike, when to run.”

His voice had lowered as he spoke, closer now, until the warmth of his breath stirred against my hair. “That’s why they survive.”

The words weren’t meant as a warning, but the way he said them, so near, sent a tremor along my spine. His other hand hovered uncertainly before brushing the curve of my waist, hesitant at first, as though he feared I might startle. But when I didn’t move, his fingers lingered — feather-light, yet searing in their gentleness.

He bent his head, his lips close enough that they brushed my ear as he whispered, “A stag isn’t prey, not always. Even a wolf learns caution. The stag knows when to turn, when to drive its antlers deep.”

Gods. His voice was softer than steel but carried the same weight, threading through me. For him, perhaps it was only an analogy — wolf and stag. But for me, it was fire in the veins, the heat of his breath ghosting against my skin, the slow burn of his hand at my waist.

A shiver tickled up my neck. I laughed it off too quickly, turning my head just enough that our temples brushed. “You’ll make me think you practice speeches for your hunts.”

He huffed, a sound half amusement, half restraint. But his hand didn’t leave my waist.

I released our joined hands from the map and turned to face him fully. He was close — closer than any courtesy would allow. His palm rested flat on the table, the other still warm against me, caging me without force, only nearness.

The candles burned low, their glow catching in the blue of his eyes. For the first time, the silence between us wasn’t sharp or awkward. It was heavy, charged, full of things neither of us dared speak aloud.

Then his fingers tightened at my waist — no longer tentative, but claiming. He drew me closer with a suddenness that stole my breath.

Before I could speak, his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t like before — not careful, not hesitant. This kiss was urgent, fierce, as though the restraint he had shown under the heart tree had snapped in two. His hand at my waist pressed me firmly against him, the other bracing hard against the table beside my head, caging me in the circle of his body.

I gasped against his lips, caught off guard, and the sound seemed to ignite him further. He kissed me deeper, heat pouring through the press of his mouth, the taste of wine and winter air mingling with something wholly his.

Instinct drove me as much as desire — my fingers clutching at the wool of his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing away. His lips moved against mine with a hunger that made my pulse race wild in my throat, and before I knew it, I was answering him with the same urgency.

When he finally broke away, it was only enough to let us breathe. His forehead rested against mine, noses brushing, his breath uneven. The hand at my waist still held me tight, as though he feared I’d vanish if he let go.

Robb’s POV

Lyanna’s eyes flickered, wide and uncertain, but not with fear. Something softer lived there — curiosity, tenderness, the faintest spark of daring. Her cheeks flushed, lips already kissed into a swollen hue. Robb swallowed hard at the sight, throat tight, pulse pounding.

And then she leaned to him. Just a tilt, the smallest surrender — but enough. Her lips brushed his, tentative, testing. 

For a heartbeat, Robb froze. Shock, raw and pleasant, stole through him. He hadn’t expected her to close the distance. The girl who had only known silks and sharp words pressed to him now with quiet courage.

He let her linger, let her taste the shape of him — but soon, instinct overtook restraint. Slowly, carefully, he deepened the kiss. No rush, no demand, only deliberate gentleness. Still, he trembled. Gods, he trembled like a boy in his first tilt. He held her tighter, grounding himself with her waist beneath his palm, while his other hand slid from the table to cradle the back of her neck. Her hair spilled like silk through his fingers, carrying faint scents of lavender and jasmine — a southern softness claimed by Winterfell’s frost.

Her warmth unraveled him. Every part of him burned to take more, yet he moved with care, letting her set the pace, letting her learn him even as he marveled at the trust in her lips.

When at last their mouths parted, he didn’t move far. His forehead pressed lightly to hers, his breath uneven, lips grazing her cheek as if reluctant to leave her at all.

Lyanna’s voice broke the hush, sharp but trembling.
“So tell me, Stark — how many girls have you practiced on to kiss like that?”

Robb huffed a laugh, rough and unsteady. “Enough to know the difference.” His eyes searched hers, all traces of smirk gone. “This isn’t practice.”

The bluntness of it stole her breath more than the kiss had. She tilted her chin, hiding the heat in her cheeks. “Gods. You really do think yourself a singer.”

“Hardly.” His mouth twitched. “But I know when something’s real.”

Lyanna smirked faintly. “If that’s how Northerners say goodnight, Stark… I think I prefer the southern way.”

“And what way is that?”

“With less wrestling for breath… and a little more sweetness.”

His thumb brushed her jaw, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

The words stole her retort. She stepped back quickly, breaking the spell, her hand slipping from his. “I should go, before someone thinks the Lord of Winterfell has bewitched me.”

She paused at the door just long enough to glance back. “Goodnight, Robb.”

The click of wood left him in silence.

He had held a sword since boyhood, and he had known women too — but he had never tried to win a heart. Never cared to. Until her. And now he stood undone by a kiss. He could still feel her — the curve of her waist beneath his hand, the tremor in her breath, the taste of her lips lingering like a vow unspoken.

Guilt pricked at him — not for kissing her, but for the way he had done it. Too sudden, too fierce, as though he had forgotten himself. For a heartbeat he feared he’d driven her back.

But then Lyanna leaned in, her lips brushing his with quiet courage. Not taken, but given. That second kiss stilled his doubt — and undid him all the more.

With her, every word, every glance, was like stepping onto thin ice: dangerous, thrilling, one slip away from plunging beneath. And still, he knew he’d step out again.

Chapter Text

Robb’s POV

The morning after Bran’s feast dawned brisk and loud. The courtyard bustled with farewells as banners were lowered, carts rattled, and men called for their horses. Robb stood tall through it all, offering words of thanks, clasping hands, giving the courtesy his father would have expected. By midmorning, the noise thinned, the smoke of the cookfires lifting from the yard. Winterfell returned to its rhythm.

He had not seen Lyanna since the feast. The girl had lingered late at the feast, but she had slipped away before the worst of the wine-drunk boasting, and by the time he returned to his chambers the hall outside hers had been dark and quiet. This morning, he guessed, she was still in her rooms, resting. Perhaps brushing that pale mare of hers. Perhaps walking the godswood again. His thoughts tugged toward her regardless.

He forced his focus back to the parchment before him, quill scratching steadily. A report for his father in King’s Landing: the bannermen who had answered the call to Bran’s name day, reports of grain stores, mended walls, and the hunt’s spoils. Yet the words blurred, his mind straying elsewhere.

A memory intruded, sharp and unwelcome: the warmth of Lyanna’s waist beneath his palm, her lips soft and uncertain against his, her breath mingling with his in the candlelit quiet of this very room. His hand tightened around the quill until ink bled across the page, shame pricking sharper than the blot. He swallowed hard, forcing himself back to his father’s neat script.

Before the heat could rise to his cheeks, the door creaked open.

“Robb.”

Lady Catelyn’s voice was calm, measured. She did not wait for his leave but entered, skirts whispering as she crossed to the chair opposite him. Robb dipped his quill again, pretending to write, though the words had long deserted him.

“Still at work?” she asked softly, eyes on the parchment.

“There’s much to keep in order,” Robb replied without looking up. “Father must be kept informed.”

Catelyn studied him in silence for a moment, then folded her hands in her lap. “I hear you’ve been spending your mornings training Lyanna yourself. Ser Rodrik tells me she holds a sword now, not just a bow.”

A flash of heat rose in Robb’s chest — not the flush of embarrassment his mother expected, but the dangerous memory of how he had taught Lyanna, how close he had stood behind her, how her smirk had faltered when his hand brushed hers. He clenched his jaw, forcing the image away.

“I’m not pushing her into anything,” Robb said quickly, meeting his mother’s eyes at last. “She asks for it. She wants it. The South bound her in silks and courtesies, Mother. Here she’s free. If she chooses archery, if she chooses a sword, I won’t take that from her.”

Catelyn’s gaze softened. “Free, yes. But freedom cannot last untouched. She is betrothed — soon to be your wife. Have you spoken of your marriage yet?” she asked quietly. “Chosen a date?”

Robb frowned, setting the quill aside. “Not yet.”

“Perhaps you should.”

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in the chair. “Why the rush? She’s barely been here a month and half. Father only just left. Lyanna is still learning what it means to live in Winterfell — let her breathe before you bind her tighter with duty.”

“She is sixteen,” Catelyn said gently. “Near to seventeen. At her age, I was already wed — heavy with you in my belly.”

Robb shifted uncomfortably, setting the quill aside. “Do you long for grandchildren so soon?” His tone carried a bite. “You’ve children enough already. Rickon is young still — spoil him instead.”

Catelyn’s lips thinned, though her eyes softened. “It isn’t for me. It’s for you. For both of you. You are a man grown, Robb. And she is a grown woman, near enough. It is not always proper, two betrothed living beneath one roof without vows binding them. Whispers begin.”

Robb’s gaze sharpened, voice cooling. “Are you hinting at something?”

“I am not blind,” Catelyn said quietly. “I’ve seen how you look at her. How you smile when you think no one sees. I know your heart better than you think. And I know how people talk. Already they whisper after Lord Umber’s drunken toast. Not about you, Robb — they will call you strong, fortunate. But her? She is a girl, a princess from the south. Whispers can ruin her faster than any blade. I would not see her reputation put in danger.”

Silence stretched. Robb’s hands clenched against the table. He remembered too clearly the look on Lyanna’s face at that feast — the way she had stilled, goblet frozen mid-air, the flicker of hurt she had hidden behind her smirk.

At last, he said lowly, “Then let them whisper. I’ll not let a drunk man’s jest define her.”

Catelyn’s eyes searched him, and something in his tone seemed to ease her. Still, she pressed gently, “But words have weight. They can wound as deep as blades, especially for a young girl.”

“Mother,” he said at last, voice low but steady, “you ask me to think of honor, and I do. Every day. But don’t ask me to throw her into duties she’s not ready for. She’s still learning this place, learning us. She hasn’t even reached her seventeenth name day.”

Catelyn tilted her head. “And you, Robb — only just past yours. Yet already you are trusted with Winterfell.”

“That is different,” he said sharply, then softened. “It had to be different. For her, it doesn’t have to be — not yet.” He leaned back, drawing a slow breath. “At least wait until she comes of her seventeenth name day. Then we may speak of setting a date. But not before.”

Catelyn’s gaze sharpened, her tone quiet but firm.
“You are already a man, Robb. Old enough to wed, old enough to bed. I know your father’s sense of duty runs deep in you — but even your father, with all his honor, brought a bastard into this house. You know I have not forgotten.”

Robb’s chest tightened, a flush rising in his face. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He did understand. His mother wasn’t doubting his loyalty — she feared his restraint. That by waiting, by holding back for Lyanna’s comfort, he might one day seek ease elsewhere, as so many men did. And in doing so, he would wound the very girl he meant to protect.

His mind flicked, unbidden, to Jon. To all the years of his mother’s cold silence, the way her eyes slid past his brother at table, never softening. She had never forgiven Father for that boy, never set down the hurt it carved into her. The betrayal hadn’t just marked her — it lived in every glance she refused Jon, in every shadow he carried.

And now he saw it — her fear that Lyanna might bear the same wound. That she too would carry a scar that never healed, born not of cruelty but of weakness, of desire unbridled.

The thought turned his stomach.
“I am not my father,” he said at last, voice low, more shaken than he meant. “I won’t seek another while she sleeps beneath my roof. If Lyanna waits, I wait with her.”

Catelyn rose at last, her skirts brushing the stone as she left him in the quiet. The door shut softly behind her, but the weight of her words lingered heavy in the air.

Robb stared down at the parchment before him, the ink long dried where his quill had stilled. He dipped it once more, forced his hand to move — yet the words refused to come. All that filled his mind was the memory of dark hair brushing his fingers, the echo of a girl’s smirk beneath candlelight, and her name beating steady in his chest.

Chapter Text

Robb’s POV

The yard was still and cold that morning, the frost clinging silver to the straw butts at the far end. Robb expected quiet, expected to find it empty. Instead, he heard the thwack of bowstring, the dull thud of an arrow sinking deep into wood.

He slowed his pace, curiosity tugging, and then he saw her.

Lyanna stood steady, back straight, bowstring taut against her cheek. Her braid had loosened over one shoulder, dark strands catching light as she released. The arrow struck clean into the target’s inner ring. She lowered the bow with a small, triumphant lift of her chin — utterly unbothered, utterly hers.

Robb lingered unseen for a moment, watching. She looked different now than she had weeks ago: her stance was stronger, her aim surer. No nervous dart of the eyes, no shoulders hunched tight. She had carved herself a place here, in Winterfell’s cold air, and gods help him — he was glad of it.

When she bent to pluck her arrows free, she finally caught him standing there. Her smirk came quick.
“I didn’t see you yesterday. Thought perhaps you’d grown bored of watching me stumble.”

“Bored?” Robb echoed, arching a brow. “I half-expected you’d given up, or decided to avoid me.”

Her smirk sharpened. “Avoid you? And why would I do that?”

He knew why — the memory of their kisses burned still, too fresh — but he kept his composure. “Clearly, I was wrong. You’re here, bow in hand. So I’ll just have to keep enjoying your clumsy swordplay for morning entertainment.”

She scoffed, tugging an arrow from the butt. “Consider it a free gift, Stark. Something to brighten your dreary days.”

Robb laughed, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “A generous gift. Though I’d say you’re improving.” He nodded toward the neat cluster of arrows. “Your aim’s steadier.”

She gave him a proud, almost defiant smile. “So, what? You’re just going to stand there, arms folded, and admire me for free?”

“Should I be paying?”

“Depends,” she said sweetly. “Do you enjoy watching me win?”

His grin curved wolfish. “Thinking of revenge, Princess?”

Her eyes sparked. “No. Thinking of victory. This time, I’ll beat you.”

Robb plucked three arrows from the rack, weighing them in his palm before offering them. “Three shots. All in the inner circle. Same wager as before: the winner gets a wish.”

Her brows arched. “Why three?”

“You didn’t think I’d make it easy, did you?” His smirk deepened. “You’ll learn the wish once you’ve earned it.”

Lyanna took the arrows, her fingers brushing his as she did. “You’re confident I’ll lose.”

“Not confident,” Robb said, stepping back to watch. “Just curious. You enjoy losing to me.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. “Careful, Stark. Keep talking, and this arrow will find your head.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms. “Then I’ll stand very still.”

She turned back to the target. Drew the string. Released.

Thunk. The first arrow buried itself neatly on the inner edge.

Her lips quirked. She didn’t look at him, but he could see her satisfaction in the tilt of her chin.

“Not bad,” Robb allowed, though his chest tightened. “Two more.”

The second arrow drew slower, steadier. Robb found his gaze betraying him, tracing the bowstring drawn to her lips, the faint part of them as she exhaled. His jaw tightened. She loosed.

Thunk. Deeper, closer to the center.

Gods. She was going to do it.

He shifted his stance, arms folding tighter, though a grin tugged unwilling at his mouth. Lyanna knew — he could tell by the flicker of her eyes, the smug tilt of her shoulders.

The last arrow. She drew long, her breath controlled, her back straight. For a heartbeat, she looked carved from the very ice of the yard — calm, sharp, unshakable. Then she released.

Thunk.

The arrow landed just above the others, still in the inner circle.

Robb let out a low breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Three arrows, all true. A sting of loss struck him, but it was sweetened with pride — and an eager flicker of curiosity.

“Well,” he said at last, striding toward her. “Seems the gods favored you today.”

Her brows rose, her smile sharpening. “Favored me? As though it had nothing to do with the weeks I’ve spent freezing in this yard, trying not to curse the damn target?”

Her voice was fire and frost together, and Robb laughed, shaking his head. “Then I stand corrected. You’ve earned it. What’s your wish? I suppose I should dread it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “A ride. Beyond the walls.”

Robb blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it? All this fuss, just for a ride? You know you don’t need wagers for that.”

“No,” she said, stepping closer, her voice quieter but surer. “At night. When the sky is clear, and the stars are out. I want to ride where there’s no noise of the castle, no walls, no duties — only the woods and the sky above. That’s my wish.”

Robb studied her a long moment. There was no jest in her tone, no teasing. She meant it.

Something in him stirred at the thought — her braid gleaming in starlight, her laughter carrying through the dark. He nodded slowly.

“Then we’ll ride,” he said simply.

And for the first time that morning, the sting of losing felt sweet.

Chapter Text

At the dead of night, a knock pulled me from sleep. I stirred at once, dragging my night-robe close, clutching it tight around me as I rose. I half-expected one of my maids, or perhaps some servant with news — but instead, it was only a squire, cheeks red from the cold, bowing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Princess. A note from Lord Robb.” He thrust it into my hands, then vanished back into the shadows before I could reply.

Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

If you’re still so eager to freeze your pretty southern bones admiring stars, this is the night for it. Not a single cloud in the sky. I’ll wait for you in the yard — ten minutes.

My jaw dropped. Ten minutes. I gasped softly, pressing the note tight in my hand. Gods, is he serious?

Frustration pricked, but beneath it stirred something else — anticipation. My chest rose with it, quick and restless, already imagining what he promised: riding out beneath a sky stripped bare of cloud, breathing frost instead of smoke, silence without the chatter of halls or the bark of hounds. Just open air, and stars.

In moments, I was moving. My robe was discarded for warm riding clothes, boots laced high, gloves pulled snug. I wrapped myself in a heavy black cloak, hoping to vanish into the night’s own shadow. My hair I left loose — there was no time for braids, and ten minutes passed quickly enough without them.

When I slipped into the yard, the castle lay hushed. Winterfell, unlike the Red Keep, actually slept at night. Here no maids scurried, no guards peered into every doorway. Only the main gate was kept watch, and even that with quiet discipline. I felt safer in that stillness than I ever had in King’s Landing.

Robb was already waiting. Two horses stood saddled — his dark raven mare, and Ivory, my pale beauty. Even in the night she gleamed, her coat catching what little moonlight there was, glowing faint against the frost. Robb wore a thick cloak, the hilt of his sword glinting at his hip.

He turned at my steps, his lips curving into that infuriatingly amused smirk.
“So you actually came? In ten minutes? What, were you sitting up waiting for me?”

I scoffed, crossing my arms tight against the night chill. “Hardly. I was very sweetly asleep, until your note woke me.”

Robb’s smirk widened at my glare. “What, second thoughts? It was your wish, Princess. Don’t tell me you’ve already changed your mind.”

I drew myself taller, tugging my cloak tighter. “No. I haven’t. Only… what would people say?”

He let out a low laugh, swinging easily into his saddle. “People? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m lord of this castle while my father’s away. And I don’t think my own folk will bar me from leaving my own gates.”

I shot him a look as I mounted Ivory. “I wasn’t talking about you. I meant me. What they’d say about a girl riding out past the walls at midnight, as though I’ve no better sense than a sellsword. Girls aren’t supposed to have the same freedom as men.”

His smirk gentled, though the amusement didn’t fade entirely. “Then it’s well enough you’re not just any girl.” He nudged his horse toward the gate, cloak brushing against the stirrups. “You’re betrothed to the Lord of Winterfell. Let them whisper if they dare.”

I scoffed under my breath, but heat crept into my cheeks despite the frost. “You’ve grown very bold with your words, Stark. One day I may start believing them.”

He only laughed, his voice carrying warm into the night air.

We rode under the stars, the frost crunching beneath hooves, the air sharp and clean in our lungs. No hounds barking, no guards calling — only the steady rhythm of horses moving as one. After some time, Robb led us off the main path, through a small copse of pines, until the trees parted into a clearing.

The ground opened wide, ringed by tall dark trunks, the canopy above bare enough to show the whole sky. Stars spilled endless across it, brighter here than anywhere inside Winterfell’s walls. It felt untouched, secret — a world carved only for us.

Robb drew his mare to a halt and glanced over, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Here. Same place as last time.”

I looked around, heart drumming at the sight of the open sky, the hush of trees holding us apart from the world. “It looks different at night,” I murmured, sliding from Ivory’s saddle. “Like it belongs to no one.”

He swung down beside me, his cloak brushing against mine as he landed. “Then let’s say it belongs to us. Just for tonight.”

Robb only gave a wolfish grin as he dismounted. He tied his mare to a low branch, then with no warning dropped straight back into the snow, arms flung wide. The frost hissed under him, a sharp crackle in the silence.

I crossed my arms, arching a brow. “Truly, Stark? That’s your idea of star-gazing? Freezing yourself stiff in a snowbank?”

His grin widened. “Come closer and see.”

Before I could protest, his hand shot up, warm fingers circling my wrist. With one sharp tug, the ground gave way beneath me, and I fell hard against him.

“Gods, Robb!” I hissed, my hair spilling loose across his cloak as I landed on his chest. His laugh rumbled beneath me, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

He shifted, drawing his heavy cloak around my back like a shield, tucking me against the solid warmth of him. “You wanted the stars,” he murmured, voice low by my ear. “Then look properly.”

For a moment I could only blink at him, lips parted, heart pounding far too fast for lying still. Then I tilted my head up. The night sky spread vast and sharp above us, cold jewels scattered on black velvet.

Robb’s hand lifted, his arm brushing mine as he pointed. “There. Do you see it? The Ice Dragon. The line of stars that curve, like a spine. And there—his eye, burning bright.”

I squinted, pretending not to. “Looks more like a crooked arrow to me.”

His chuckle brushed warm against my temple. “You’ve no imagination, Princess.”

“Oh, I’ve plenty. That one there—” I raised a finger toward a clustered knot of stars. “That looks like a stag, antlers and all. A far nobler sight than some clumsy dragon.”

He turned his head, so close that his hair brushed my cheek. “A stag? Of course you’d find your own house in the sky.”

“And why not? It suits me better than frozen lizards.”

Robb’s shoulders shook with another quiet laugh. “Frozen lizards… remind me to never let Maester Luwin hear you speak of dragons like that.”

I smiled despite myself, eyes lingering on the stars — though it was the warmth beneath me, the strength of his hand at my waist, that I truly felt.

Robb’s arm shifted again, pointing toward another cluster. “There — the Hunter. See the three stars, straight as a line? His belt.”

I tilted my head, squinting. “You mean those crooked sparks there? That’s a belt? Truly, Stark, I think you’re making half of this up.”

He gave a quiet laugh, the sound muffled where my head lay against his chest. “Luwin drilled it into me when I was younger. Those three are the Hunter’s belt. And above him, the Moon Maid — her lantern raised.”

I frowned, searching, but the stars blurred together. “I don’t see her.”

Robb shifted. His hand found mine where it rested against his cloak, fingers brushing, curling. He lifted it gently, steadying my wrist. “Here.” His voice had softened, close and low. “You’re looking too far left. Follow my hand.”

Slowly, he guided me upward, our arms brushing, the warmth of his grip steady and sure. “There,” he whispered, aligning my fingertip with a faint cluster. “Her lantern. The Moon Maid’s light.”

I held my breath. Not because of the stars, but because of the heat of him beside me, the way his head tipped close enough that his lips nearly brushed my temple when he spoke.

“The Moon Maid carries her lantern, searching the sky for the one she lost. Some say she’ll never find him. Others… that she watches over lovers below.”

A quiet smirk tugged at his mouth. “It’s what Maester Luwin told me, though I doubt he meant it to sound so soft. I always thought it sad… her searching forever.”

I shifted slightly, my gaze still tracing the faint arc of stars. “Do you think it’s bad? To spend eternity searching for someone?”

Robb’s voice lowered, thoughtful. “Bad?” He shook his head. “No. I think it means they were worth searching for. Even if the world never let them meet again.”

His words lingered, settling between us like breath on cold air. I felt the warmth of his hand find mine, steady, sure, as though he were answering a question I hadn’t dared speak aloud.

His gaze drifted higher, toward the black stretch of sky, and he lifted his chin. “But look there. Do you see that one? Brightest, steady — it never strays.”

I squinted, following the line of his finger until I caught it: a sharp, constant gleam where all the others wheeled and wandered.

“That’s the Nail of the Heavens,” he said, his voice lower now, brushing close to my ear. “The North Star. No matter the season, no matter the storm, it’s always there. If you’re lost, you follow it home.”

My breath hitched, my eyes fixed on the light that refused to move. “And you always trust it to guide you?”

His hand tightened over mine, his thumb tracing warmth against my knuckles. “Always.” A beat of silence, heavier than the rest. Then, softer still, “If you’re ever far from Winterfell… look for it. You’ll know where I am.”

I turned toward him then, my voice quiet, the smirk barely touching my lips though my chest ached with something more. “I don’t need stars to find you.”

Robb faintly but genuinely smiled. “Do you?”

“Yeah. You are right here.”

I let my eyes linger on him — on those piercing blue eyes that caught the moonlight until they outshone every star above us. The way he looked at me, steady, unwavering, made the rest of the world blur away. Right here. With me.

The night wrapped around us, vast and endless — the frost air biting at my cheeks, the stars scattered bright and cold. But all I felt was warmth spreading through my chest, curling outward, chasing away the chill.

I followed the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips. They drew me in — not out of girlish curiosity anymore, but out of something deeper, something I had no name for.

His eyes never left mine, as if he was giving me permission to memorize him in this moment: Robb Stark, not the Lord of Winterfell, not my betrothed, but simply the boy lying beside me in the snow, beneath the moon’s silver watch.

Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. It was enough, the hush between us, the quiet knowledge that no one else existed here but him and me — and the stars, silent witnesses. The Moon Maid herself might have looked down upon us, her eternal searching finally stilled.

A lock of his hair had fallen loose across his forehead, brushing over his eyes. Before I even thought, I reached out, fingers light, and brushed it back. The strands were softer than I expected, my fingertips lingering for the barest heartbeat against his temple.

Robb stilled under the touch. His breath hitched, blue eyes widening as though the smallest gesture had unraveled something in him. He didn’t speak, only looked at me — so openly it made my chest ache.

I leaned closer, my breath fogging in the cold, until it mingled with his. For a moment, all I could hear was the frantic beat of my heart, the quiet rush of his own breath. And then, his lips met mine.

This kiss was nothing like the one stolen in the godswood, nor even the one risked in the solar. This was slower, steadier — as though he was memorizing me, savoring the shape of my mouth beneath his. His hand lifted, tentative at first, then sure, sliding to cradle my jaw. His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, a tender counterpoint to the way his lips pressed more firmly against mine.

Robb’s chest rose sharply, as though he hadn’t expected me to come to him this way. Surprise flickered through him — and then gave way to something else, something deeper. His other hand slipped to my waist, holding me close, not to claim but to steady, as though the kiss itself might sweep him away.

The cold of the snow melted from my senses; there was only his warmth, his nearness, the way his lips moved against mine with a gentleness that carried the weight of something unspoken.

The kiss broke, but only just — enough for me to draw a shaky breath. His forehead lingered against mine, his blue eyes searching mine as though trying to understand what tether had just been tied between us.

Without a word, his hand lifted, brushing back a loose strand of my hair that had fallen over my face. His fingers lingered, tracing behind my ear, then ghosting down to my cheek. The touch was feather-light, reverent, as if he feared I might vanish like mist.

Then Robb tilted his head, eyes never leaving mine, and closed the distance again. His lips found mine softer this time, slower — not hesitant, but deliberate. As though he wanted to feel every heartbeat of it.

We kissed again. And again. Little stolen presses of lips, unhurried and wordless, each one a promise in itself. The world narrowed to the warmth of his hand against my cheek, the steady strength of his body beside mine, the breath we shared in the frozen air.

When the last kiss broke, I lingered, my lips still tingling, my breath uneven. Robb’s hand didn’t fall away — it rested at my cheek, steady and warm. 

For once, I didn’t search for a jest to shield myself. The words came unguarded, almost a whisper.
“Robb… I’ve never felt this close to anyone.”

His breath caught, the faintest furrow etching his brow. He lowered his forehead to mine, voice low, raw.
“Nor I.”

We stayed like that, noses brushing, breath mingling, while the cold air curled around us. For a moment, the snow didn’t bite, the world didn’t press — there was only him, only me, only the stars overhead.

But Winterfell’s walls loomed not far off, and duty — always duty — tugged at the edges of the night. Robb drew a long breath, the warmth of it stirring my hair.

“We should go back,” he murmured, though his tone was reluctant, as if the words pained him.

I nodded, though my chest tightened at the thought of parting. His hand slipped from my cheek, brushing once more along my jaw before falling away. Slowly, carefully, we rose, brushing frost from our cloaks.

When he turned to fetch the horses, I looked once more at the sky — at the North Star, steady and constant. But it wasn’t the star that anchored me. It was the man beside me, his figure silvered by moonlight.

Chapter Text

Robb’s POV

Lyanna did not come down to breakfast.

At first, Robb thought little of it. They had returned late from their ride beyond the walls, the cold clinging silver to their cloaks even after the castle fires. He supposed she was still sleeping, making up for the hours stolen by stars and frost. She had looked like a light out there in the snow — eyes bright, laughter warm, kisses soft — as though the night itself had bent to her.

A part of him told himself she deserved the rest. And yet, as the morning wore on and she did not appear in the yard, unease began to stir.

At the high table, Bran yawned so wide he nearly spilled his porridge, and Rickon, still half-asleep, pushed his spoon through his bowl as though chasing fish in a pond. Catelyn’s voice cut gently through the quiet clatter of dishes.

“Where is Lyanna this morning?” she asked, her brow furrowing. “Has she taken ill? I should send a servant to her rooms.”

Robb shifted, his own spoon idle in his hand. “There’s no need, Mother,” he said, keeping his tone steady. “She’s likely resting still. Let her sleep.”

But inside, he knew well why she needed that sleep. He could see it even now — her cheeks flushed from the frost, hair falling loose around her shoulders, her laughter scattering the silence of the woods. The way her lips had met his in the starlight, soft and daring, had not left him since. He told himself that was all it was, the late hour and the cold.

After breakfast, Robb made his way to the training yard as he always did. The clang of steel rang sharp in the morning air, and Ser Rodrik met him blade for blade, pressing him hard enough to keep his focus sharp. But Robb’s gaze betrayed him. Every few passes, his eyes flicked toward the stair, the archway — anywhere Lyanna might appear, bow in hand or smirking as she dragged a practice sword from the rack.

By this time, she was always here.

“Robb,” Ser Rodrik barked as their swords locked, “you’re distracted.”

Robb broke the bind and drew back, chest rising with more than exertion. “Lyanna hasn’t come down,” he muttered.

The old knight gave a small grunt, half amusement, half rebuke. “You’re training her as though one day she’ll lead an army. Don’t fret. The princess is likely still abed, or off at play with your brothers.”

Robb didn’t laugh. The jest sat heavy, humorless. His jaw tightened as he lowered his sword. “Thank you, Ser Rodrik,” he said shortly, and before the knight could answer, Robb was already striding away, boots echoing against stone.

Through the cold corridors, he found himself outside the chamber that had once belonged to Sansa. He rapped his knuckles once. Then again, harder. No answer.

A moment of hesitation caught him — he had no wish to intrude on her privacy. But unease gnawed sharper than courtesy. He pressed the door open a crack.

“Lyanna?” he called softly.

The room was dim, warmed by a low fire. On the bed, tangled in her blankets, she lay still. Hair spilled in a dark wave across the pillow, a strand fallen over her eye. For a moment, all his worry eased. She looked softer than she ever allowed herself to be in waking hours — not sharp-tongued or teasing, not proud in the yard, but quiet. Peaceful.

Robb’s breath caught. He stepped closer, drawn against his better sense, until he stood over her. That single strand shadowed her cheek, and he brushed it gently aside, rough warrior’s hand turned unsteady in the tenderness of the motion. His fingers lingered, trailing to tuck the lock behind her ear.

It was then he saw it — the sheen of sweat glistening at her temple, a thin line running down to the pillow. His brows knit. He lowered his hand, pressing the back of it lightly to her brow.

Burning.

Guilt slammed into him like a blow. The night, the snow, the frost that had clung to her cloak. Gods, it was his doing.

He straightened sharply, voice low but urgent as he beckoned a servant from the hall. “Fetch Maester Luwin. At once.”

And as the boy flew down the corridor, Robb turned back to her — to the girl curled in her blankets, breath uneven, cheeks flushed with more than sleep — and felt the weight of his fault settle heavy as stone.

By the time Maester Luwin shuffled in, stooped and muttering to himself, Lyanna stirred at last. Her lashes fluttered, unfocused at first, until her gaze caught the two shapes in the chamber. The old maester with his chain glinting in the firelight, and Robb — standing near the foot of her bed, stiff as though he’d been carved from the very stone walls, eyes fixed on her.

Her cheeks warmed faintly, though whether from fever or discomfort she could not tell. She tugged the blanket a little higher over her night-robe, suddenly too aware of herself, too aware of him.

“Easy, child,” Luwin murmured as he came to her side. His hands, cool despite his years, pressed against her brow, then shifted to the hollow of her throat. “Hm. A fever, but not a grave one. Likely no more than a chill. The northern air can be cruel when one is not yet hardened to it.”

Lyanna tried to sit, but the maester pressed her shoulder gently back. “No, stay. Rest is your best remedy.”

Her eyes flicked toward Robb, uncertain, embarrassed. He had not moved. He hadn’t even tried to disguise the furrow between his brows. He stood a step back, as though giving her space, yet rooted, unwilling to leave. For some reason, that unsettled her more than his nearness.

“Will she be well?” Robb’s voice broke the quiet, low and taut.

Luwin glanced at him over his shoulder, his tone practical, soothing. “Of course. A few days abed, broth and tea, and she will be herself again. I will have the kitchens send up a hot soup and steep her a draught to bring down the fever.” He straightened, bones creaking. “The body at her age is strong. It will pass.”

Lyanna managed a faint smile, though her eyes slipped away from Robb’s. “You see? Nothing for lords to fuss over.”

The old man chuckled, gathering his vials. “Nothing indeed, save patience. Two doses of this each day, and no slipping out into the snow until I say so.”

When he finally shuffled out, silence settled like dust.

Lyanna, pale but still herself, smirked faintly. “Go on, then. Mock me. A softened body that couldn’t endure one night outside the castle.”

His throat worked. “I’d never say that.” His voice dropped, rougher. “This was my fault. I should’ve thought—”

“It was my wish,” she interrupted softly. “Not yours. And you heard Luwin. A few days. Nothing more.”

Lyanna’s lips curved faintly as she sank back against her pillows. “Despite… all this”—she gestured at herself, pale and bundled in blankets—“last night I gained a vast knowledge of astrology. So it was worth it.”

Robb’s brows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s all you gained? A few names of stars?” His voice lowered, teasing, the implication unspoken but sharp as a swordpoint.

Her smirk deepened, though a faint flush rose in her cheeks. “Perhaps a little more. But I’ll keep those lessons to myself.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, though the sound carried a roughness that betrayed more than amusement. “By the gods. You’re impossible.”

Silence lingered for a breath before Robb leaned forward, his hand flexing uselessly against his knee. “Do you want anything? Tell me what I can do. Gods, Lyanna, this was my fault. Leaving you like this—I feel like a bastard who’s lost his way.”

Her gaze softened, though she masked it quickly with another smirk. “Then don’t leave. Stay for a while.”

Hope flared in him, quick and startling. But just as quickly, sense doused it. He shifted back in his chair. “You should rest. Luwin said—”

“I slept the whole morning,” she interrupted. “Now I’ve no desire to sleep. I might as well have company.” Her eyes glinted as she added, “Only on one condition: you stop looking at me like some solemn guard at a dying woman’s table”

He exhaled, a breath that was half-laugh, half-surrender, and leaned back in his chair — though his shoulders stayed taut, his gaze fixed on her.

“If you insist on staring, at least do it from closer. Sit here.” She nudged the corner of the mattress with her foot. “Unless you’re afraid you’ll catch it from me.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, a wolfish smile tugging finally free. “I’m not so easy to fell.”

Her pillow struck him squarely in the chest a heartbeat later, and she gave a faint, smug smile.

Robb hesitated, then pushed to his feet. A moment later, he settled on the edge of the bed beside her.

She smirked, the fever not dulling her wit. “See? Not so dire, is it?”

His mouth curved, though his eyes lingered on her pale cheeks, the flush of heat in them. “If you wanted me in your bed, Lyanna, you should’ve just said it.”

Her laugh came soft, husky with sickness. “Gods, you Starks… always making things sound so scandalous.”

“Scandalous?” He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees. “I only did as I was told. Your orders, not mine.”

“How very obedient,” she teased, eyes glinting. “Should I start commanding you more often?”

Robb tilted his head. “I’ve heard you don’t always like it when people obey too easily.”

She scoffed, smiling despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hummed, letting the quiet stretch a moment. His gaze softened on her, the humor lingering but thinner now. “Your name day must be near, isn’t it?”

Lyanna blinked, then gave a short laugh, though it held little mirth. “I never cared for name days.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

She looked down at the blankets, fingers idly toying with a loose thread. “For boys, name days mean growing older, proving yourself, waiting for the day you’re called a man. For girls…” she hesitated, lips pressing together. “Every year meant I was closer to being wed off. I’d seen enough of it at court — girls younger than me sent to fat old lords, twice or thrice their age, celebrated like it was fortune. For me, every name day was a shadow, a reminder that one day I’d be handed over too. It was not something I longed for. It was something I feared.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, and for once he had no jest ready. “That’s what your name days meant to you?” His voice was low, steady, but edged with something he didn’t try to hide.

Lyanna gave a small shrug, eyes still on the blankets. “It was the truth of it. Another year closer to being bartered, like a jewel or a horse. The crown for princes, the marriage bed for princesses. Neither of them freely chosen.”

He leaned forward, trying to catch her gaze. “But that isn’t your lot. Not anymore.”

A bitter little laugh slipped from her. “Isn’t it? I was still betrothed without being asked.”

Robb’s lips curved, faint but sure. “Aye. But at least you didn’t end up with some old grizzled lord twice your age. You’re stuck with me instead.”

She raised her eyes at that, arching a brow. “So you admit I’m stuck?”

“I admit you could have fared worse,” he said, his grin warming, boyish for a flicker. “At least I’m not gray-bearded and gout-ridden. And I’d never shut you in some gilded cage.”

Lyanna smirked, though her voice softened. “You certainly don’t. You’ve given me a sword instead.”

He chuckled, leaning back a little, though his eyes never left hers. “Better that than jewels you’d never wear. Freedom suits you more than chains.”

Her lips parted, as if to scoff again — but the warmth in his tone steadied her. For a long moment, they only looked at each other, firelight painting shadows across his face.

Lyanna smirked faintly. “So proud of yourself, Stark. Is that how Northerners comfort girls? Remind them it could be worse?”

Robb chuckled low. “Call it ego if you want. But it’s true.”

Her eyes flicked to his, softer than her tone. Even pale and fevered, she looked at him as though she almost trusted him.

The door creaked softly and Lady Catelyn entered, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. Steam curled up from a bowl of broth, from the dark amber of her children’s cure-all tea.

Lyanna straightened against the pillows at once, cheeks already flushed from fever — though in that moment, the blush could have been taken for something else. Their laughter still lingered in the air, their closeness on the bed too easily mistaken.

Robb shot to his feet, heat rushing to his face like a boy caught at mischief. His mother’s eyes flicked between them, sharp and searching, and for a breath he felt her words from days past press down on him like a weight: It is not always proper, two betrothed beneath one roof without vows binding them… I would not see the girl’s reputation put in danger.

Her warnings came back clear as a blade — about restraint, about whispers, about the shadow of his father’s choices and the wound she herself still bore. Robb had sworn to himself he would not follow that path, not with Lyanna. And yet here he was, seated on her bed, her laughter still soft in his ears.

Catelyn set the tray on the table beside Lyanna’s bed. “Here, Lyanna. Broth, and the tea I’ve always given mine when colds came on. It will help.” She gave Lyanna a gentler smile, then turned her gaze back to Robb. “The master of horse has been looking for you. Something about the fodder stores running thin. He’ll need your word before nightfall.”

Robb straightened at once, forcing himself back into his role, though his chest still burned with the echo of her look. He glanced at Lyanna — her smirk faint, her eyes bright despite the fever.

“I’ll come,” he said, steadying himself. Then softer, to her: “Recover soon.”

And then he left with his mother’s shadow following him, her warnings beating in time with his steps: Honor. Restraint. Whispers.

Chapter Text

I had been confined to Maester Luwin’s regimen for days — broth, bitter draughts, and rest. By the fourth night, I felt better, my strength returned, though Luwin forbade me from bow or sword until he said so. I told myself I didn’t mind. Yet when the moon climbed high, bright as polished bone, and the direwolves began their haunting chorus, I found sleep impossible. Their howls carried through stone and timber, low and mournful, rattling against my ribs.

At last, I threw back the blankets with a sigh. I pulled a thick woolen cloak around my shoulders — not quite the finery of King’s Landing, not quite a night-robe, but enough to keep the chill at bay. Quietly, so as not to wake any servants, I slipped from my chamber. The halls of Winterfell slept deeply, guards pacing the gates, but within these walls, silence reigned.

My steps slowed as I passed one familiar door. Robb’s chambers. A thin strip of candlelight spilled from beneath the door, golden against the cold flagstones. I frowned, curiosity pricking. At such an hour, what could he be doing awake?

It was not wise, I knew, to go knocking on a lord’s door at midnight — least of all one I was betrothed to. But the curiosity tugged sharper than caution. I hesitated only a moment before raising my hand. My knuckles rapped softly against the wood.

The door opened almost at once. Robb filled the frame, hair tousled, shirt unlaced at the throat, his expression startled. He had clearly not been expecting visitors, least of all me.

“Lyanna?” His voice sharpened, worried. “Has something happened? Are you unwell?”

For a moment, I only stared. It was the first time I had seen him not as Winterfell’s heir but simply as himself — disheveled, weary, wholly unguarded. My gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before I gathered myself and managed a faint smile.

“Nothing’s happened,” I said softly. “I’m not dying of your direwolves, Stark. I simply couldn’t sleep with their serenade.”

As if to prove me right, the wolves howled again, long and echoing through the stone.

The corner of his mouth twitched, half a smile, half apology. “I should have warned you. It’s… part of Winterfell.”

“Part of Winterfell,” I echoed, amused. “Then I shouldn’t complain. You can’t fault creatures for being what they are.”

He stilled at that, gaze lingering longer than a jest required. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it — the way words burrowed into him, deeper than I meant them to. Perhaps he thought of Jon. Perhaps only of himself. I didn’t ask.

At last, he cleared his throat and stepped back. “Come in, then. We can… sit a while.”

I arched a brow, teasing. “In your chambers?”

Color crept into his cheeks. “Stop that.”

I laughed lightly, slipping past him before he could protest further.

His chambers were warmer than I expected. A fire burned steady in the hearth, filling the room with shifting shadows. The bed was broad, carved dark oak, its furs layered thick against the northern chill. It was not ornate, not southern in grandeur — but it looked strong, warm, inviting. A bed built to endure winters, not to impress courtiers. On the wall above it hung a Stark banner — a grey direwolf stitched mid-snarl on pale cloth, its black eyes catching the firelight. A long oak table sat beneath the window, strewn with parchment, an inkpot, and a dagger laid across as a paperweight. The space was spare, practical, yet not cold. It felt lived-in, as though every stone remembered him.

I turned slowly, taking it all in. “Your chambers are comfortable. I suppose the privilege of being heir does have its uses.”

Behind me, the bed creaked as Robb crossed and sat, propping an elbow against his knee, arms loosely folded. Firelight caught at his hair, tousled from his fingers. When I glanced back, he was leaning there with a faint smile tugging at his mouth — utterly at ease, as if he’d been waiting for me to say exactly that.

“Comforts you’ll share soon enough,” he said, smirk deepening.

My eyes snapped to his, startled. His tone carried no shame — only certainty. “You’re bold, Stark.”

“Practical,” he countered with mock solemnity. “Unless you mean to exile me to my solar after vows are spoken.”

I shook my head too quickly, words slipping out sharper than I meant. “My father and mother never shared chambers.”

“That,” Robb said firmly, voice steady as steel, “will not happen.”

A flush crept hot against my cheeks. I masked it with a scoff, folding my arms. “And what if I prefer my own room?”

“Then,” he answered without pause, eyes bright with mischief, “we’ll move into yours.”

The bluntness stole my words. He knew it too — I could see the spark in his eyes, the way he sat straighter, almost smug. Heat betrayed me, rushing to my face. “And if I prefer none at all?”

Robb leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, firelight sharpening the lines of his jaw. “Do you?”

I bit my lip, hiding behind sarcasm. “I’ve never shared a room with anyone.”

“Nor have I.” His voice was calm, steady. “Then it’s something we’ll both learn.”

I turned away quickly, feigning interest in the rest of the room. The shelves of books, the sword laid within reach, the carved wolf’s head on the bedpost — all of it so very Robb: practical, strong, yet softened by warmth. My gaze lingered longer than I meant on the bed, and when I looked back, his eyes were already following mine.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I muttered, trying to cover the heat in my cheeks.

Robb only leaned back on his hands, smirk broadening. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m only showing you your future room.”

“You’re smirking.”

“Am I?”

I shook my head, exasperated, though my lips betrayed me, tugging upward. “Infuriating.”

To distract myself, I seized the book lying open on his table and thumbed through the pages. “What are you reading?” I asked, softer now, drifting toward the bed. I perched on the edge, opposite him.

“Histories,” he said easily, leaning back against the headboard. “Battles. Wars.”

I skimmed a few lines, snorting. “In your cozy furs? Are you planning to start a war tonight?”

His mouth curved, calm but sure. “Not start one. Learn to win one.”

I leaned into the pillows, flipping another page with a sigh. “Gods, Robb. You’re seventeen, not seventy.”

He laughed low, brushing a hand through his unruly hair. For a moment, his gaze lingered on me rather than the book, as though the sight of me sprawled against his bedding amused him more than any tale of conquest.

“So,” he said at last, the corner of his mouth twitching, “you wander into my chambers, claim my bed, and call my reading choices dull. Do you make a habit of insulting your betrothed under his own roof?”

“I didn’t insult,” I said primly, refusing to meet his eyes as I turned another page. “I merely observed. There are cozier ways to pass the night than learning how dead men lost their battles.”

His voice dipped, playful. “And what would you suggest?”

I tilted my head, feigning thought. “Perhaps not inviting your betrothed into your chambers, for a start.”

Robb’s ears flushed red despite his grin. “You were the one who came in. What would you read, then?”

“Not histories of dead men killing each other,” I muttered, still thumbing through the pages.

His smile deepened, but his voice steadied, quieter. “They’re not just dead men. My father always said battles aren’t won with swords alone. Steel breaks, men fall… but a strategy holds. A plan can turn the tide when strength fails. That’s why I read.”

My fingers stilled on the page. For once, the jest left me, watching the way the firelight caught his profile. He wasn’t boasting — he meant it.

Then his smirk returned, tugging the weight from the air. “And besides… if I am to be insulted in my own chambers, I’d best at least defend myself with wisdom.”

I drew in a breath, letting my tone soften. “I read too. Histories, mostly. Of the Great Houses. And of those who fell.”

His brows rose. “Fallen houses?”

“Yes,” I said softly. “It fascinates me — and frightens me. Centuries of honor, undone in a single rash decision. Sometimes it’s only a tiny mistake — one choice that shatters everything, even after hundreds of years of strength.”

His expression sharpened. “Which house did you read last?”

“The Velaryons,” I told him.

“Velaryon?” His frown deepened.

“Valyrian blood, like the Targaryens. Once mighty beside them. They were powerful. Rich. And yet, they fell. A family undone because siblings quarreled over a throne. The king remarried, and that led to war — the Dance of Dragons. Princess Rhaenyra, firstborn and her father’s favorite, fought her half-brothers and sister for the Iron Throne. They fell. Dragons died. Power crumbled. All from kin turning on kin. All that blood, for a crown.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “A firstborn daughter, close to her father. Two younger brothers. A sister. Does that sound familiar?”

I shot him a look. “Not at all. Rhaenyra and her siblings had different mothers. My brothers and sister share the same one. And gods save me from crowns.”

“You despise crowns?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Most dream of them.”

I met his eyes. “And what is a crown, truly? Just another chain. People think it gives power, but more often it bleeds it away.”

Robb’s brows furrowed, the firelight catching his eyes sharp as ice. “You make it sound as if crowns are nothing.”

“Not nothing,” I admitted, folding my hands atop the book. “But less than people believe. Look at the North — if fields fail, if walls crumble, it is here the burden falls. Not on the Iron Throne. The king does not feed your folk. You do. Your father did. Your bannermen decide, your halls judge, your hands carry the weight. It is the same everywhere. My uncle Renly rules the Stormlands, but his folk live or starve by his choices, not Robert’s crown.”

I held his gaze. “Crowns gleam, yes — but they feed no one. They are an illusion of power, nothing more.”

The fire popped in the hearth, filling the pause. “You realize words like that could start a rebellion.”

“They won’t leave this room.” I met his gaze, steady. “I tell them only to you. Because I trust you.”

The fire cracked, the silence pressing thicker between us.

“And how many truths do you keep hidden?” he asked finally.

“Enough.”

His lips curved faintly. “Yet you’ve just told me you trust me.”

A smile tugged at mine. “They aren’t your burdens.”

He studied me, voice quieter now. “You speak like you’ve lived twice your years. And still… you surprise me.”

I tilted my head, lips twitching. “Surprise you? That I can think beyond silks and embroidery?”

“No,” he said, softer still. “That I can sit here — in my own chamber, with you — and feel like I’m the one being taught.”

For a long moment, we only looked at each other. His eyes searched mine, as if peeling back jest and philosophy to find what I truly believed. But I gave him nothing, only the calm certainty of my words — and a quiet that asked him to carry them.

His smirk faded by degrees. The firelight caught in his eyes, sharp and striking, weighing me as carefully as any battle map.

My chest tightened, the jest slipping from me. My breath caught, though I forced a smirk. “If you let a girl’s words undo you, what will you do when swords are drawn?”

Instead of answering, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed a dark strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His fingertips lingered a heartbeat too long, grazing the curve of my cheek.

The room hushed. Only the fire dared to speak.

I held his gaze, unable — or unwilling — to look away.

“You are…” Robb began, breaking off. He swallowed, jaw tense, as though bracing against words too raw. At last he said, rough but certain: “You are not what I expected. And gods help me, I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

The silence between us stretched, heavy, electric. His eyes caught mine — steady, burning — and for once, I didn’t look away.

I leaned forward first, closing the last inch between us. My lips brushed his, soft but sure, and his breath hitched against mine.

He didn’t pull back. Instead, his hand slid over mine, easing the book from my grasp, setting it aside with careful finality. The kiss deepened, slow at first, then warmer, hungrier. His other hand pressed gently at my waist, guiding me backward, down into the furs.

I yielded without thought, my back sinking into the bedding as he followed, bracing his weight on one arm above my head. He never broke the kiss — only shifted with me, until I was lying beneath him, his curls brushing my cheek, his chest hovering just shy of mine.

My arms circled his neck instinctively, drawing him closer. The fire popped in the hearth, but all I felt was him — the heat of his body, the steady tremor in his touch, the taste of his breath mingling with mine.

The kiss deepened. His weight pressed gently into me, half-covering me, his warmth seeping through the layers of cloth. My body arched instinctively, answering his, until we were tangled together, the space between us lost.

Then, for a breathless instant, his hips brushed against mine. The friction was slight, accidental — and yet it sent a rush through me, hot and startling, curling low in my belly. A warmth I had never felt before, sharp and consuming, leaving me trembling beneath him.

His breath stuttered at the same moment, and he wrenched his lips from mine, pressing his forehead against me instead. His chest rose and fell hard, as though the restraint itself cost him dearly.

“Lyanna…” His voice was rough, breaking on my name. His hand at my waist tightened once before going still, holding him steady where he was.

I clung to him, my fingers still curled in the curls at his nape, desperate for more even as the weight of his choice settled over us both.

He drew in a ragged breath, forcing space between us by inches, though it felt like tearing apart. “If I don’t stop now…” His voice cracked, low and harsh, “I won’t stop at all.”

The heat still thrummed through me, wild and new, but his words landed heavy — a truth spoken out of honor, not denial.

I searched his face, the strain in it, the fire still burning in his eyes. He wasn’t rejecting me. He was protecting me — even from himself.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself just enough to press his lips to my temple. Once, twice — softer than the storm of kisses before. His mouth lingered there, a vow unspoken, before trailing to my hairline, brushing against the loose strands tangled across my cheek.

My breath steadied under the gentleness. My arms loosened from around his neck, not letting go but easing, resting against his shoulders.

He shifted so his weight no longer pressed me down, his hand still firm at my waist, anchoring me. Then he pulled back enough to meet my eyes again. For the first time since our lips had met, he smiled faintly, the boyish warmth returning beneath the strain.

“We’ll lose ourselves if we’re not careful,” he murmured, voice quieter now, but steadier.

My lips curved, a smirk softened by something else. “Perhaps some things are worth getting lost in.”

He huffed a laugh, though it sounded more like longing than amusement, but he kissed my brow once more, lingering there. “Not like this. Not yet.”

Robb’s breath slowed against my hair, his lips brushing once more at my temple before he stilled. The fire whispered in the hearth, its glow soft on the stone walls, and beyond it the castle slept. Only our breaths filled the chamber, rising and falling together.

I stayed tangled in him, cheek pressed to his chest, too warm to move, too content to care. My heartbeat no longer raced; instead, a strange calm spread through me, heavy as the furs beneath us.

His hand lingered at my waist, steady and careful, never straying. The other propped him above me still, though I could feel the tremor of restraint in it. Slowly, he rolled to her side, careful not to break the cocoon of warmth between them. She curled instinctively into the space he gave, the furs wrapping them both.

“Lyanna…” His voice was rough, low, almost breaking. “If I were a wiser man, I’d send you back to your chamber.”

I tipped my head just enough to look up at him, catching the faintest smile pulling at his lips despite the storm in his eyes. “If you were a wiser man, Stark, you’d be reading your battles still.”

That won the softest huff of laughter from him, and with it, some of the tension eased from his shoulders. His hand shifted, brushing a strand of hair from my face, and lingered just long enough for my eyes to close at the touch.

Sleep tugged at me, unrelenting now that the warmth of him had wrapped around me. The direwolves’ howls, the crackle of the fire, even his quiet, uneven breath — all blurred into a lullaby I couldn’t fight.

My last thought before drifting under was that it was reckless, foolish, to fall asleep in his bed. But it felt safe. Safer than I had ever felt in the Red Keep, safer than silks and golden walls had ever made me.

When my breathing deepened, Robb stayed awake a while longer. He watched the lines of my face soften into sleep, his own chest aching with both guilt and awe. He pulled the furs higher about my shoulders, careful not to wake me, and lay back at last.

Sleep came for him slowly, but one thought clung sharper than the rest: they could not keep on like this forever. Honor and whispers would not allow it. Soon, they would need vows — or risk undoing all they were building.

Chapter Text

I woke to warmth. Not the hearth’s, but nearer — steady and breathing. My cheek lay on his shoulder; his arm was heavy over my waist; our legs, hopelessly tangled. The slow rise and fall of his chest was as calm as the godswood.

Memory came in a rush — the firelight, his mouth on mine, the way his weight had pressed and then held, and how, at the edge of losing himself, he’d chosen restraint. My face burned, though only the morning light could see it.

I shifted. His arm tightened at once, an unconscious sound in his throat as if even asleep he would not let me go. I went still and turned my head. Robb Stark looked nothing like Winterfell’s heir now: lashes dark on his cheek, curls in disorder, breath even. Only a young man who had kissed me as if the world might end — and held me as if it must not.

His eyes opened, blue and clear despite sleep. He studied me a heartbeat, as if weighing whether to keep the silence whole.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough.

“So are you.” My mouth betrayed me with a small smile.

He huffed a breath. “If anyone knew where you spent the night…” It wasn’t scold, but rueful truth.

“You swore not to cage me,” I said, softer than I meant. “Yet here you are, naming whispers.”

His gaze steadied. “Because whispers cut. I’d not see them draw your blood.”

I looked to the window slit, where winter light laid a pale bar across stone. “When do they end?”

“When what we are stops being a thief’s secret,” he said simply. He pushed up on one elbow, earnestness plain as a banner. “When vows stand between you and every tongue in this castle. Your name day is near. You once told me it always felt like a shadow. I’d have this one be something else. Let it mark a beginning instead.”

“You mean to steal my day for yourself?” I tried for levity, but my breath caught.

“For you,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging. “And for us after. No more slipping like thieves, no more measuring the distance between our chairs. I want to hold you where all can see and none can sneer.”

I studied him. He wasn’t making a speech; he was laying a thing down between us — weight and all.

“Vows don’t still every tongue,” I said at last. “But they make liars of them.” My bitter smile faltered. “And if I said I am not ready?”

“Then we wait,” he answered at once. “I told my mother the same, and I meant it. I won’t set a date you do not choose. I only ask you to let this name day belong to you — and, if you’ll have it, to us.”

Silence settled, broken only by the soft tick of the hearth. He did not press. He never had to; he only looked, and somehow that did the work.

“You’re bold,” I managed. “Turning a girl’s name day into a wedding feast.”

“Bold?” His grin flickered, boyish. “Perhaps. The Old Gods taught my father to be plain. Plainly: I don’t want to wait a year to call you wife.”

Heat rose in my cheeks. I turned toward the light. “And what of rites?” I asked, practical now, because someone must be. “I was raised in the Seven. The North will have me under its trees. Will that satisfy both gods?”

“We can do as my father did,” Robb said. “Vows before the heart tree now — with Maester Luwin and our folk to witness — and when a septon comes north, we’ll speak them again beneath seven candles. Two oaths for one truth. I’ll send a raven to Father. He trusted me with Winterfell; he’ll not gainsay me trusting you.”

I tried to scoff and found I could not. “You speak as if the matter is only to be set on a parchment.”

“It is only to be set on a heart,” he said, plain as any Stark.

My mouth betrayed me again with a smile. “You’ll be unbearable if I agree.”

“Utterly.”

He leaned nearer, braced on his forearm, nose almost brushing mine. “I’m tired of stolen moments,” he said, lower now. “I want to kiss you in daylight and call it right. I want your hand on my arm without anyone making it filth. And—” he broke off, color rising in his cheeks, “—there are other things I want, but those can wait their proper hour.”

The words stoked that dangerous warmth low in me. I groped for a shield. “Admit it — you’d rather not buy two gifts: one for my name day and one for our wedding.”

His laugh shook the mattress. “If you mean to cheat me of coin, say it plain. What would my… future wife ask for?”

“Not jewels.” I surprised myself with how easily that came. “Not silks. I’ve had those all my life. Something small. Yours. So when you’re off with your bannermen and I must endure ladies who measure me like cloth, I can hold it and remember you are only Robb beneath all that wolf’s hide.”

The grin faded into something steadier. He brushed a strand from my temple with the backs of his fingers. “That’s all you’d ask?”

“For now.” I let the smirk return, gentler. “If I grow weary of you, then you may bribe me back with rubies.”

He bent and pressed his lips to my brow, lingering there. “Done. But I’ll not let you grow weary of me.”

I drew breath, found it steady, and gave the thing the shape it wanted. “Very well,” I said, barely above a whisper. “On my name day. Under your heart tree. Send your raven to Lord Stark. And… tell Lady Catelyn. I’d not have her hear it from a servant.”

His eyes brightened all at once, like steel catching sun. The smile that broke was almost boyish. His hand framed my cheek with a care that made my chest ache, and he kissed me — slow, certain, sealing the promise without taking more than the promise allowed.

When at last I pulled back, the world felt too bright. “I should go,” I said, breathless. “Before Winterfell remembers the hour.”

He eased onto his back, folding his arms behind his head with a satisfaction he did not try to hide. “See you at breakfast, then.”

I swung my legs over the side and stood, gathering my cloak. At the door I paused. “Robb.”

He looked up.

“Don’t make a feast of it,” I said. “Not a show. Not for me.”

His answering smile was quiet. “Then it will be ours. Small. Under the boughs. No trumpets — only vows.”

I nodded once, felt the steadiness of it, and slipped into the hall, the taste of his promise warm as wine.

By the time dawn crept pale over Winterfell’s walls, I had slipped quietly from Robb’s chambers. The corridors were still hushed, servants not yet stirring, and the air carried that crisp bite only morning in the North could hold. My heart still beat too quickly as I wrapped my cloak tighter, the memory of warmth and whispered promises clinging like fire beneath my skin.

When I finally pushed open the doors to the hall at breakfast, the household was gathered — Lady Catelyn at her place, Bran and Rickon already bent over their bread and porridge, Robb seated at the head in his father’s absence. His gaze flicked up to me the moment I entered, steady and unreadable, though I caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth before he straightened.

I slid into my seat. Lady Catelyn’s eyes softened at once.
“Lyanna,” she said warmly, “you look wonderful this morning. I take it you’ve recovered?”

Heat crept unbidden into my cheeks. Partly from the remnants of my illness — though mostly from the memory of the night I’d spent in her son’s arms. I lowered my gaze politely.
“Yes, Lady Catelyn. Your tea works wonders.”

She smiled, pleased, and across the table Robb coughed into his hand to hide a chuckle.

Then his voice, clear, calm. “Mother. Lyanna and I have decided. Our wedding will take place on the day of her seventeenth name day.”

The air shifted at once. Rickon clapped his small hands together, Bran’s face lit bright with excitement at the thought of another feast. Lady Catelyn’s lips parted — first with relief, then furrowing with thought.

“Your name day,” she said slowly. “That leaves scarcely a fortnight. The time is short — gowns, feasting, ravens—”

Before her worry could build, I set down my cup. “Lady Catelyn… I do not want a grand celebration. I need no court, no hundred dishes. Let us speak our vows before the heart tree, then share a feast with family and his bannermen. That will be enough for me.”

Her brows lifted. “But Lyanna… your faith. The Seven—”

I drew a slow breath, steadying. “When I first came North, I thought I would need a septon. That vows only mattered if spoken before the Seven’s light. But I see differently now. Months beneath the heart tree, I’ve felt the Old Gods watch as surely as the Seven ever did in King’s Landing. Vows don’t gain weight from who hears them. They gain weight from whether we mean them. “For me… the heart tree is enough.”

Robb’s hand stilled on his cup, his eyes catching mine with quiet pride.

Approval warmed Lady Catelyn’s face, her eyes catching mine for a moment with something gentler than before.  

“Well, then,” Catelyn said at last, exhaling. “Preparations must begin at once. Your gown, Lyanna… it will need to be ordered. Winterfell has seamstresses, aye, but for a bride’s silks we must send to White Harbor. The Manderlys will know what’s needed, and they can have cloth and lace here within the fortnight if ravens fly today.”

I inclined my head politely, though my heart skipped at the words. A gown. A wedding. So near.

Robb’s hand brushed idly against the rim of his cup, though his eyes never left me. Steady, certain.

Rickon blinked wide-eyed across the table, porridge clinging to his spoon.
“So you’re going to be our sister?” he piped, his little voice eager, certain.

Before I could answer, Bran leaned in with the bluntness only a boy of his age could wield. “And we’re going to be uncles soon!”

The words spilled so easily, as though children came hand-in-hand with weddings, as natural to him as bows and lessons.

I nearly choked on my tea, laughter breaking from me despite myself. My cheeks burned, half from amusement, half from the shock of it. Across the table, Robb smothered a laugh into his cup, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Catelyn’s lips thinned, though her eyes softened faintly toward her younger sons. “Bran—Rickon—enough,” she said, though not sharply.

Still, the heat in my face only climbed, and I ducked my gaze to my bread.

Robb, ever quick to catch it, cleared his throat and leaned forward, a faint smirk tugging. “Well,” he said easily, “let’s see if Lyanna can keep you two in line first. If she manages that, perhaps the rest of the kingdom will follow.”

Rickon grinned, pleased at the jest, while Bran rolled his eyes as though already grown too old for such talk.

The table’s mood loosened, laughter chasing away the moment’s tension. My blush lingered, but the weight in my chest lightened.

It was then the hall doors opened, heavy on their hinges, and a familiar voice carried.
“My, my. Have I missed the feast already?”

I turned, startled — then broke into sudden, genuine smile.
“Uncle!” I gasped, rising to my feet before I thought better.

Tyrion Lannister stood framed in the doorway, travel-worn but smirking all the same. He inclined his head politely toward Lady Catelyn, then to Robb at the high seat.
“I couldn’t possibly miss my niece’s name day. And…” His sharp eyes darted toward me, then to Robb, “…I hear I may be just in time for a wedding as well?”

Tyrion strode forward, his smile as quick as his step. When he reached me, he rose on his toes and pressed a warm, courtly kiss to my cheek. “My niece,” he said, his tone mock-grand, though his eyes softened. “Radiant as ever. I nearly mistook this for a queen’s wedding feast, the way everyone’s faces lit when you spoke.”

My flush deepened, though I laughed softly. He turned at once to Robb, bowing with a flourish more suited to a royal court than a Northern hall. “Lord Stark. You’ve managed to snare my niece — impressive. I trust you know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Robb inclined his head, his mouth tugging at a restrained smile. “I’m beginning to learn.”

Lady Catelyn’s voice cut in, composed but kind. “You must be hungry from the road. Bring dishes for our guest,” she told the servants at once.

Tyrion settled into the empty chair with the ease of one long familiar with others’ tables. Rickon stared at him with open fascination.

“Uncle Tyrion,” Rickon blurted, leaning across the table, “you’re small.”

“Indeed I am,” Tyrion replied smoothly, plucking a piece of bread from the tray. “And you are sharp-eyed. The next Maester of Winterfell, no doubt.”

Bran smirked into his porridge. “If you’re our uncle, then does that mean you’ll bring us gifts?”

Tyrion bit into the bread with relish. “Wisdom is the greatest gift I can offer. Sadly, it’s rarely appreciated.” His gaze flicked toward me, a spark of humor there. “Though perhaps you’ll forgive me, sweet niece, if I settle for my company.”

Laughter rippled faintly around the table, softening the hall’s air. The servants returned swiftly with hot dishes, placing roast and eggs before him. Tyrion lifted his cup toward Lady Catelyn. “To Winterfell hospitality. Stronger than the Wall, warmer than the hearth, and more persistent than the North wind.”

Catelyn inclined her head politely, though her eyes betrayed faint exasperation.

I leaned forward slightly, curiosity stirring. “Uncle… tell me of your journey. Of the Wall. Did you truly climb to its top?”

“I did,” Tyrion said, his voice dipping into something like pride. “It makes Winterfell’s walls seem garden fences. Cold enough to bite the marrow, high enough to make gods dizzy. But worth the climb. Few things are.”

Robb’s expression sharpened, his tone dry but tinged with a smile. “And my brother? Has Jon frozen solid yet, or does he still walk?”

Tyrion chuckled, cutting a piece of meat. “Your brother walks, eats, broods, and freezes — usually all at once. He’s quite good at brooding, that one. The Wall suits him in its grimness, I think. Though I daresay it deserves better company.”

Tyrion pressed the cup with his hand, toasting the table with mock solemnity before sipping. “Seven hells, I ride north to piss off the edge of the world and south again, and in the blink of an eye my little niece is on the edge of becoming Lady Stark.” His eyes glinted with mischief as they turned to me. “I’d say you Baratheons don’t waste time — but apparently the Starks outpace even you.”

Robb’s lips curved, his voice firm though his tone carried ease. “Starks don’t linger when it comes to what we want.”

It was bold — bolder than I expected him to be before his mother’s watchful eyes and half the household listening — but the pride in his voice was unmistakable.

Tyrion caught it at once, of course, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smile, eyes flicking between the two of us as though we were the jest and the punchline both. His gaze lingered on me, sharp and wry, yet softened in a way I did not expect.

And I realized, suddenly, how I must look to him. No longer the girl at King’s Landing, stiff and guarded beneath silks and stares. Here, at Winterfell’s table, my laughter came easier. My eyes, I could feel it, shone brighter. I was at ease among Bran’s questions, Rickon’s chatter, Catelyn’s firm but kind regard. More at ease than I had ever been in the Red Keep, surrounded by those who shared my blood. It struck me then how quickly the moons had turned — barely three months since I had first set foot in Winterfell, and already its stone walls felt more like home than the Red Keep ever had.

More at home here, in this hall of stone and snow, than I had ever felt in the place I had called home all my life.

After breakfast, when I was finally permitted to return to the yard, I went straight for my usual place by the butts. The bow felt steady in my hands, familiar now, almost like an extension of myself. Arrow after arrow flew, each thudding into the target in a rhythm that was more habit than focus. Draw, release, strike. The smile tugging at my lips wasn’t from hitting the mark — it was simply there, unshaken, as though it had been waiting for me.

It was only after a half-dozen shots that a voice drifted across the yard.

“Well, well,” Tyrion drawled, sauntering closer with a cup of wine in hand, eyes sharp as ever. “A princess with a bow. If King’s Landing saw you now, half the court would faint from scandal. The other half would wager on who you’d shoot first.”

I loosed an arrow clean into the target. “And I think we both know where you’d place your coin.”

“On Joffrey,” he said without pause. “Naturally.”

I smirked despite myself, lowering the bow. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes,” he agreed smoothly. “But charmingly so.”

I tilted my head, smirk holding. “And here I thought you only noticed the bottom of your cup.”

“Oh, I notice everything,” he said, eyes glinting. “That’s why I drink. It dulls the edges.”

I studied him a moment, then let the bow fall slack at my side. “You dull them with wine. I dull them with arrows. We’re not so different.”

“Except one of us is prettier,” he shot back.

“True,” I said sweetly. “And it isn’t you.”

For once, Tyrion chuckled quiet and genuine, before his gaze sharpened again. “You’re not a child anymore. There’s steel in you these days. More than Robert ever cared to notice.”

The words struck deeper than jest, but I answered lightly: “And what use is steel in a girl?”

His mouth twisted. “Ask the court. They’ll say none. But I’ve learned to trust what my eyes see — and mine tell me you’re far sharper than you let them know.”

I hesitated, then set the bow aside fully. My voice softened. “Uncle… will you walk with me? To the godswood.”

His brows rose. “The godswood? My dear, Northerners already suspect I’m here to chop down their sacred tree for firewood. Do you mean to confirm it?”

I shook my head. “Tradition says a father walks his daughter to her groom. I would rather it be you.”

For once, his wit faltered. The smirk tugging at his mouth slipped, and something softer lingered in its place. “Me? Seven hells, girl, I’ve no practice at being anyone’s father.”

“You’ve done more than mine ever did,” I said simply.

The sarcasm fell away between us, just for a breath. Then Tyrion exhaled and shook his head, though his eyes warmed. “Old gods, new gods — whichever gods are listening — a lion leading a stag to the wolves. The singers will choke on that verse.”

I smirked faintly. “Then let them choke.”

His eyes glinted, sharp again but with something steadier beneath. “Lead on, niece. I’ll play the dutiful father. But I warn you, I’ll expect wine as payment.”

Chapter Text

The days after the breakfast announcement blurred into something new — a quiet but constant hum of activity that seemed to reach every corner of Winterfell. The air itself carried it, like the rhythm of distant drums: footsteps in corridors, the scratch of quills, the rustle of cloth being measured and cut. I had never seen the castle so alive, so deliberate, and yet the strangest part was that much of it centered not on its lord, nor its lady, nor even its heirs, but on me.

Catelyn Stark took the matter of my wedding in hand with all the authority of a general setting his battle lines. Within a day, bolts of cloth were being unfurled across tables in the solar, deep greys and whites mingled with softer shades of blue and green. The seamstresses of Winterfell worked quickly, though Lady Catelyn had already sent word to White Harbor for finer silks and lace, her letters sealed with haste and urgency.

“You will need something worthy of both your houses,” she said, smoothing one length of silk as though testing its strength. “Strong enough for the North, yet with touches to remind the realm you are Robert’s daughter still.”

I stood obediently while pins and chalk marks traced their path along the draped fabric. The needles pricked more than once, and each time I swallowed the hiss rising in my throat. But when one jab caught just beneath my ribs, the words slipped free before I could stop them.

“If the seamstress stabs me again, Lady Catelyn, the gods will think I’ve pledged my vows in blood already.”

Her eyes flicked up, sharp at first, then softened, the faintest smile tugging her mouth. She waved the woman off, and the seamstress fled the chamber as though escaping battle.

“Endure a little longer,” Catelyn said, though her tone carried a wryness now. “No Stark bride has ever walked to her vows in borrowed gowns. You’ll not be the first.”

I rolled my eyes faintly, but her hands were gentler when she adjusted the sleeve against my shoulder.

“You’ll outshine queens,” she murmured.

Heat rose in my cheeks. “I’ve no wish to outshine anyone.”

Her touch stilled, her gaze softening in a way that felt almost motherly. “Nor did I. And yet the eyes of the court followed me all the same. But it is not the same for you.” A pause lingered. “You are not walking to a stranger. You and Robb already smile together — and that makes all the difference.”

The words left me flushed and quiet, caught between protest and warmth. At last, I smirked faintly, forcing the heat from my face. “If you praise him so openly, my lady, his head will swell to twice its size.”

Her eyes glinted, though she said nothing, only smoothing the cloth once more — steady, certain

My smile faded softer, more earnest, as I turned to her. “Thank you, Lady Catelyn. For all of this. For the care you’ve shown me. Cersei… she would never have done such a thing.”

Something shifted in her face then — the stern mask loosening, a touch of gentleness breaking through. She smoothed the sleeve once more, almost like a mother would. “You are in my care now. And I would see you treated as one of my own.”

By the time the seamstresses released me, I was raw with pinpricks and restless with all the talk of lace and stitches. The solar was warm and heavy with wool and silk; I longed for cold air, for stone and sky.

The yard answered like a balm. Breath steamed in the chill, steel rang sharp as ever, and Robb was waiting with sword in hand, his grin brighter than I had seen in weeks. Since our betrothal, he smiled more easily, as though some weight had been lifted from him.

“You look far too pleased for someone just assaulted by a small army of needles,” he called across the yard.

I laughed, seizing the practice sword left for me. “After three women stabbing me from every angle, I thought sparring might be merciful.”

“Good,” he said, circling with that familiar spark in his eyes. “Then perhaps you’ll stop flinching at the edge of a blade.”

I smirked, raising my sword. “You’ll regret mocking me when I best you.”

His grin sharpened. “That, my lady, is a threat I’ll happily test.”

Steel clashed. His strikes came steady, firm but never cruel, each one pressing just enough to keep me sharp. I met him blow for blow, our laughter breaking through the ring of blades until the fight felt less like battle and more like dance. He moved with a wolf’s grace, quick and fluid, but I found my rhythm too, refusing to yield.

“You’ll be a bride with calluses,” he teased, catching one of my swings on his blade and twisting it aside.

I lunged, grazing his sleeve. “And you’ll be a groom with bruises. A perfect match.”

He barked a laugh, warm as sunlight on snow. But in one swift twist, he caught my wrist, and the practice sword slipped from my grasp.

“Yield, my lady?” he asked, eyes bright.

I shoved him with both hands. He staggered back, still grinning. “Never,” I shot back, breathless.

He lunged suddenly, not with his sword but with his shoulder, knocking me off balance. I stumbled, and his arm shot out, steadying me before I could fall. For a heartbeat too long, neither of us moved — his hand firm at my elbow, my breath caught in my throat. Then, as if realizing it at the same time, we both laughed, the tension breaking.

“You remind me of sparring with Jon,” he said.

I arched a brow. “Should I take that as an insult to me, or to him?”

“Neither,” he chuckled. “Not in skill — in spirit. We used to laugh and tease each other, just like this.”

I tipped my head, voice lighter. “So what am I, then? His replacement?”

His grin faded into something steadier. “No.”

The word lingered heavier than the jest before it.

“It’s a pity Jon won’t make it back in time for the wedding,” I said, softer now. “Not that he’d enjoy it. He never cared for feasts.”

“My brother is humble to a fault. You miss him?” Robb asked, smirk tugging faintly again. “You seemed close, when you first came here.”

I blinked, then laughed. “Wait — was that jealousy?”

He stepped closer, humor still in his voice but his eyes sharper. “And what if I say yes? Even if I have no right?”

I swung playfully at his chest, but he caught my hand — and instead of letting go, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to my knuckles.

“Jon may have had your laughter,” he murmured, voice low. “But only I will have your vows.”

Heat flared in my cheeks. “Vows? I thought you’d say something more romantic.”

His mouth curved, steady and sure. “Your heart? I don’t need to say it. You give it away every time you blush.”

I gasped, half angry, half amused. “With pride like that, Stark, you’ll blind the sun itself.”

He chuckled, stepping closer still until the point of his sword rested lightly against the ground. “Maybe. But I’d sooner blind the sun than see you doubt me.”

The words landed harder than I expected, leaving me warm and wordless. He must have felt it too, because his smirk softened, his eyes holding mine a moment longer before he finally turned away.

“The training’s over,” he said, sliding his sword back to the rack. “Go, rest. Tomorrow’s a big day. You’ll need to stay awake from dawn till feast…” His eyes flicked to mine, bright and knowing. “…and probably the whole night, too.”

My breath caught, my protest stuck between scandal and laughter. But he was already walking away, his grin the last thing I saw before I followed him inside.

Chapter Text

I woke before dawn, though I could not say if I had slept at all. My heart thudded too quickly, every thought tangling with the next until I could scarcely breathe. Seventeen. My name day. And the day I was to wed Robb Stark.

Anticipation, dread, wonder — it all churned together, too sharp to name. Only months ago, when the betrothal was first whispered, I had thought only of duty, of chains being fastened without my consent. Yet standing now at Winterfell’s window, I felt something I had not expected: a tremor of hope.

The sky beyond the shutters was still dark, paling faintly at the edges. In the mirror’s dull glass, a stranger seemed to watch me back — a girl almost but not quite grown. My raven hair fell heavier over my shoulders, and my deep-green eyes gleamed with a restlessness I couldn’t quite hide. Even my skin, usually pale, was touched with a faint flush at the cheeks.

The door creaked, and the maids slipped in, arms laden with steaming pails. They filled the bath with hot water steeped in herbs, the air soon misting with their sharp, clean scent. Fresh gowns were laid out — silks from White Harbor, Lady Catelyn’s doing.

I let them fuss and pin and murmur, my thoughts already elsewhere. When they curtsied and left, I undressed and stepped into the bath. Heat embraced me, sinking into bones still chilled from the restless night. I let the steam blur the edges of the chamber, as though it were washing away the last scraps of girlhood. When I rose, skin pink and hair damp, I felt lighter. Changed.

By the time I stepped out, my limbs felt light, trembling with more than nerves. I pulled a night-robe about me, pale silk that clung softly to damp skin, my hair half-dried, curling down my shoulders. I stood by the window then, watching the sky brighten slowly, trying to steady myself.

And it was there — with the first rays of morning painting Winterfell in silver — that the knock came. A familiar voice beyond the door, warm and careful.

“Lyanna?”

Robb.

The latch gave way, and Robb stepped in. He had dressed already: a dark doublet laced carelessly at the throat, yet his curls were mussed as though sleep had been a stranger to him too.

For a moment, he stopped short. His eyes flicked over me — hair still damp, silk clinging light against my skin, the faintest pink still warming my cheeks from the bath. His jaw tightened, and though he dragged his gaze back to my eyes, it lingered longer than courtesy allowed.

Heat flared in my face, but I did not look away.

“Forgive me,” he said at last, his voice rougher than usual. “I only meant—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if to clear it. When he spoke again, the steadiness returned, though I saw the battle in his eyes. “Before all the fuss begins… before my mother pulls you away for pins and laces, I wanted to give you something. For your name day.”

My brows lifted. “A Stark, prepared with gifts? I thought you Northerners gave only furs and steel.”

He smirked faintly, though his hand slipped into the pocket of his doublet. “Sometimes even a Stark can surprise.”

He drew out a small bundle, wrapped in plain cloth. He hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to me. Even then, he kept just shy of touching distance, as though the nearness itself was already too much. His hand brushed mine as he placed the bundle in my palm, and that brief contact set my skin alight more than the bath had.

“Open it,” he said softly.

I loosened the cloth, and something dark and gleaming caught the light. Not the bright flash of southern gems, but a piece forged of the North itself. Blackened silver had been bent and bound as though it had grown that way, branches twisted together into a collar alive with shadow and curve.

At its heart rested a direwolf’s head, small but proud, the fur carved in fine strokes, muzzle lifted as if to howl. Its eyes were polished onyx, black as midnight, gleaming when the light struck them — not lifeless stone, but watchful, unyielding. Arcing out from either side were the careful sweep of staghorns, not crude but balanced, entwining wolf and stag as though neither could stand without the other.

It was not dainty. It was not courtly. It looked born of snow and wild wood, meant to be worn by someone who could weather both. And yet the craftsmanship was so sure — every tine etched with faint grooves like veins in antler, every shadowed line alive — that I could only stare.

I drew in a breath. “Robb…”

“It’s not southern gold,” he said quickly, almost shy. “No rubies, no emeralds. I asked the smith to make it here. Stag horns, for Baratheon. A direwolf, for Stark. Two houses, not broken apart, but bound together.”

Robb moved behind me and fastened it around my throat. The silver branches settled firm against my skin, the direwolf resting just above my heart. His fingers lingered a moment too long at the clasp, and the brush of his breath against my hair set me shivering more than the metal’s chill.

“You are a Baratheon,” he murmured near my ear, his voice steadier now, “but today you will become a Stark. That does not mean you should forget your house. Remember who you are. But remember also…” His hand brushed lightly over my shoulder, the faintest touch. “…that Winterfell will always be your home.”

For a moment I could not answer. My throat ached too full, my fingers resting on the cold metal as though to anchor myself.

When at last I found my voice, it was barely above a whisper. “It’s perfect.”

Slowly, I turned to face him, the necklace still cool against my skin. Our faces hovered inches apart. My fingers brushed lightly over the silver branches at my throat, tracing the direwolf’s onyx eyes. I looked up at him, caught between awe and disbelief.

No one had ever given me something like this — not a trinket, not a jewel, not some gaudy southern prize meant to dazzle and then be forgotten. This was different. This was a piece of him, of Winterfell, of what we were about to become. It stole the words from me entirely.

But I didn’t need them. I saw the understanding flicker in his face, the way his smile softened when he read what I couldn’t speak.

Robb reached up, his knuckles brushing gently along my jaw, before his fingers tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear. His touch lingered for a heartbeat too long. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, quiet but certain.

My lips curved, finally finding their voice. “I do.”

He drew in a breath, then let it out in a huff that was almost a laugh. His brows rose, teasing but a little tight at the edges. “Do you know something? I think I’m nervous.”

I tilted my head, feigning scandal. “You? The heir of Winterfell, wolf-blooded and grave as the godswood — nervous?”

“Of course,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking. “I’m about to bind myself to a woman for the rest of my life.”

My smirk tugged sharper, sarcasm ready as ever. “Seven help you. A Baratheon temper for life—you’ll regret it the first time I throw a goblet at your head.”

He barked a laugh, his shoulders easing, though his eyes stayed locked on mine. “Gods. And still, here I am, walking straight into it.”

I chuckled softly, leaning closer until my breath brushed his lips. “That’s because you’re too stubborn to turn back, Stark. And too proud to admit you’re already lost.”

For a moment, his grin faltered into something steadier, more vulnerable. He dipped his head just slightly, his voice rougher. “Lost, aye. But only to you.”

The words struck deeper than I expected. My breath caught, and before I could summon some clever retort, he was already leaning nearer.

Our faces hovered inches apart, the faintest brush of his breath warming my lips. I didn’t move away. Instead, I let my eyes flutter shut, heart thundering against my ribs.

His lips met mine — soft at first, almost tentative, but with a steadiness that rooted me where I sat. A kiss not of hunger but of promise, sealing something we both already knew.

I tilted into him, answering with my own certainty, my fingers brushing the line of his jaw. His hand lingered at my cheek, thumb tracing lightly as though I might vanish if he pressed too hard.

When we parted, only just, his forehead lingered against mine, his breath steady, his voice low and rough with something he didn’t quite name.

“See you tonight,” he murmured, “in the godswood. Under the heart tree.”

The words carried the weight of both promise and anticipation. My lips curved faintly, though I could hardly breathe. I only nodded, fingers brushing the cool metal of the necklace at my throat.

Robb’s gaze softened. He pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead — tender, reverent — before pulling back. With one last look he slipped out; the door closed softly, warmth lingering in his wake.

Not long after Robb left, Lady Catelyn came in, her expression brisk but her eyes softer than usual. Behind her trailed Bran and Rickon, whispering and nudging each other as though they could scarcely contain their excitement.

“Happy name day, Lyanna,” Lady Catelyn said, kissing my brow lightly as though I truly were one of her own. In her hands she carried a small box, carved from dark weirwood, smooth and polished. She placed it in mine with a faint smile.

Inside lay a ring of silver, set with a single pale sapphire that caught the light like ice. “It was my grandmother’s,” she said softly. “My mother wore it to Riverrun when she wed.”

I stared down at it, my throat tightening. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, though the word felt too small.

Before I could say more, Bran puffed out his chest, stepping forward with a bundle wrapped in cloth. “Mine’s not as fine,” he admitted, “but I made it myself.”

Unwrapping it, I found a small wooden direwolf, its shape a little uneven, but carved with surprising care. “If you’re afraid, keep it in your pocket. A little wolf to guard you.”

My smile broke wide despite the sting in my eyes. “It’s perfect, Bran.”

Rickon bounded up next, his own gift clutched in sticky fingers. He thrust it at me proudly — a string of river stones, painted in bright childish strokes and tied with rough twine. “It’s for you!” he declared. “I painted them myself. Grey like wolves, and green like your eyes!”

The stones were lumpy, the paint already smudging, but I fastened it around my wrist as though it were a crown. “I’ll treasure it,” I told him solemnly, and he grinned so wide I thought his face might split.

Catelyn did not linger overlong once the children’s gifts were given. With a gentle but firm hand on Bran’s shoulder, she guided him toward the door, Rickon already scampering at his heels.

“Off with you both,” she said in that voice that was equal parts command and kindness. “Maester Luwin waits. Lessons do not vanish simply because of Lyanna’s name day and their wedding with your brother.”

Bran groaned, though not loudly enough to draw her rebuke, and Rickon gave me a conspiratorial grin before darting out. The sound of their feet faded down the corridor, and quiet settled once more.

Catelyn turned back to me then, her expression softer, though her words carried the brisk certainty of a woman with a thousand tasks pressing at her. “Your wedding gown is ready. The maids will deliver it before evening, so you’ll have time to prepare yourself.”

I rose a little from my chair, instinct tugging me toward her. “I’ll help, if there is more to be done. The feast, the—”

She cut me off with a small shake of her head, the corners of her mouth easing into something like a smile. “There is no need, Lyanna. These matters are in hand. What I would have you do is rest. Enjoy your day. This is your name day, and the last before you step into another life. Let it be yours.”

The words struck me more deeply than I expected, quiet but resolute. She smoothed her hands over the folds of her gown, already half-turned toward the door. “I’ll see to feast and guests. All you must think of is walking to the heart tree when the hour comes.”

And with that, Lady Catelyn left me to the stillness of my chambers, the echo of her words lingering like a blessing.

By afternoon, the maids returned with careful hands, carrying the gown as though it were spun glass. It was finished now — the last stitches drawn, the final threads tucked away — and they laid it reverently across the bed. My breath caught. The fabric gleamed faintly in the waning light, soft as snowfall, strong as the land it belonged to. Every line of it spoke of care, as though Lady Catelyn herself had hovered over each stitch to be certain it was worthy.

I traced my fingers lightly along the bodice, the sweep of the skirts, hardly daring to touch. For a moment, I simply stood there, wondering if this was truly mine — if tonight I would truly walk to the heart tree in it.

A knock at the door broke the spell.

“Come,” I called, still staring at the gown.

The door opened to reveal Tyrion, already smiling, already walking with the confidence of one who never asked leave to enter a room. He approached with arms wide and pressed a kiss against my cheek, the faint scent of wine lingering with him.

“Well,” he declared, stepping back to eye me, “seventeen years old, and already a woman and a wife in the same breath. What a day, niece.”

I wrinkled my nose, half laughing, half feigning scandal. “And what a smell of wine, uncle. Tell me you haven’t started celebrating already.”

“Of course I have,” Tyrion said smoothly, lifting his brows as though the answer were self-evident. “It isn’t every day one’s only sensible relative weds a Stark.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “And did you come only to drink at my expense, or have you brought something with you?”

“Ah.” He reached into the fold of his cloak with a flourish. “A gift, in fact.”

I raised a brow, feigning suspicion. “Let me guess. A book?”

Tyrion’s grin sharpened. “Unlike men, it will not lie to you — though it might bore you half to death, if you choose poorly.” He placed the weight into my hands: a leather-bound tome, thick and worn at the edges, its cover embossed faintly with curling letters.

I turned it over curiously. “What is it?”

“A collection of sayings,” Tyrion replied. “From Westeros, from the Free Cities, from any drunkard clever enough to have his words written down. Sharp lines, clever jests, even the odd bit of wisdom. For the days when you must sit in council, surrounded by men twice your age, remember this: wit will win you more battles than swords ever will.”

My lips curved, half in amusement, half in genuine warmth. “A gift only you would think to give, uncle.”

“Which means it is the only one worth keeping,” he countered with a wink.

Tyrion’s sharp eyes flicked from the book in my hands to the gown spread across the bed. His brows lifted, and for once he seemed at a loss for words.

“Well, well,” he said at last, tone dry but softened at the edges. “If Robb doesn’t lose his head when he sees you in that, I’ll eat this book page by page.”

Heat rose unbidden in my cheeks, though I masked it with a laugh. “Spare yourself, uncle. I’d hate for your sharp wit to be dulled by parchment.”

He smirked, taking a sip from the goblet he’d brought in. “It suits you, though. I’ll grant Lady Stark this — she has an eye. And a mind like a battlefield commander. If she planned wars as she does weddings, half the realm would already be hers.”

I turned back to the dress, my fingers brushing the silk. “It’s… more than I dreamed of. A wedding like this, I mean.”

Tyrion arched a brow. “Ah. Because my lovely sister isn’t here to sour it, or because for once you’re wedding a man you don’t despise?”

I bit back a laugh, shaking my head. “Probably both.”

He chuckled low, pleased with the answer.

My gaze lingered on the gown, tracing the embroidery with the tip of my finger. “When father left Winterfell,” I said softly, almost to myself. “He said this was the place where I belonged.”

“Robert said that?” Tyrion asked, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes.

I smiled faintly, half wistful, half wry. “Aye. And perhaps he wasn’t wrong.” I glanced at Tyrion then, lips curving in a small jest. “Sometimes even wisdom visits him.”

Tyrion barked a laugh, raising his goblet in salute. “Seven save me. If Robert Baratheon ever starts speaking wisdom with regularity, the realm will collapse from shock.”

I laughed with him, the sound breaking the tension in my chest. For a moment it felt like we were back in the Red Keep — trading barbs and secrets — only now the walls around me were not cold marble, but Winterfell’s stone. And somehow, that made all the difference.

Tyrion left me with the book and a smile — and for a while, I sat alone in my chambers, tracing the silver embroidery of the gown with my fingertips, the weight of the day settling heavy and bright all at once.

By the time the sun bent toward the horizon, the castle had shifted. The air seemed charged, servants hurrying through halls, the smell of roasting meats curling upward from the kitchens. In my chambers, the maids worked in quiet reverence, their hands steady as they helped me into my gown.

The fur around my shoulders was grey, soft and heavy as winter itself — Stark grey. Draped over it fell a cloak in deep midnight blue, the color I had chosen, dark as northern rivers beneath starlight. In certain light, it caught a depth that reminded me of Robb’s eyes when fire shadowed them — steady, unyielding, impossible to look away from.

Beneath that shimmered the gown itself, pale silver worked with embroidery so fine it seemed to ripple when I moved. Across the fabric leapt delicate stags, antlers entwined like living branches, a quiet nod to the blood I carried — Baratheon, storm-born and stubborn.

Together, wolf and stag, grey and blue, the gown was not wholly North nor wholly South. It was something between, something that felt wholly mine.

My hair fell in long dark waves, loose down my back, while the front strands were braided and pinned with tiny winter blossoms — pale flowers gathered that very morning from the godswood. The maids stepped back at last, and in the looking glass, I scarcely knew myself. 

The girl I had been at King’s Landing — wary, brittle, hidden beneath silks — was gone. In her place stood someone else: a young woman poised on the edge of vows, cloaked in two houses, caught between who she had been and who she was about to become.

By the time the sun dipped low, the sky blushed with the colors of dusk — pale gold fading to rose, and deeper still into violet. The air was hushed with the weight of ceremony, the chill of evening sinking through stone and leaf. When the maids finished their last adjustments — smoothing the folds of my gown, tucking a final flower into the braids at my crown — I drew a long breath and stepped from my chamber.

The corridors were alive with footsteps, whispers, the rustle of silk and fur. Outside, twilight had already settled over Winterfell, and the path to the godswood stretched before me like something out of dream.

Lady Catelyn walked at my side, calm and composed, Bran and Rickon trailing just behind her. They both struggled valiantly to behave, though the wide grins tugging at their faces betrayed them. Tyrion joined us as well, striding with wine-warmed humor in his eye, though for once he kept his tongue. The quiet of the moment seemed to settle even over him.

The hush of the godswood was unlike any other. No minstrels played, no bells rang — only the whisper of leaves and the trickle of water beneath the roots. Yet the solemnity of it pressed heavier than any southern pageantry.

The path to the heart tree stretched before me, narrow but clear. On either side, they stood: the household of Winterfell in their plain but proud furs, the bannermen who had come in haste, their ladies and children beside them. Ser Rodrik stood at the fore, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword; Maester Luwin waited by the heart tree, his hands folded into his sleeves, eyes calm, ready to begin.

Lady Catelyn slowed as we entered the clearing, her hand resting briefly at my back before she guided Bran and Rickon to their places at the front row. Both boys tried fiercely to stand tall and still, though Rickon’s excitement quivered in every line of him. His small hand clutched his mother’s skirts, his wide eyes never leaving the sight of the carved face in the weirwood.

That left me — and Tyrion at my side.

He glanced up at me, sharp-eyed and wry even in so solemn a moment. “Well then, niece,” he murmured low, so only I could hear. “I’ve been promoted to the highest honor of my life — giving away a bride who is far too clever to belong to anyone.”

Despite the weight pressing in my chest, a small smile tugged at my lips. Together, we stepped onto the path.

All eyes followed — a silent passage through rows of fur and steel, whispers held in check by reverence for the godswood. Yet I felt them all the same, like a tide pressing at my back. The hush deepened with each step, until at last only one figure remained at the end of the path, waiting beneath the heart tree.

Robb.

The first thing I saw was the weight of him — tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in Stark grey trimmed with white, the direwolf sigil bold across his cloak. His curls caught the fading light, gilded for a moment by the last touch of sun. But when his eyes lifted and found me, all of Winterfell seemed to fade away.

I had thought myself steady, composed. Yet the way he looked at me then — the way his gaze lingered, fixed, as though he had been holding his breath for hours only to lose it now — unsteadied me in turn. His lips parted, not in words at first, but in a silence that spoke louder than any vow. His eyes, blue as twilight water, swept over me — the fur, the cloak, the embroidered stags leaping in silver across the folds — and finally returned to my face.

Something in them softened. Something in them burned.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, though the air was cold enough to bite. For a heartbeat, it was only us — his awe, my breath, the heart tree watching in silence.

And then I saw the faintest curve tug at his mouth. Not his usual smirk, not his boyish grin, but something steadier, reverent. The look of a man seeing not a gown, but the woman he would vow himself to before gods and kin alike.

The weirwood loomed above, its face carved long ago, red sap running like tears from its eyes. Before it, Robb stood waiting — clad in dark grey trimmed with white, the direwolf of his house stitched over his heart. The hush in the clearing deepened as Tyrion and I reached the end of the path.

We stopped. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Tyrion, with a crooked smile softening his features, placed my hand gently in Robb’s. “Don’t squander this one, nephew-by-law,” he murmured, voice pitched too low for the crowd but clear enough for us both.

I couldn’t find words to answer him, but I didn’t need them. My fingers curled instinctively against Robb’s, and when I turned to meet his gaze, everything else fell away. The faintest smile touched his lips — nervous, yes, but steady, certain.

Maester Luwin stepped forward, his voice even, carrying easily through the quiet grove.

“Before the heart tree, in sight of gods and men, two souls come to bind themselves. Here in Winterfell, vows are spoken plain. No gilded words, no songs. Only truth, as the Old Gods witness.”

He looked first to Robb. “Speak your words, my lord.”

Robb’s fingers tightened gently around mine. His voice, when it came, was low but clear, each word deliberate.

“I am Robb of House Stark. With the Old Gods as witness, I take you, Lyanna of House Baratheon, to wife. I promise you faith and honor, hearth and hall, protection in the storm and in the snows. From this day until my last.”

My breath caught. Maester Luwin’s gaze shifted to me. “And you, my lady?”

The silence pressed close, but I found my voice.

“I am Lyanna of House Baratheon. With the Old Gods as witness, I take you, Robb of House Stark, to husband. I promise you faith and honor, hearth and hall, fire in the frost and storm, my hand in yours. From this day until my last.”

The words left me trembling, not from fear but from the weight of them.

Maester Luwin inclined his head, his hands folded into his sleeves. “So witnessed before the heart tree, so bound. Two houses joined, two lives made one.”

For a moment, the godswood was utterly still. Then Robb drew me gently closer, our foreheads brushing, his breath warm against mine. He whispered low, meant for me alone:

“From this day, and every day, you are mine. And I am yours.”

The crowd stirred, faint smiles breaking, Bran shifting on his toes, Rickon bouncing despite his mother’s steadying hand. Tyrion smirked faintly beside us, though his eyes gleamed sharper than usual, as though even he was moved despite himself.

Robb kissed me then — not long, not heated, but sure, sealing the vow we had spoken. The bannermen raised their voices in cheer, the sound rolling like thunder through the godswood, yet all I felt was his hand still firm around mine.

The cheer of the bannermen still rang in the air, the carved face of the heart tree watching with its weeping red eyes. I stood there, hand in Robb’s, no longer Baratheon alone, no longer daughter of storms and courts — but Stark, by vow and by name.

Once, years ago, a girl named Lyanna Stark had been born in these walls, and Winterfell lost her before her seventeenth name day. Now, at the very same age, another bore that name — not by birth, but by choice, by promise, by bond. The gods had seen fit to give Winterfell a Lyanna Stark once more.

Chapter Text

After the vows were spoken in the godswood, Winterfell did what all great houses of Westeros do best — it celebrated.

The Great Hall blazed with fire and life, its long tables groaning beneath the weight of meats and bread, stews and sweets, fruits and flagons of wine. Smoke curled toward the rafters, carrying the scent of roasted boar and spiced venison. The walls themselves seemed to hum with the sound of pipes and fiddles, the beat of drums, and the voices of men lifted in cheer.

At the high table, only two chairs stood at the center — mine and Robb’s. We sat side by side, hand in hand, as the hall slowly filled with bannermen and their families, with Winterfell’s household, with those who had ridden in haste to see their lord wed. One by one, they came forward, voices booming or soft with congratulations, arms bearing gifts.

Some laid down weapons — daggers with wolf-head hilts, finely balanced spears, even a sword with a pommel shaped like a direwolf’s head. Others brought furs, or goblets hammered with sigils, or bolts of cloth rich enough to rival southern courts. We smiled, thanked them, exchanged words of gratitude. At times, when a name slipped from me, I leaned toward Robb with a discreet murmur, and he supplied it quietly, his thumb brushing over my hand as though to steady me.

Then my uncle came forward. Tyrion Lannister bowed with a flourish far grander than necessary. In his palm he held a golden figurine shaped like a flame, wrought in delicate detail, its surface gleaming in the firelight.

“A flame for the wolf and his storm bride,” he declared, voice carrying through the hall. “Gold, naturally — for what else would a Lannister bring? Let it remind you both that even in the coldest winter, warmth must be kept.”

The bannermen chuckled, some rolling their eyes at his dramatics, but I felt a genuine smile tug at my lips as I accepted it. “Thank you, uncle.”

“Keep it near,” Tyrion added with mock solemnity. “Not every fire is meant for wine.”

The laughter spread, and he bowed himself away, already refilling his goblet.

Those who could not come had sent gifts by raven or rider — carved boxes, rare wines, small treasures from the Free Cities. Each token was laid before us, and still my hand never left Robb’s. We smiled, laughed, and bore the weight of attention together.

When at last the tide of guests ebbed and the hall turned again to feasting, Robb leaned close. His lips brushed just below my ear, and though his words were soft, they sent a shiver down my spine.

“Have I mentioned,” he murmured, “how stunning you looked tonight?”

Heat rose in my cheeks. I kept my smile fixed, my voice low. “Couldn’t you have said that later?”

“Better late than never,” he countered, a grin in his voice. “Truth be told, I should have said it the moment I saw you beneath the heart tree. You took me so completely, I nearly forgot the words of my vows.”

I turned to him then, laughing despite the flush in my face. “Alright, Stark. Consider yourself forgiven. But only this once.”

Robb’s grin widened, wolfish and boyish all at once. “Wrong answer,” he said with a chuckle, leaning just close enough for his words to brush my ear. “Five minutes into marriage, and already you’ve me standing on my toes.”

“Five minutes?” I smirked, lifting my goblet to hide the heat in my face. “You’ve had me standing on mine since the moment you kissed me under that tree.”

His eyes sparked, but before he could reply, the music shifted — the low hum of pipes and lutes softening into something slower, something meant for two. A hush rippled through the hall, as all knew what must come next.

Robb pushed back his chair, rising with that unstudied grace that seemed to settle more on him these days. He turned to me, extending his hand, voice pitched to carry just enough:

“With my wife,” he said, steady and sure. “Will you give me this dance?”

The words tugged a smile from me, half shy, half defiant. I laid my hand in his, and he drew me to my feet, leading me into the cleared space at the center of the hall.

The pipes sang, the strings hummed, and Robb’s arm settled around my waist, his hand warm against the fabric of my gown. His other hand held mine, strong but careful, guiding me into the rhythm.

The hall blurred at the edges — bannermen watching, servants hovering, torches painting gold across the stone. I scarcely noticed them. It was only him, his eyes steady on mine, his steps sure, though I could feel the faint tremor of nerves beneath the surface.

“You know,” I teased softly as he spun me once, my skirts brushing in a whisper of silk, “for someone raised in a castle of stone and snow, you dance surprisingly well.”

His grin flashed, boyish but sly. “I prepared myself,” he said, lowering his voice just enough for only me to hear. “If nothing else, I wasn’t about to stumble before my bride — a pampered rose of King’s Landing.”

My eyes widened, feigning scandal though laughter already tugged at my lips. “Pampered, am I?”

The smile broke free before I could stop it, and a small laugh escaped into the air between us. Robb’s answering chuckle rumbled low in his chest, and before I could summon a retort, he raised our joined hands higher and circled me beneath his arm.

The skirts of my gown swept wide as I turned, blue and silver catching the torchlight like water and moonlight entwined. For a heartbeat, I felt as though the hall itself had vanished, and it was only us — my hand in his, his steady gaze following every movement as though he dared not look away.

When I came back to him, he caught me close again, steadying me with a hand at my waist. His smirk softened into something fonder, more certain. “Pampered or not,” he murmured, “you’ve undone me all the same.”

My cheeks burned, though my lips twitched upward despite myself. I tilted my chin, masking the warmth with sarcasm. “If you’re undone now, Stark, what will you do when the feast has only just begun?”

His smile deepened, and his thumb brushed lightly against the back of my hand where he held it. “Pray the gods the music never ends.”

The music swelled and broke like waves, carrying us into more dances. Laughter rippled through the hall as couples joined — bannermen pulling their wives into the steps, children darting clumsily between skirts, and even Tyrion attempting a turn or two with a lady who looked equal parts charmed and bemused.

Robb and I shared more than one dance, though between them we paused to drink and eat, to smile and nod as men and women came to offer their words and gifts. My cheeks ached from smiling, my hands warm from where Robb’s never left mine.

The feast blurred into a living tide — clattering plates, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, voices rising in cheer. For all the noise, all the eyes, there were moments when I forgot the crowd entirely. Moments when Robb’s hand at my back or his low laugh near my ear made the rest of the hall fade, leaving only the pulse of music and the fire of his nearness.

But not all eyes were kind.

As the night wore long and the torches guttered low, one of the bannermen — a broad man already red with drink — rose with a bold grin, goblet swaying in his hand. His voice boomed above the din, too loud, too eager:

“Well then! Shall we see the bride and groom to their bed, as custom bids? A noble union ought to be sealed proper, before the eyes of kin and bannermen!”

A roar of laughter followed, others clapping their cups against the table. Another voice chimed in, equally brazen, “Aye! Strip the cloak and carry her to the sheets!”

The words struck like ice water. My breath caught, panic stiffening my limbs. My fingers clutched Robb’s beneath the table, though I dared not lift my eyes. Heat burned my cheeks — not with wine or mirth, but with shame. To be paraded, exposed before them… my heart thundered so loud it drowned their pounding fists and bawdy laughter.

But before the noise could swell further, Robb was on his feet. The scrape of his chair against stone cut through the hall like a blade. His blue eyes, clear and cold now, swept across the crowd.

“I’ll not end my wedding night by ripping off someone’s head,” he said, his voice iron-hard. “So unless any man here seeks to test me, hold your tongues.”

The hall stilled at once. A few nervous chuckles stuttered, quickly dying. Even the drunk who’d started it sank back into his seat, eyes suddenly fascinated by his goblet.

The silence stretched — then broke, gentler this time, into scattered toasts, voices turning the moment aside, laughter forced but eager to smooth the sharpness away.

Robb’s shoulders eased, though only slightly. He turned then — away from them, back to me. His hand sought mine, steadying, firm. My pulse still raced, nerves raw, but the heat of his palm wrapped around my fingers grounded me.

He bent, close enough that only I could hear. “Come,” he murmured, voice lower, softer than before. And though he did not say the words aloud, the meaning in his eyes was clear.

I rose, my heart caught somewhere between dread and anticipation. The hall watched, but this time I did not feel stripped bare. His hand was on mine, and in that I found the strength to move.

He drew me into his side, his arm protective but gentle, and together we walked from the high table, the murmur of voices following us like a tide receding into the night.

The hall behind us still roared with life — laughter, cups clashing, the scrape of chairs, the bawdy singing that always came when men drank too deep. Yet as the heavy doors closed at our backs, all of it fell away, muffled into nothing more than a distant hum.

We walked side by side through Winterfell’s dim corridors, torchlight flickering across stone, our shadows stretching long before us. Neither of us spoke. My hand stayed in his, but my fingers had gone cold, my breath shallow. Nerves pricked sharp in my chest, every step echoing louder than the last.

I wondered if he could hear the thrum of my pulse. I wondered if he felt the same tremor — or if, as always, he seemed steadier, stronger, where I could not be. Yet when I stole a glance at him in the half-light, I saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his thumb brushed absently across my knuckles as though to soothe himself as much as me.

When at last we reached his chamber door, Robb paused. For a heartbeat, the silence weighed heavier than the feasting hall ever had. He turned to me, eyes steady but softer now, and eased the door open.

“After you,” he murmured.

I stepped inside, my throat dry, my palms damp against the silk of my gown. The chamber was just as I remembered it — the hearth burning low, shadows curled in the corners, the great bed draped in heavy furs. Yet tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it felt charged, as though the very air had shifted.

Behind me, the door shut with a soft thud. Robb slid the bolt into place, the sound echoing louder in my ears than the cheer of a hundred men.

I turned toward him — and for a moment, all I could do was stand there, the weight of the day pressing down, nerves tangling until I felt caged inside my own skin.

Robb didn’t cross the room at once. He leaned back against the door for a moment, watching me as though he could read every flicker of unease written across my face. His voice, when it came, was quiet, steady.

“You’re shaking.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I’m not,” I protested too quickly, though my voice betrayed me.

A faint smile tugged at his lips — not mocking, but warm, reassuring. “You are. And that’s all right.”

He pushed away from the door then, his steps slow, measured. When he reached me, he didn’t touch me right away. He only lifted a hand to brush a lock of hair back from my cheek, fingers feather-light.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Lyanna,” he said softly. “Not of me.”

Something in his voice — low, earnest, more vow than comfort — steadied the quiver running through me. Air came easier then, my shoulders loosening just slightly.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I admitted, my eyes catching his. “Just… of what comes after.”

His thumb lingered against my cheek, tracing the faint heat there. “Then we’ll let it come slowly. As slow as you want.”

I bit my lip, hesitating, the words slipping before I could stop them. “I’ve… heard stories.” My voice was barely a whisper. “That it’s painful. For the first time.”

Robb’s expression softened, his smile faint but steady, as though he’d been waiting for the confession. “I won’t hurt you,” he said simply. “Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it.” His voice held no boast, only a quiet certainty that soothed where words often failed.

Before I could answer, he shifted, circling gently behind me. His hands brushed over my arms, light enough to raise a shiver, and then gathered my hair in one careful motion, drawing the dark strands over one shoulder. The other he left bare, exposed to the cool air — and then to his lips.

His mouth pressed softly at the curve of my neck, a lingering kiss just beneath my ear. Then another, lower, slower. Each one unhurried, savoring, as though he had waited for this and wanted nothing more than to take his time. I felt my eyes flutter shut, the tension in my shoulders loosening with each touch.

A quiet sound escaped me — not quite words, not quite breath — and I tilted my head just slightly, giving him more. His hand rose to rest against my waist, steady and grounding, not pulling, not pressing, only holding me.

Robb didn’t break the trail of kisses along my skin. His lips brushed lower, while his fingers — gentle as ever — found the ties at the back of my gown. He paused there, the touch still and patient, as though asking without words. My breath caught. For a heartbeat he waited, his hand unmoving, his lips hovering at my neck.

The question was clear in the stillness, in the way he did not tug. I tilted my head back slightly, baring more of my throat to him, a silent answer. Only then did he move, loosening the ties one by one with care that felt almost reverent. Each pull of the laces sent a ripple of nerves through me, yet his kisses never faltered, steadying me, reminding me I was not alone.

The ties loosened at last, and the gown slipped from my shoulders. It fell soundlessly to the floor, leaving me in the thin shift beneath. My skin prickled under the cool air of the chamber, but his warmth steadied me.

I turned then, slowly, to face him. My hands rose, uncertain, trembling faintly with nerves and anticipation, until my fingers found the ties of his doublet.

I hesitated — only a heartbeat — before tugging at the knots. My fingers fumbled clumsily, slipping once, and when I glanced up, I caught the faintest smile curving his mouth. Not mocking, not impatient — only amused, softened with something warmer.

Robb reached out, his larger hand covering mine, steadying the tremor in my touch. “Here,” he murmured, his voice low, guiding me gently. Together we worked the ties loose, one by one, until the fabric fell open. He shrugged out of it easily, letting the heavy wool slip to the floor.

Beneath, only his linen shirt remained, and when I reached for it with hesitant fingers, he did not stop me. Again, my hands shook, but he stilled them with his own, patient, until at last the last tie gave way. He pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion and let it drop aside.

I froze.

Firelight poured over him, sharpening the lines of his chest and shoulders, the play of muscle down his arms, the ridges of his stomach. I had never stood so close to a man stripped of wool and steel, and nothing in King’s Landing had prepared me for it. Words deserted me, leaving only the rush of heat and the sharp hitch of my breath.

Instead, I swallowed — too quickly, too obviously. His gaze caught the motion, and for the first time that night, his grin curved, edged with boyish pride. “You’ll have me believe you’ve never beheld a man bare before.” -  he said softly, amused. 

My cheeks flamed, and I tried for a retort, but all I managed was a laugh that cracked on my own nerves. I had seen men before — Joffrey, my brother, pale and sharp-angled, more boy than man. Even the squires splashing bare in the Blackwater, thin as reeds, had seemed like children still. None of it had prepared me for this. For Robb Stark, firelight carved across his chest, strength wrought by steel and snow, standing before me as no boy, but a man.

Robb moved back, lowering himself onto the bed, elbows propped in the furs, his gaze never leaving me. There was no command in the gesture, no demand — only invitation, quiet and patient, as he eased himself toward the center.

My feet carried me forward before I could think better of it. I found myself standing between his knees, the air between us alive with heat. For a moment I felt like prey beneath a hunter’s eyes — and yet it was the hunter who waited, still and silent, giving me every choice.

At last, I bent toward him. Our lips met again — firmer now, steadier — the nervousness in me softening against his certainty. His hands rose, warm and calloused, sliding to my sides. They moved slowly, reverently, tracing the line of my waist through the thin linen of my shift. His thumbs brushed just beneath the swell of my breasts, feather-light, and I shivered, unsure if from nerves or the heat pooling low in my belly.

His mouth left mine only to trail lower — down my throat, lingering at its hollow, then over the slope of my collarbone. Each kiss was deliberate, unhurried, as though he meant to learn me piece by piece. My shift slipped further beneath his touch, baring my shoulders completely. I leaned closer, my hands braced against his chest, until he guided me gently back, his lips never leaving my skin.

Slowly, I yielded, sinking beneath him as the furs caught me. For the first time I felt the full breadth of him covering me, his body braced but his touch still feather-light. The world narrowed to the warmth of him, the scent of him, the certainty of his gaze.

His hands moved to the neckline of my shift, tugging carefully, drawing the linen down over my arms. The fabric slid lower, lower still, until it slipped past my hips and down my legs, pooling somewhere at the edge of the bed. For a moment I froze, exposed and breathless, every nerve raw.

Robb’s palm traced slowly along my side, reverent rather than rushed, as though committing every curve, every line, to memory. His gaze roamed me not like a conqueror claiming spoils, but like a man who had stumbled upon something sacred. His throat worked as he swallowed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, uneven, almost hushed.

His thumb brushed just beneath my breast, his eyes lifting to mine again. “I’ve never seen anything so fair.”

Heat rushed through me at the words, at the awe written across his face. My pulse hammered wild beneath my skin, but still, I couldn’t look away.

His hand brushed my cheek once more, steadying me. His lips returned to mine, deeper now, every kiss carrying the weight of vows spoken beneath the heart tree. His mouth trailed downward again, pressing kisses across my collarbone, while his hands mapped the shape of me with slow certainty. His chest rose sharply, as though he wrestled with something unseen, and then at last he gave in. With a quiet breath, he stripped away the last of his own barriers. His belt fell loose, and he pushed his trousers down his hips.

The sound of fabric falling to the floor echoed louder than the fire’s crackle.

I tried not to look, but my eyes betrayed me. His bare chest had already left me breathless; what I saw now struck me with a fresh wave of heat and shock. I had no measure for it, no expectation — only the rush of blood in my ears and the sudden ache of nerves flooding me sharper than before.

My breath caught, my body taut with a new kind of anxiety. Robb saw it — I knew he did — and instead of pressing forward, he stilled. His hand sought mine, our fingers intertwining, his grip steady.

“We go no further unless you will it.” he whispered, voice rough but quiet, steady as a vow.

In that moment, the stories I had overheard in half-hidden corners — of pain, of discomfort, of dread — scattered like ash. Because every kiss, every touch, every breath of his against my skin had already undone me. I had room left only for him.

Our fingers stayed twined as he lowered himself fully over me. His weight wasn’t crushing, but grounding — as if the world itself had steadied above me. My back arched without thought, seeking him, as though some instinct older than my fear was guiding me.

His lips claimed mine again, deeper, more certain, while his hands mapped me slowly. From my waist, down over the curve of my hips, to the soft of my thighs — parting them wider, coaxing rather than commanding. A gasp tore from me at the movement, my body arching again, heat flooding my belly until it was unbearable. Dampness gathered between my legs, unfamiliar and overwhelming.

Then I felt him press against me — a shock of heat and firmness that stole the air from my lungs. My gasp thinned into a whimper, my nails biting at his shoulders. He kissed me through it, murmuring softly against my lips as though his words alone could ease the edge.

And slowly — so slowly — he pressed inside.

The stretch was sharp, strange, almost too much. My body tightened around the ache, shuddering with the unfamiliar intrusion. I clutched tighter to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, a cry catching in my throat. But his lips were there, catching every broken sound, his hands anchoring me, his murmurs easing the fear.

When he filled me completely, he stopped. His chest heaved against mine, his forehead resting against me, his breath ragged. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, the words trembling, reverent. “If there is pain, tell me. If you would have me stop, I will.”

The vow in his voice steadied me more than anything. Though my body quivered from the strangeness of it, I knew then I didn’t want him to stop.

“Don’t let go.”

The sound of my own voice startled me — breathless, needy, unfamiliar. But it was true, stripped bare.

His answering groan rumbled against my skin, low and raw. And then he kissed me again — harder this time, as though my words had undone the last of his restraint.

He moved — slow at first, careful. The first thrust made me gasp, the ache flaring hot and sharp, but his lips caught mine, easing it. His hand slipped beneath my thigh, lifting it higher, changing the angle. The discomfort melted gradually into something else — something that stole my breath, replaced it with fire.

Each movement drew shivers from me, my body tightening around him instinctively. The fullness no longer only a sting but a rhythm that grew warmer, brighter, until pleasure sparked sharp and insistent. My breaths became moans, my moans spilled into broken whimpers, and still he moved with patient steadiness, whispering my name like a prayer against my skin.

I buried my face into his neck, clinging as though I might dissolve if I let go. My hips moved tentatively at first, then fell into rhythm with his, each meeting of us drawing a groan from his throat so raw, so reverent, it sent heat rushing through me anew.

The rhythm built, deeper, stronger, each stroke drawing me higher. My nails scored his back, my breaths came ragged, the pressure in my belly coiling tighter and tighter until I couldn’t bear it. My lips formed his name in a desperate cry — “Robb—” — before the world shattered around me.

He felt me tighten around him, and it broke what little restraint he still held. With a guttural groan, his movements grew rougher, more urgent, until he buried himself deep inside me and stilled, his entire body trembling as he spilled into me. His face pressed into my neck, his breath hot and uneven, as if my name was the only thing he knew how to say. His release pulsed through me, blending with my own, the two of us tangled in the aftermath of something greater than either of us had words for.

For a long moment, we were only firelight and the tangle of our breathing. His lips found my cheek, my temple, my hair — not claiming, but anchoring. And when he finally stilled above me, chest rising and falling against mine, I felt not conquered, but cherished. Not taken, but chosen.

When his breathing slowed, he eased down, tangling us together in furs and warmth. His lips brushed my temple one last time, soft as a prayer. His whisper was hoarse, but sure:

“My wife.”

His whisper lingered in the air, fragile as breath, yet weighty enough to settle in my chest like a brand. My wife.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. His weight rested heavy but safe above me, his hand still laced with mine, our hearts thudding out of rhythm yet together all the same. Slowly, he shifted, until we lay curled against each other in the furs, his arm wrapping tight around my waist.

The chamber was quiet save for the fire and the echo of our breathing. My skin still trembled where his had touched, every nerve singing in a way I had never known. I pressed my cheek against his shoulder, breathing in the warmth of him — steel and snow and something uniquely his.

Robb’s hand traced idly along my arm, a touch more soothing than any words. At last, he broke the silence, his voice low, almost boyish despite the weight of what had passed.

“Was it as frightening as you feared?”

A startled laugh escaped me, shaky but real. I tilted my head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Gods, Robb — no. It was nothing like I imagined. I never thought… I could feel something like that.”

His lips curved faintly against my hair, his voice low, rough, threaded with amusement and awe. “Did you truly think I would let you face such a night without joy?”

I gave a breathless laugh, half-teasing, half-overwhelmed, and hid my face against his chest. His arm tightened around me, steady and sure, his thumb brushing slow circles over my hip as silence stretched between us. Not awkward silence, but full, like the hush of snow falling outside Winterfell’s walls.

Robb shifted just enough to look down at me, his curls falling loose over his brow. “You’ll not slip my grasp now, wife,” he said softly, a spark of wolfish pride tugging at his mouth.

I lifted my gaze, still dazed, still unable to steady my breath, and managed a whisper of a smile. “As if I’d even want to.”

He pressed one last kiss to my brow, tender and reverent, before resting his forehead to mine. No more words came — none were needed. I only felt the weight of him, the warmth, the certainty.

And when sleep finally claimed me, it was not as Robert’s daughter or a pawn of the court, but as Lyanna Stark — Robb’s wife, bound not only by vow, but by something far greater I could not yet name.

Chapter Text

I woke to warmth again, but not the fierce heat of a fire or the weight of furs. It was softer than both — a steady radiance where skin met skin, the quiet cradle of a body that had chosen mine. Light spilled across the chamber in wide strokes, pushing the shadows back into corners; dust motes drifted like slow snow. Somewhere far below, the keep murmured — clatter from kitchens, a laugh carried thin on stone — but up here the world had gone unhurried.

Robb’s arm was heavy around my waist, his breath warm at the back of my neck. The barest movement made his hold tighten, the instinctive way one holds a thing they are not ready to lose. My mouth curved before I meant it to. Wife. The word felt strange and right all at once.

When I turned to face him, the light caught in his curls and threw copper through the brown. He looked younger like that — less a lord, more a man who had dreamed without armor. His lashes lifted, and then the softest, laziest smile broke across his face.

“Good morning, wife,” he murmured, voice raw with sleep.

I huffed a laugh. “You look far too pleased with yourself.”

“Do I?” His smile deepened. “I dreamt well. Waking was better.”

Heat climbed my cheeks — not the startled flare of before, but something warmer, settled. “Keep grinning so, and I’ll think you’ve taken me for a prize.”

“Not prize,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Victory.”

His lips brushed mine — quick, teasing. I caught his jaw before he could draw back and kissed him properly, slow and lingering. He answered with a groan low in his chest, pulling me closer until the furs tangled between us.

When I shifted, a small wince escaped before I could bite it back. The ache in me was faint, not sharp — more like the soreness of muscles after training, only deeper, stranger.

Robb noticed at once. His hand slid over my hip, gentle, steady. His brows drew together, though his voice stayed soft.

“How do you feel?”

I hesitated, then let honesty win.

“Sore. A little. But not in a way that frightens me. Just… as if my body remembers the night.”

His mouth tugged, guilt crowding his features. “I shouldn’t—”

“You should,” I cut in quickly, softening the words with a smile as I brushed his wrist. “You were gentle, Robb — patient. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Relief eased him. He bent and kissed my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth — each one lighter, coaxing me back to a smile.

“We’ll go slow today,” he murmured, lips ghosting mine. “As slow as you want.”

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes though a grin tugged at me. “Slow? You’ve not left the bed, and already you’re planning your return.”

Color crept faintly into his cheeks, though his grin held. “A wise man plans ahead. And I’d be a fool not to.”

He kissed me again, firmer this time, swallowing the last of my challenge.

A knock came then — gentle, two taps, a pause, two more. The sort a well-trained servant gives when they hope not to be heard. We went still. After a moment, the faint scrape of a tray set on the floor, then footsteps retreating.

“Clearly the kitchens fear for their souls,” I whispered. “They’ve left offerings at our door.”

“Best beware,” he returned. “If there’s ham, you’ll not be free of me.”

“You’d not be rid of me either,” I said before I could stop myself.

We looked at one another. The line should have come out sharp; instead it landed simply, true. He bent and kissed the corner of my mouth, a content little press.

We ate in a tangle of limbs and pillows, stealing bites, laughing when a smear of honey ended up on my lip and he solemnly erased the evidence with his mouth. When the food was gone, he lay back, arms flung wide, drawing me in against him.

“Bath?” he offered when he caught the faint wince again. “I’ll heat the water myself. No servants — just us.”

“Then yes,” I said, mollified. “A bath would be kind.”

When he returned, sleeves damp to the elbows, he was grinning despite himself. “It won’t be scalding, but it’ll do.” The grin tilted. “I could carry you.”

“Try it, and I’ll scream like some maid in a song.”

“Then I’ll have to silence you,” he said solemnly, and I threw a pillow at him. He caught it to his chest like a mortal wound.

I rose carefully. The first step stung; the second less so; by the third I found my pace. He was already there, a hand at my waist — not to steady me, but simply because he could.

The tub steamed gently; I sank in with a wordless sound that might have been prayer. He crouched at the rim, curls damp at the temples, watching my face the way men watch storm clouds.

“You look content,” I said.

“Someone must guard the tub,” he answered smoothly. “Else you’d drown in a finger of water.”

Before he could add more, I caught his wrist and tugged hard. The splash swallowed his laugh.

Water surged up, spilling over the sides as he landed beside me with a grunt. I pressed a hand to my mouth, choking on laughter as he blinked water from his lashes, curls plastered to his brow.

“You dragged me in,” he sputtered, though the smile broke through.

“You looked too pleased with yourself,” I said primly, though my grin betrayed me. “It seemed the only cure.”

I flicked water at him; he retaliated with a heavier splash that soaked my hair. My squeal echoed off the stone. Soon the tub rocked with our battle, water lapping dangerously at the rim.

“Then I’ll boast the Lord of Winterfell was felled by a girl in a tub,” I gasped.

“Not felled,” he murmured, catching my wrist beneath the water. “Only disarmed.”

The laughter softened. His thumb brushed along my knuckles, steady. Silence drifted in with the steam. He shifted nearer, shoulder brushing mine.

“It’s strange,” he said at last, voice low. “I thought marriage would weigh like mail on my shoulders. Instead I feel lighter.”

“Don’t grow too used to it,” I teased, though my chest tightened at the honesty in his tone. “Winter is coming, and even a wife can be heavy as chain.”

His lips brushed my temple, wet and warm. “If this is weight, I’ll carry it gladly.”

The words sank deep. My hand tightened in his beneath the water, not mockery this time, only answer.

He turned toward me fully, hand rising to cradle my cheek. “What do you want, Lyanna?”

No one in King’s Landing had ever asked. Not Robert. Not Cersei. Want had been a word for songs, not for daughters.

Steam curled thick around us. His fingers pressed steady at mine, urging truth.

“I want…” My voice came quiet. “I want not to be forgotten. Not to be set aside like a cup when it’s empty.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You won’t be. Not by me.”

He kissed me — slow, water beading between us. Not hungry, not urgent. Anchored.

We stayed like that until the water cooled, until the castle stirred awake beyond the door. It wasn’t hunger that filled the silence, but something steadier, stronger — something that felt as though it could root itself in stone and endure as long as Winterfell itself.

By the time the bathwater cooled and the furs were set back in order, the sun was already climbing toward midday. Winterfell hummed with bustle. Horses stamped in the yard, banners dipped from the walls, and voices called farewells as the bannermen began to take their leave. Robb had gone to the gates, standing as lord to thank each house for their loyalty and see them safely home.

I lingered behind. No sooner had I stepped into the corridor than Lady Stark’s maids descended like a well-drilled host. My gowns and keepsakes were already being moved from my old chamber into Robb’s, folded and smoothed as though they had always belonged there. Lady Catelyn herself strode past with brisk command, her voice sharp but her eyes softened by satisfaction, directing servants to sort the endless stream of wedding gifts arriving from distant houses.

I slipped away before her gaze could catch me, cheeks still warm with a flush I’d rather not explain. The corridor beyond was quieter, cooler — though even here Winterfell pulsed with life. Servants hurried past with armfuls of linens, a boy dragged firewood twice his weight, and somewhere above a cart wheel creaked along stone. It was a different sort of chaos than King’s Landing — less gilded, more grounded. And, if I was honest, harder to vanish inside of.

I was still trying to make myself invisible when I nearly collided with a familiar figure.

“Ah, there you are,” Tyrion said smoothly, catching my elbow with surprising steadiness for a man with a cup already in hand. His sharp eyes glinted, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I’d half a mind to send a search party. Judging by your blush, I’d wager the young wolf has kept you well-occupied.”

Heat rushed to my face. “Uncle.”

He tilted his goblet in mock solemnity. “No need for offense. I’m reassured to see you walking upright — there are less pleasant fates for a wedding night.”

I narrowed my eyes, though the smirk tugged at my lips. “Seven hells, you never miss a chance, do you?”

“Mockery is a habit, niece,” he replied, unrepentant. “And unlike wine, it never runs dry.”

“And you never miss a chance to remind me why most can’t abide your company,” I shot back.

He barked a laugh, delighted rather than wounded. “Ah, but you do keep me company. That’s why you’re my favorite.”

His expression softened then, humor easing into something more careful. “I didn’t climb back from the Wall to linger in Winterfell. I came to drink your wine, witness your vows, and make certain Robert’s eldest had lived to see another day in this castle of wolves.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness beneath his wit. “And?”

He studied me for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Alive. Whole. Happier than I expected. Stranger things have happened.”

Something tugged at my chest. I tried to keep my tone light. “Do I look so strange content?”

“Not strange,” he said quietly. “Rare. And rare things are worth the ride.”

My smirk faltered for just a heartbeat. It unsettled me more than I wanted to admit — that he saw it, that I was different here.

“You’re leaving, then.”

“Winterfell has no need of me,” Tyrion said with a shrug. “And King’s Landing… well, it prefers to pretend I’m not there. Still, like a bad coin, I always find my way back into the purse.”

A smile tugged faintly at my lips, though my chest tightened. “When you do… give my love to Myrcella and Tommen. Hug them for me. Tell them I miss them.” My voice wavered. “Tell them they’re the best part of home.”

For once, Tyrion didn’t answer with wit. He inclined his head, eyes sharper, gentler. “I’ll tell them. They’ll be glad to hear it.”

Silence lingered a moment. Then he raised his goblet in mock salute, his smirk curling back into place. “Enjoy your wolf and your snow, niece. Mind you don’t let either draw blood.”

A laugh escaped me, low and real. I watched him turn down the corridor, small and sharp and steady as ever. Below us, a horn sounded at the gates, signaling another company of riders departing. For a moment the Red Keep tugged faintly at me — its shadows, its siblings, the rare warmth of those two little faces. But Winterfell’s noise rose louder behind me, and I let the thought fade like smoke in the cold.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed since that first night. The newness had not vanished — there was still a bright, quick edge to smiles and small domestic discoveries — but the awkwardness had been smoothed by time and repetition. We had learned the map of one another in those nights: the turn of a shoulder, what made the other laugh, where a hand could find rest. Morning and evening blurred in the quiet that belonged to us.

By evening the chamber was warm, the hearth low and red, the air thick with beeswax and the faint scent of rose oil. A single candle guttered at the table where I had been writing; the quill lay idle, a neat blot where ink had waited for my hand. Robb’s things and mine had long since become mingled — the gowns at the screen, the half-forgotten keepsakes on the chest — the room no longer belonged to one of us alone.

He came in slow, the wear of the day in the set of his shoulders, and I watched him with the steady calm of someone who knows a man well. He unlatched his sword and set it aside as if laying down a habit; when he looked at me the half-smile in his mouth was both boyish and settled.

“So it’s true,” he said lightly, “My chamber’s been conquered.”

“Best surrender while you can,” I said, letting the quill balance on the table. “My things multiply faster than armies.”

He crossed behind me and bent to press warmth at my temple; his breath was the same as always — clean as frost, touched with smoke and the faint salt of skin. The touch was ordinary, the kind that steadied more than it stirred.

“Writing to your family?” he asked, voice softer now.

“To Myrcella,” I answered. “Her raven came this morning. Congratulations, and… that she wished she could be here.”

He bent a little, the warmth of his breath brushing my temple. “And the others? The queen, the king?”

I set down the quill, lips twisting. “No. Spare me from mother’s letters. And my father—well, I imagine he knows already. Since you wrote Lord Eddard about the date and sought his blessing, the court must be informed. They’ll send gifts soon enough. Gold and jewels travel faster than affection.”

Robb said nothing at first, only watching as I wrote careful lines. Then quietly, “Do you miss them? Myrcella. Tommen.”

“A little. But I don’t think Myrcella would love it here. Too cold, too plain. She belongs to sunlight and silks. To gardens, to songs, to places where the air smells of oranges instead of smoke.” I hesitated, a smile ghosting at the corner of my mouth. “Father used to sit with us sometimes. Rare nights, when he was sober. Myrcella with her embroidery, me with my books. He said we were the moon and the sun.”

Robb’s hand brushed my shoulder, steady, grounding. His voice came low, earnest. “Then the moon and the sun are lucky to be remembered so fondly.”

I set the quill aside and read the last line once more, ink still glistening. Miss and love you, Cella. Watch that Tommen doesn’t sneak too many sweets — you know how his stomach turns. Your sister, Lyanna.

Folding the parchment carefully, I wrapped the thread around it, tying the knot just so. The familiar motions steadied me — the wax pooled red, the candle flame guttering in the draft. I reached for the nearest stamp when a hand appeared before me.

A seal — silver, heavy, carved with the head of a direwolf.

I looked up, one brow raised. Robb stood over me, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

I blinked at it, then at him. My brow arched.

“You’re serious?”

He leaned on the back of my chair, mouth quirking. “You’re a Stark now. A letter sent from Winterfell should carry the proper seal.”

I smirked, fingers brushing the cool metal before I plucked it from his hand. “Proper seal? I’ve been your wife mere days, and you’re already branding my letters.”

Robb’s grin spread, wolfish and boyish all at once. He leaned down, setting the cool iron of the seal aside so his lips brushed near my ear. “Days or years, it’s the same. You’re mine, and the world should know it.”

A laugh broke from me despite myself, caught somewhere between fondness and disbelief. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

He chuckled against my skin, his lips brushing just below my jaw. “And yet, my insufferable company seems to keep you smiling.”

I tried for menace, though my voice softened. “Only because I’ve no choice now.”

“Liar,” he murmured, catching my hand in his and pressing his mouth lightly to my knuckles before guiding the seal back into my palm. “Go on, wife. Mark it proper - no one will mistake where you belong.”

I pressed the seal into the soft wax, watching the direwolf’s head take form in its clean impression. The deep red gleamed against the parchment — bold, unmistakable.

When it cooled, I called for a maid, pressing the folded letter into her hands with quiet instructions to see it sent south to King’s Landing. Once she vanished through the door, I turned back to the table, clearing away the clutter — a quilt draped carelessly over a chair, scraps of parchment, the stub of a candle guttering low.

Robb’s voice came behind me, low and certain. “I like it here. You being here. Your scent.”

I rolled my eyes, though warmth tugged at my lips. “Stop that.”

I turned toward him, only to find his arms braced on either side of the table, caging me in. His smile was lazy, unrepentant. “Stop what?” His nose brushed lightly against mine.

I smirked despite myself. “This.”

He laughed, the sound soft but bright. Then, quieter: “You know, my mother’s leaving Winterfell.”

I blinked, startled. “Does she?”

“She wants to visit her sister, Lady Arryn, in the Vale. Says five years is too long to go without seeing her. She told me she’s done her duty here—saw the wedding through—and now deserves a little peace.”

I arched a brow. “She’s leaving the castle? But who will do all… you know, the things she does? She seems to be everywhere at once.”

Robb chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “First of all, she won’t be gone long. Rickon’s still small. And second—Winterfell doesn’t run on one woman’s shoulders. There’s a whole castle of servants, stewards, and Maester Luwin besides. She knows it well enough.”

His hands slid up to cup my cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly over my cheekbones until my breath stilled. “And maybe,” he added with a smirk, leaning close enough for his curls to tickle my brow, “she just wanted to give us more space.”

Against my better senses, I leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft at first, almost tentative, but the rush that followed was dizzying, a warmth that left my chest fluttering. Gods, I felt as if the world had lifted.

When our lips parted, Robb’s smirk curved slow and certain, blue eyes alight. “Exactly what I was talking about,” he murmured—before catching my mouth again, firmer this time, hungrier.

When his hand slid to the small of my back, something in me answered the way it had in those first nights, and these days the answer came without the catch of fear. We had learned the language of one another’s bodies; we had grown used to the closeness. Where before there had been an edge of caution, now there was the ease of long acquaintance.

He braced himself at the table and, with a smile that held no ceremony, drew me up. The kiss that followed was not the hurried thing of strangers; it was practiced, sure — a claim made soft, an old language resumed. Hands moved in familiar ways, fingers finding what they knew, and the world narrowed to the small orbit of his breath, the heat of him, the sound of the hearth.

There was nothing clumsy in it now. I undid his doublet with steady fingers; he met my boldness with equal boldness. Garments fell away in careless haste, not fumbling but certain, as if the small ceremony of undressing had long since been performed and the men and women beneath the linen were only returning to the place they had chosen. The candle sputtered low and the chamber went quiet except for the hush that follows when two people speak without words.

What followed was close and ardent and brief — the mingling of breath and the easy rhythms of bodies practiced in tandem. I met him with the same certainty he offered, and what had startled me once had become a steady comfort: the press of his body, the steadiness of his hands, the way his laugh broke free in the little pauses. There was care in everything he did, a watchfulness that steadied the hunger.

When we came back from that heat, the coming and the quiet afterward felt like the settling of weather. He folded himself around me and the covers, heavy and warm, and the hush of the room kept the rest of the world at bay. His hand moved lazy circles at my hip; his breath evened. We lay there without speech for a long time, held in a small, private quiet that was neither awkward nor fevered, but home.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled pale across the chamber, filtering through shutters half-closed against the chill. The furs were tangled, our limbs more so. Robb’s breath stirred the hair at my temple, warm and steady, though I could feel from the faint shift of his chest that he was already awake.

“You’re staring,” I murmured, my lips curving though my eyes stayed shut.

“I’m not,” he said, far too quickly.

I cracked one eye. “Liar. You’re watching me like I might vanish if you blink.”

His mouth tugged into that boyish grin I’d begun to know too well. “And if you did?”

“Then I’d haunt you,” I said solemnly, brushing my nose against his jaw. “All your bannermen would hear their lord whispering to shadows in the night.”

Robb laughed, low in his chest, and bent to kiss the tip of my nose. “A ghost who steals all my blankets.”

“And bites if you complain,” I added, earning another laugh.

The knock came then — hard, quick, nothing of a maid’s timid tapping. Robb stiffened, frowning, but called, “Yes?”

The door opened. Lord Roose Bolton stepped inside, pale as ever, bowing his head just enough to mark courtesy. His gaze swept the room once. Robb’s arm shifted at once, drawing the blanket higher over me.

“My lord. My lady.” Bolton said, his voice quiet, too quiet. “Forgive the hour. We’ve caught a deserter from Castle Black.”

Robb’s expression chilled, eyes narrowing. “I’ll be there at once. Have the horses made ready.”

Bolton inclined his head, and for the briefest moment his eyes found mine. Just a flicker, no more — but it was enough to lay a cold thread along my spine. Then he bowed again and slipped soundlessly back into the corridor.

The latch clicked. Silence pressed in. Robb let out a sharp breath through his nose, rolling his shoulders before swinging his legs from the bed. He tugged on his breeches with brisk, efficient movements, already gone to duty in his mind.

I drew the blanket tighter about my chest, watching him. “A deserter from the Night’s Watch? I don’t understand. What has that to do with you?”

He glanced at me as he fastened the laces, shoulders stiff beneath the morning light. “Desertion from the Night’s Watch is no small thing. It’s treason. The punishment is death — and by law, it’s the Lord of Winterfell who must carry it out. With my father in the South, that duty falls to me.”

I sat up straighter, the blanket clutched close. His face was calm, but I saw the strain in the set of his jaw, the way his hands lingered just a heartbeat too long on the ties of his shirt. It struck me then: this would be his first life taken. 

“Is it necessary?” The words slipped from me, low and uneasy. “You have your bannermen. Even Roose Bolton. Let him do it.”

Robb turned to me, and for a moment I almost wished he hadn’t. His eyes were steady, but hard. “No. A Stark passes the sentence — and a Stark swings the sword. That is the way it has been for thousands of years. My father has said it often enough: if you would take a man’s life, you look him in the eye and see his fear. You feel the weight of what you’ve done.”

His voice held no tremor, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He drew a deep breath “It’s not something I want, Lyanna. But it is something I must do.”

I stayed sitting, still clutching the blanket to my chest, torn so abruptly from the softness of morning into the harsh weight of law. The air felt colder for it, as though the candle had guttered out.

Robb turned, reaching for his cloak, and I caught his hand before he could draw it away. My fingers brushed across his knuckles, tracing the faint calluses left by training. I searched his face, trying to read what he carried now.

I didn’t know what a man should feel before taking a life. Fear? Resolve? Regret? His jaw was set, his shoulders tight, but when his eyes met mine, something in them eased.

His hand turned, closing around mine. “Don’t dwell on it,” he said softly, the hard edge in his voice gentled. “It’s mine to carry, not yours.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my brow, lingering there a moment longer than duty allowed. When he pulled back, his jaw was set, his words clipped but gentle. “Stay warm. I won’t be long.”

The chamber was warm when he returned, though the air beyond had grown colder still. I had kept the fire high, a bath steaming in the corner, as though heat itself might soften whatever weight he carried back with him.

Robb entered without a word, shoulders set, jaw tight. His cloak he shrugged off carelessly, letting it fall where it landed. His sword he set down with more care, though even that had the sound of finality. For a moment he stood there, the silence between us filled only by the hiss of logs collapsing in the hearth.

“Robb,” I said quietly.

His gaze lifted to mine. Something in his eyes unclenched, just a fraction. He exhaled hard, rubbing a hand through his curls. “You thought of everything,” he said, voice roughened. “I needed this.”

He undressed without flourish, every motion brisk, stripped of its usual ease. When he sank into the water, the steam curled thick around him, shrouding the angles of his shoulders. He let his head tip back against the rim, eyes closing, and for the first time I thought he looked older than his years.

I hesitated, then stepped closer. “Let me help,” I murmured.

His eyes flickered open, faint surprise in them, but he nodded once.

I knelt beside the tub, dipping the cloth into the hot water, wringing it out until it dripped. I laid it against his shoulder, watching the tension ease slightly beneath my touch. He didn’t speak, and neither did I — words felt too sharp for the moment. Instead I smoothed the cloth over his chest, down the length of his arm, slow and steady.

When I reached for the basin, he tilted his head, silent permission. I poured water carefully through his curls, watching it sheet down the strong lines of his face, tracing the slope of his neck. My fingers followed, massaging lather gently into his scalp. His breath slowed beneath my hands, his chest rising deeper, calmer.

Something shifted in me as I worked. All my life, hands had tended to me — maids dressing me, guards shielding me, Tyrion distracting me with jests, Myrcella with her quiet sweetness. But this… this was different. My hands were not being served; they were serving. I wasn’t the one seeking comfort. I was giving it. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a wife — to be the place someone returned to, weary and unguarded, and find gentleness waiting.

Robb’s eyes opened at last, fixed steady on me. His voice came low, hoarse. “Lyanna.”

“Yes.”

His wet hand rose from the water, catching mine where it lingered against his temple. He searched my face for a long breath before he spoke. “It was my duty. I knew what had to be done. Still, it weighed heavier than I thought it would. My father always made it seem simpler.”

I squeezed his hand, fingers firm. “Your father’s carried that weight for years. This was your first. It should weigh on you, Robb. Else you’d be no better than the man you judged.

His mouth tugged, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the back of my hand, eyes closing again for a heartbeat. When he looked up, the shadows in him had softened, even if they hadn’t disappeared.

“You make it sound bearable,” he said.

I bent, brushing a kiss into his damp hair, breathing in the mingled scent of soap and him. “Then let me take some of that weight.”

For the first time since he’d entered, his shoulders eased fully, sinking against the rim of the tub as if at last he allowed himself to rest.

“You know,” I said lightly, “I could almost get used to this.”

One eye cracked open. “What, me slumped like an old man in a tub?”

“No,” I teased, lips twitching. “You finally sitting still long enough for me to order you about.”

That earned a real laugh, tired but true. He caught my wrist, pressing a damp kiss to the inside. “Keep talking like that, and I may decide being ordered isn’t so terrible.”

“Careful thought,” I murmured, smirking as I brushed water through his hair. “If you’re clever, you’ll claim it was yours first.”

His chuckle lingered, low and warm, chasing away the last of the silence.

Chapter Text

The morning after felt quieter than it had any right to. The Great Hall was half-empty, stripped of its banners, its echoes softened by the absence of departing lords. Sunlight slanted through high windows, striking silver trencher and steam rising from dark bread and butter.

Robb sat at my side, his shoulders eased though never slouched, speaking in low tones with Maester Luwin about grain stores. Across from us, Lord Roose Bolton cut neat slices from cold ham, his pale eyes lifting only when words concerned him. I still wasn’t used to him here. He moved too quietly for a man of his size, his voice too measured. He did not belong to Winterfell in my mind — yet lately he lingered as if he always had.

The boys, Bran and Rickon, were not at table. A groom had led them to the yard at first light for their riding lesson, their laughter carrying faintly through the windows whenever the wind shifted. I wished their noise carried farther. It might have softened the chill in the hall.

Bolton set down his knife, folded his long fingers, and spoke with practiced calm.

“Word from the Dreadfort reached me late last night. A village not far from our lands was raided. Wildlings, if the reports are to be trusted. Men slain, livestock driven off, homes put to the torch.”

The words dropped into the hall like stones into still water. Even Luwin paused, his hand hovering over the parchments. I found myself watching Robb — how his jaw tightened, how his fingers curled slightly against the table.

I sat straighter, the taste of honeyed bread suddenly heavy in my mouth. Wildlings, this far south?

Robb’s voice was steady, cool with command. “Send men to track them. Erase every last one of the raiders before they vanish back into the woods.”

I set down my cup, the words leaving me before I could stop them. “And what of the village?”

The table stilled. Even Robb’s head turned toward me, blue eyes weighing my interruption. I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Their men are dead, their homes burned, their livestock stolen. Winter comes. Steel won’t fill their bellies. Who will see them through the cold?”

For a moment, silence held. Then Lord Bolton’s pale eyes shifted to me, his mouth curving in something that might have been a smile.

“Of course, my lady,” he said smoothly. “The survivors will be tended. Food, coin, and new stock will be provided in recompense.” His goblet tilted in a gesture almost mocking. “The North looks after its own.”

Robb’s hand brushed mine beneath the table, a fleeting touch — not chastisement, not praise, but something in between. His gaze lingered on me, as though seeing me new, before he looked back to Bolton.

“See that it’s done.”

When the hall had quieted again and Lord Bolton excused himself, I leaned closer to Robb, lowering my voice.

“Why is he still here? I thought he left with the other lords after the wedding. And aren’t these matters usually dealt with by Ser Rodrik?”

Robb wiped his mouth with a cloth and set it aside, his tone even. “I appointed Ser Rodrik to ride with my mother, to guard her to the Vale and serve as her personal shield there. My father took many of our strongest men south with him to King’s Landing. That leaves fewer seasoned swords in Winterfell than I’d like.”

I frowned. “And so you keep Bolton?”

His jaw shifted, thoughtful. “Lord Bolton may not be warm company, but he’s… useful. He knows the North, and his men are disciplined. For now, that’s what I need.”

His words were calm, but I caught the tightness in his shoulders. It did little to ease the chill Bolton’s gaze had left lingering in me.

Robb rose soon after, offering some excuse to the maester about the hounds. But when we were out of the hall and alone in the corridor, his hand found mine again — firmer this time, lingering.

“You surprised him,” Robb said at last, his voice pitched low, thoughtful. “Most lords only speak of enemies and punishment. You thought of the people.”

I shifted under his gaze. “It seemed obvious. What use is vengeance if the ones left behind still starve?”

His mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close, touched with something proud. “You’re right. My father always said a lord’s first duty is to the men who cannot raise a sword. Hearing you remind Bolton of that… it did me good.”

He squeezed my hand once more before letting go, but the warmth lingered longer than his touch.

After breakfast, I traded the smoky warmth of the hall for the clean bite of the yard. The targets still bore the memory of my last arrows; straw bristled with shafts from boys who had practiced at dawn. I set my stance, drew, loosed — the rhythm settling into me again after days stolen by vows, feasts, and furs. The bowstring stung my fingertips, the arrows struck truer than I’d expected. It felt good, grounding.

By the time my quiver lightened, a shadow crossed the yard. Robb. His hair caught the wind, his hand resting on the hilt of the practice sword at his side.

“You’re early,” I said, lowering the bow.

He lifted the wooden blade in answer. “And you’re late. You’ve missed three lessons.”

I rolled my eyes, wiping my palm against my skirt. “You don’t get bored of this? Teaching me to swing a stick?”

“Not bored,” he said, crossing to me with an easy stride. “We agreed. Half an hour each day, after your archery. Or do you think the status of wife excuses you?”

A smile tugged at me despite myself. I reached for the spare sword leaning against the rack, testing its weight. “I just don’t see the point. It’s hardly likely I’ll ever land a blow on you — or anyone else.”

His eyes steadied on mine. “If you don’t like holding a sword, say so. I’d rather you never need it. And I hope you won’t. But you asked me for this. What’s changed?”

The practice sword felt clumsy in my hand. I swallowed and tilted my head, as if throwing away the thoughts of doubts. “Nothing’s changed.”

Robb laughed, the sound quick and sure. “Good. Just admit you hate to lose.” His grin broke through then, boyish and wolfish both.

I snorted, lifting the blade. “Then don’t stand too close.”

The air was sharper in the yard than in the hall, wind threading cold fingers through my hair as I squared my stance again. The bow had steadied me, but the sword still felt heavier than I liked. Its weight dragged at my wrist, reminding me I was no warrior. Still, I lifted it when Robb circled me, his own blade in hand, eyes alight.

“You grip too tight,” he said, brushing the flat of his sword against mine until the strain in my fingers betrayed me.

“You’re very free with your criticism, my lord husband,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes.

He smirked. “That’s what husbands are for.”

“Really?” I arched a brow. “I thought husbands were for carrying their wives across thresholds and fetching them breakfast in bed.”

“That was yesterday.” He lunged suddenly, the flat of his blade tapping my hip. “Today you’re in my yard.”

I hissed out a laugh, stumbling back. “Unfair.”

“Life rarely is.” His grin deepened as he pressed forward, herding me like prey.

I swung, clumsy but fierce, and he deflected with maddening ease. The sound of steal meeting steal echoed sharp in the air.

“Better,” he allowed. “But you’re still thinking too much.”

“Would you rather I didn’t think at all?” I demanded, darting another strike.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, catching my blade against his and twisting until I gasped at the nearness of him. His breath was warm, his smile wide. “Instinct will save you faster than thought.”

“And what if my instinct is to hit you square in the chest?”

“Then try.”

I shoved, but he slid aside, catching me off balance. His hand shot out, steadying me with a palm against my waist. Heat flooded my cheeks, but I lifted my chin. “Is this a lesson in swordplay, or an excuse to put your hands on me again?”

His laughter rumbled low in his chest. “Why can’t it be both?”

I smirked despite myself. “Keep daring me like this, and I might just best you.”

Cold steel carried a kind of gravity wood could never mimic. I adjusted my grip, watching Robb circle me, his own blade catching the pale sun.

“Keep your stance wide,” he said, patient but sharp. “Your balance is your shield.”

I rolled my shoulders back, trying to mimic the way he moved — loose but sure, like he belonged to the ground he stood on. My swing came too high; he parried it with ease.

“You’re still thinking too much,” he murmured.

“You always say that,” I retorted, steel ringing as our blades met again. “Perhaps I simply think faster than you.”

That earned a quick grin. “Then prove it.”

I lunged, and he slid aside. But this time, instead of stumbling, I twisted, letting the momentum carry my sword around in a sharper arc. The edge missed his ribs by a breath — close enough that his eyes widened before he deflected.

The sound of steel on steel cracked the air. His grin broke wider, equal parts pride and surprise. “Better. Much better.”

My pulse thudded in my throat, half from exertion, half from the heat in his gaze. I shifted my grip again, breath fogging in the cold. “And if I had struck true?”

“Then I’d be bleeding.” He advanced, blade raised. “And you’d be winning.”

I met him, sparks jolting through my arm as our swords locked. His strength bore down, but I braced, refusing to yield.

For a long moment, neither of us moved, faces inches apart. His eyes searched mine, lit with pride, hunger, something fiercer than either.

A reckless laugh escaped me. I twisted hard, forcing his blade aside. He stumbled half a step — not much, but enough to make victory flare hot in my chest.

I leveled my sword at him, breathless but smiling. “Looks like I just proved it.”

Robb straightened, lowering his blade. Then, in one swift motion, he closed the distance, steel forgotten, and caught my mouth with his. The kiss was hard, triumphant, leaving me just as breathless as the bout.

When we broke apart, his forehead rested against mine, both of us grinning like fools. “If every lesson ends like this,” he said roughly, “I’ll never tire of teaching you.”

I sheathed the blade, still flushed with victory, still tasting his grin against my lips. For a moment the yard, the castle, the whole North seemed to shrink until it was only the two of us, tangled between steel and laughter. If the world beyond these walls pressed closer with each day, I turned my ear from it. Not yet.

Chapter Text

A fortnight had passed since vows were spoken — days and nights that felt wholly ours. The time blurred like wine, sweet and heavy, until at last, one evening after a long dinner of roasted meats and talk of bannermen, I found myself restless, still tasting salt and smoke on my tongue.

“I want something sweet,” I told Robb as we crossed the corridor toward our chambers.

He gave me a look — half amused, half indulgent. “At this hour?”

“Yes.” I lifted my chin, feigning severity. “You’ve sworn to keep me, and I’ll hold you to it. A husband should fetch what a wife desires.”

His mouth quirked, boyish in a way that stole the weight of lordship from his shoulders. “Then stay here, and don’t freeze while I risk life and limb in the kitchens.”

I leaned against the wall, grinning as he vanished into shadow, his boots whispering over stone. Winterfell was quieter now, though echoes still drifted faintly from the hall — laughter of servants, the rattle of trenchers being cleared, the clink of tankards being stacked. The draft in the corridor nipped my cheeks, but it was worth it for the picture of Robb Stark, lord of Winterfell, creeping like a thief into his own kitchens.

When he returned, his doublet loosened and his curls mussed by the wind, he carried a stolen hoard: honeycakes stacked lopsided on a plate, two sugared apples glinting with syrup, and a small jug of spiced wine tucked beneath his arm.

“Victory,” he declared in a mock whisper, as if he were ten years old again and not a newly wedded lord. “One cook nearly caught me, but my stealth is unmatched.”

“Truly?” I raised a brow, smirking. “The great wolf of Winterfell, hiding behind a pantry door?”

He grinned wider, setting his spoils down upon a fur he had dragged before the hearth. The fire cast a golden glow over the stone floor, turning crumbs into treasure. “Mock me if you like. I’ve risked my dignity for your sake. That deserves gratitude.”

“Gratitude,” I echoed, settling onto the furs cross-legged before the fire. “Or a share of the honeycakes?”

“Both.” He dropped beside me, his shoulder warm against mine, his arm curving lazily around my back as if it had always belonged there.

I leaned into him without thinking, snatching a biscuit just as he reached for the same one.

“Thief,” I accused, crumbs scattering down my skirt.

“You wanted sweets,” he said, unrepentant. “I’m only obeying orders.”

Our laughter tangled with the crackle of the fire. For a little while, there was only warmth, sugar on our tongues, and the dizzying ease of being tangled together with no one to watch.

I poured a measure of wine, passing him the cup. He drank, then handed it back, eyes glinting toward the flames. “My father used to take me to the kitchens like this. Not for sweets,” he added with a crooked smile. “Bread still warm from the oven. He swore it tasted better when stolen.”

I studied him, struck by the softness in his voice. “Did Lady Stark know?”

“Oh, she knew.” His grin deepened. “She pretended not to, for my sake. I thought myself clever, but she caught me every time.”

I laughed, though the sound turned wistful. “I wish my father had taught me to steal bread.” I leaned into Robb, resting my head on his shoulder, the fire painting everything in gold.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking toward me. “But still, you told me you never felt alone.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, tracing the rim of the cup. “I had my uncle Renly. He wasn’t like a father — more like the older brother I never had. He read to me before I fell asleep, called me his little stag. Once he even let me ride his horse, though my feet barely reached the stirrups.” My lips curved despite the ache in it. “With him, everything was easy. Cheerful. He had so many friends, yet he always found time for me… I think I miss him.”

Robb brushed his nose gently against my hair, his voice low. “Do you want to visit him?”

I turned to meet his eyes, surprised. “Yes. But he’s on the king’s council now, tied to King’s Landing.” The thought of the Red Keep — its shadows, its whispers — made my chest tighten. “And I’ve no great wish to go back there.”

He studied me for a moment, something quiet flickering in his gaze. Then he only nodded, pulling me closer, pressing a brief kiss into my hair. The fire popped, sparks scattering up the chimney.

We let silence settle, comfortable as the furs beneath us. I reached for another honeycake, but Robb caught my wrist and guided it toward his own mouth, biting it clean from my fingers. I laughed, tugging my hand free, but his eyes glinted as though daring me to stop him.

When the plate was nearly empty, he nudged it aside and stretched out on the furs, pillowing his head in my lap with boyish ease. One knee bent, his doublet half-untied, he looked younger than I’d ever seen him. His fingers found the ends of my hair, idly twining them as though the strands themselves held his attention.

“You’re comfortable,” I teased, though my hand drifted into his curls without thought.

His grin curved lazy. “Why wouldn’t I be? A fire, a full stomach, and my wife feeding me sweets — I’ve known worse fates.”

“You’re spoiled already,” I murmured, brushing a curl from his brow.

“Only by you,” he countered. His eyes half-closed, his smile faint but real, and for a heartbeat I saw not the heir of Winterfell but the boy he must have been — sneaking bread, laughing under his mother’s watchful eye.

We traded the last of the treats, crumbs sticking to our fingers, honey running where it shouldn’t. Robb reached for the final sugared apple, only for me to snatch it first.

“Unfair,” he muttered, his mouth curving though his eyes narrowed in mock offense.

“Life rarely is,” I said, echoing his words from the yard. I bit into the apple with exaggerated relish, syrup clinging to my lip.

His gaze caught there. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, then leaned closer. “You missed a spot.”

Before I could protest, his thumb brushed my mouth — and then his lips followed, stealing the sweetness from mine. The kiss started soft, tasting faintly of wine and sugar, but it deepened almost at once, as if the fire behind us had caught us too.

The plate wobbled and clattered aside, forgotten. I laughed into his mouth, but the sound dissolved when his hand slid along my waist, pulling me closer until I was half in his lap, half sprawled across the furs.

“You planned this,” I accused, breathless, fumbling at the loose ties of his doublet.

“Of course I did,” he murmured, his grin wicked, his breath hot against my jaw. “What good is a raid if you don’t enjoy the spoils?”

I swatted at him for that, but his laugh broke into a groan when my hand slipped beneath the linen of his shirt. His skin burned under my touch, heartbeat quick and wild. He caught my chin, kissed me again, deeper this time — hungry, heady, nothing at all to do with sweets.

We tumbled together onto the furs before the fire, laughter breaking against kisses until breath gave way to heat. The flames snapped and flared, throwing gold and shadow across the stones. I lay half beneath him, half wrapped around him, the sweetness of wine and sugar still clinging to my lips.

We lingered there long after the fire burned low, the two of us tangled in warmth, crumbs, and careless kisses. The last sugared apple lay forgotten on the plate, but I no longer cared for sweetness — not when I had claimed the true spoils.

Robb shifted, propping himself on an elbow, one brow arched with a glint of mischief. “You know,” he said, “when my mother was carrying Rickon, she used to crave sweets the same way.”

I swatted his chest with a laugh. “We’ve not been married long enough for you to start making hints like that.”

His grin curved. “So you’re saying you’re not?”

“Not yet,” I assured him, still laughing. My smile tugged sly. “Unless you’re not making enough effort for me to have cause.”

His eyes lit, boyish and hungry all at once. “Effort?” he echoed, leaning closer. His hand slid deliberately to the ties of my dress, tugging just enough to make his meaning clear. “Wife, I’ll double it gladly.”

The words dissolved against my mouth as he kissed me again, deeper this time — the kind of kiss that promised more than sweets and laughter. I let myself be pulled down with him into the furs, laughter breaking between our mouths, tangled with fondness. His curls tickled my cheek, his hand still working at the stubborn knots until silk and wool gave way.

I swatted him lightly when he fumbled, and he only laughed into my throat, the sound warm and unguarded. “You’re hopeless,” I teased, breathless.

“And yet you’re still here,” he murmured, his smile curving against my skin.

The fire crackled low, painting him in shifting gold, and for a while there was only the rhythm of our laughter, the heat of his breath, the gentle weight of his body against mine. The hunger was there, yes, but steadied by something softer — the way his thumb brushed over my jaw, the way he whispered my name like it was a vow.

When the night settled at last, it was not with haste, but with a sweetness that lingered even as our breaths slowed. He held me close beneath the furs, our foreheads resting together, and his laugh came quiet, disbelieving.

“My spoils,” he said, as if the words were for himself alone.

I smiled into the dark, tracing idle circles over his chest. “Greedy wolf.”

“Always,” he murmured, and kissed me once more before sleep claimed us both.

Chapter Text

The morning was easy, too easy. The Great Hall was quieter than it had been in weeks, the air scented with honey and butter rather than the smoke and sweat of feasts. I sat beside Robb at the high table, feeding him grapes one by one, just to see the way he tried and failed to bite my fingers with them.

“You’ll lose a finger that way,” he warned, teeth snapping playfully at the next one.

“And then I’ll tell everyone you maimed me over breakfast,” I shot back.

His grin widened. “They’ll only say you deserved it.”

I smacked his hand away, but laughter slipped out all the same. For a moment, there was nothing but that — the murmur of servants, and the two of us stealing a sliver of peace.

Then the doors opened.

Maester Luwin crossed the hall, his chain shifting heavily with each step, his face pale as candle wax. The lightness in my chest collapsed all at once. Robb’s smile faded, and I felt him go still beside me, like a hound scenting storm.

“My lord. My lady,” Luwin said, bowing low. His voice seemed to echo too much in the quiet hall. “Grievous tidings from King’s Landing.”

Robb’s hand tightened on the table. “What’s happened? My father? My sisters?”

The maester’s gaze flicked to me. For an instant, his eyes held pity, and my heart stumbled. “My lady… I am sorry. Your father, King Robert, is dead.”

The words didn’t find tears. They struck like stones dropped into water, sinking deep, heavy, leaving only ripples of disbelief. Robert — my father, the king, that mountain of noise and wine — gone? He had been many things to me: absent, flawed, sometimes distant as the moon. Yet the world had always bent around him, as though he could never fall. And now he was gone, sudden as a torch snuffed in the dark.

I thought of his voice, booming across feasts, careless, thoughtless. Of how the whole hall seemed to shrink when he entered, of how even my mother bent her temper to his shadow. He had been kind at times, even gentle — a word here, a smile there — but never steady, never enough to hold onto. And yet… I carried his name, his face in mine, and the name of the woman he had loved. Was it a curse, or only the only legacy he left me? Now it felt as if something inside me had been ripped away, leaving only the emptiness where he should have stood.

The hall tilted. My hands lay flat on the table, steady only because I forced them to be. Robb’s chair scraped sharply against the stone as he half rose, his face carved from ice.

“There is more,” Luwin said quietly. He held out another letter.

Robb seized it, breaking the seal with a snap. I could not read his eyes as they skimmed the words — only the way his jaw tightened, the way his knuckles blanched where the parchment crumpled in his hand.

“My father… accused of treason?” His voice was raw, incredulous.

The word sat wrong in the air, heavy and sharp. Ned Stark and treason — it felt like oil and water forced together.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the letter. Robb pushed it toward me, but his gaze stayed locked on Luwin. “Sansa wrote this?”

The maester inclined his head. “It is your sister’s hand, my lord. But the queen’s words.”

Luwin’s voice blurred as he went on, though the words still cut clean: “You are commanded to come to King’s Landing. You and Lady Lyanna both, to swear loyalty to King Joffrey.”

The words blurred, but one name burned through: Joffrey.

My brother. The boy who kicked at dogs when he thought no one was looking, who sneered at servants, who smiled only when it cost him nothing. Mother had always told me he was destined for greatness, but all I ever saw was arrogance dressed in silk. Now those same hands that once yanked wings from flies wore a crown.

My stomach turned.

My brother… the king. My husband’s father… a traitor in chains. My father… dead. None of it fit together.

Robb’s breath was sharp, angry. “Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his arse kissed?”

“It is a royal command, my lord,” Luwin said gravely. “If you should refuse to obey…”

Robb cut him short, rising fully now, his hand pressed flat against the table as if steadying himself. “I won’t refuse.” His voice was clipped, iron-hard. But I could see the shake in his shoulders, the boy beneath the steel. “His Grace summons me to King’s Landing. I’ll go.” His gaze flicked back to Luwin, colder still. “But not alone. Call the banners.”

The maester hesitated. “All of them, my lord?”

“They’ve sworn to defend my father, have they not?” Robb’s hand curled into a fist.

“They have,” Luwin said quietly.

Robb’s eyes burned, fierce and unblinking. “Then now we see what their words are worth.”

The benches scraped as men rose from the high table. Some bent their heads as they passed me, murmuring condolences — words I scarcely heard. Your father… the king… may the gods keep him. They rang hollow, strange. Robert Baratheon, gone.

We left the hall together, Robb’s grip steady on my hand though I could feel the tremor running through him. Once the great doors closed behind us and the corridor swallowed us, he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice roughened at the edges.

I shook my head quickly. “Don’t. Don’t be sorry. I’m not…” The words faltered. “I’m not mourning. I’m only—surprised. It feels… sudden.”

He turned then, the steel in him cracking just a little. “He was your father, Lyanna. Whatever he was. And mine sits in a cell now. It’s a hard thing to swallow all at once.”

The ache in my chest swelled sharper. “I don’t believe Joffrey put your father in chains. He’s cruel, yes, but not cunning. Someone’s hand guided it — Mother’s, perhaps. But Robb, to think…” My throat tightened. “My brother wears the crown, and my husband gathers banners against him.”

Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow. My thoughts roiled like storm seas: Joffrey’s smirk beneath a crown, Ned Stark dragged to a cell, and me — standing between them, torn in two.

Robb raked a hand through his curls, harsh. “I don’t want this,” he muttered. “Gods, Lyanna, I thought we’d have longer. But there’s no choice. If I do nothing, my father dies a traitor, and your brother rules unchallenged.”

My heart twisted. “And you are truly going to start a war over this?”

His jaw clenched. “Wars have started for less. This isn’t some slight we can swallow. My father’s in chains while a boy wears his crown. What else would you have me do?”

I swallowed, the thought still pressing. “It sounds so strange. A war. Just hours ago, we were… happy. Carefree. We were stealing apples from each other, laughing by the fire. And now—” My voice thinned. “Now it’s crushed. Everything changes in a single breath.”

He looked at me then, really looked, the hard edge of command softening. For a heartbeat he wasn’t Lord Stark’s heir, just Robb, shaken and young.

“Robb…” My voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

His hand cupped my cheek, rough and warm. “Then don’t. Let me do the thinking for now.”

He kissed me once, quick and certain, then drew back. Duty had already claimed him again.

“I need to see Luwin,” he said softly, and released my hand.

The rookery smelled of straw and feathers, the air sharp with the musk of caged wings. Ravens shifted restlessly on their perches, dark eyes glinting in the torchlight as if they too carried the weight of secrets across the realm.

Maester Luwin was there, bent over a strip of parchment. He glanced up when I entered, his expression softening. “My lady. You shouldn’t trouble yourself to come here.”

“I needed air,” I said quietly, fingers brushing the rough grain of the wooden table. “And… perhaps I needed company that doesn’t expect me to smile through condolences and kind words about my father.”

He studied me a moment, then nodded toward a stool. “Sit, then.”

I sank onto it, straw rustling beneath my skirts. My voice felt thin. “It’s hard, isn’t it? To lose a father. At least, that’s what they say. But tell me, Maester… what should I feel, when that father was never truly there? When I can count on one hand the nights he sat with me, when I remember the wine in his cup more than the words in his mouth?”

Luwin tied off the cord with steady hands before answering. “There’s no single way to feel it. Some grieve what they had. Others grieve what they never had. I’d say yours is the latter.”

My throat tightened. “And yet, still, he was my father. And now he’s gone, and I don’t know if I mourn him… or simply the chance that he might have been different.”

Luwin’s gaze gentled. “That’s mourning too.”

I drew a breath, steady but sharp. “And now… Robb calls the banners. He’ll ride to free his father. He’ll ride to war. But it will be war against my brother. My own blood. How am I to live with that?”

“Blood binds, but it divides as well,” the maester said, matter-of-fact. “You married for duty, aye. But duty isn’t empty. I’ve seen matches where love never came. Yours… isn’t one of those.”

I swallowed, his words cutting through the storm inside me.

“I fear being torn apart between them,” I whispered.

“You’re already torn,” Luwin said simply. “Robb carries his father in chains. You carry yours in the grave. Best lean on each other, or neither will stand.”

I sat still, my fingers curling in my lap. “In the letter — did they say how my father died? Exactly?”

“They claim it was a hunting accident,” Luwin said after a pause. “That His Grace was gored by a boar.”

A bitter laugh scraped my throat. “A boar. Truly? The King of the Seven Kingdoms brought down by a beast with tusks?”

“And strongwine,” Luwin added. “That’s their tale.”

“So they say.” My lips twisted. “My father loved two things more than anything in this world — the hunt and wine. And in the end, both killed him.”

“Or someone let them,” Luwin said, quiet as the rustle of wings.

Silence pressed. I clenched my hands. “That’s just it. He lived so loud. He drank, he laughed, he hunted, he raged… and now he’s gone, and it feels like someone snuffed out a torch mid-bellow. No fading, no warning. Just silence.”

“You’re left with silence,” the maester agreed. “But the echo remains. Children always carry it, whether they like it or not.”

My chest ached. “And what echo do I carry, maester? A war? A family that never felt like mine?”

“Maybe. Or maybe what he lacked — patience, thought. You’ve got more of both than Robert ever did.”

I said nothing, only watched as he fastened another letter to a raven’s leg, the black wings shivering before it was loosed into the sky. My thoughts twisted, sharp as the cold beyond the tower walls.

Strange, that in my father’s death, I felt closer to the Starks than to the blood I shared with King’s Landing. The raven’s wings faded into gray sky, carrying summons of war — and I knew they summoned me, too. To choose, to endure, to stand between wolves and lions until one or both devoured me.

Chapter Text

The days blurred as the banners gathered. First came the Boltons, grim and silent, their pale flayed man twisting in the wind. Then the Manderlys, the Karstarks, the Cerwyns, the Umbers — colors bright against Winterfell’s grey stone. Morning by morning more men filled the yards until the castle strained beneath the weight of riders and beasts.

This was no feast. No laughter rode the yard. The smiths hammered through the day and into the night; the lords sat long and spoke longer. Winterfell listened now, and every shout, every hoofbeat carried weight. This was not celebration. This was war.

I drifted at the edges, restless, watching the men drill and the captains measure ground. A maid brought a letter to me that evening — the Queen’s seal. My mother’s seal. My hands closed over the parchment like a trap.

I sat by the fire and read the lines until the ink blurred. They were careful words, full of bows and soft phrases, but every line stung. The door opened; Robb came in with his shoulders tight and his boots dusty from the yard. He did not look to me for the first words; he looked to the letter.

“Manderly’s host has come,” he said. “The Glovers and the men of Bear Island will be here within the week.”

“And then what do you send to King’s Landing?” I asked. “A demand? For your father? For your sisters?”

He shrugged. “If Joffrey will make peace, we’ll take it. I don’t want blood more than I must.” His eyes dropped to the parchment in my hands. “That’s from King’s Landing?”

“Yes. From my mother.”

He waited. “What did she write?”

The words left me like stones. “She says Lord Eddard questioned the boy’s birth. That is why they took him. She urges me to persuade you to go south in peace. To swear loyalty to Joffrey.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. He did not move for a long breath. Winterfell seemed to hold its breath with him.

He sat on the arm of my chair, near enough to steady me. “My father questioned Joffrey’s birth,” he said at last. “Is it true?”

The parchment trembled in my lap. I looked down, then up at him. “I will not write her back. She has a way with words that gilds lies. But… yes. Your father was right.”

He blinked as if I had struck him. “What do you mean, Lyanna?”

I said it plainly. No law lecture, no names of brothers and order of succession — only what I had watched all my life. “Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella — they are not Robert’s children.”

His breath left him sharp. “Then whose?”

My mouth tasted of iron. “Jaime’s.”

The name landed like smoke.

Robb’s hand closed over mine. Not an oath, not a speech — only a firm hand, steady as stone. “And you…you are Robert’s trueborn?” he asked.

“Yes.” I could feel the truth like a brand. “Whatever else my father might have sired, I am his. I bear his name and his face.”

He did not seem surprised; only the line of his jaw changed, as if something in him snapped into place. “Then the crown sits on a lie,” he said. Not heated, not rhetorical — a statement of fact. “Not that it matters for what we must do now.”

I told him what I had seen: the little things King’s Landing taught me to watch — glances, hands that lingered too long, faces that did not match. My mother’s coldness had never been a secret to anyone; when Robert named me for Lyanna Stark, her scorn sharpened. She hid things well. Others learned it was safer to look away. I had learned to look.

Robb’s expression hardened, though his grip stayed sure. “And all this time, you knew?”

“What was I meant to do? Cry it from the walls? I never loved Joffrey, but the younger two… they’re only children. They didn’t choose this. If Robert had known, their lives would’ve been forfeit. I couldn’t condemn them for her sin.”

Robb’s fingers tightened, then eased. He leaned forward, voice low. “I don’t care what schemes were spun in the south. You are not her game. You are not her tool. You are here.”

Something about the simplicity of that steadied me. “What then? You’ll ride south and tear the crown from a child’s head?”

He looked at me for a long second, and the lad who’d laughed in the hearth showed through the lord. “I’ll fetch my father from a cell, and my sisters home. The rest is for later. Men will follow if I give them a cause to follow.”

Outside, a horn blew — long and low, a sound that carried over the stone and into the night. Another host had come.

I thought of the small rooms of King’s Landing, of feasts where my mother’s smile had been a blade. I thought of my father’s voice and how it had filled a hall and emptied it at once. I thought of the boy who tugged my hair when he thought none watched, now wearing a crown because a court bent its head. The world had narrowed down to a single choice that could not be undone.

Robb’s voice was quiet beside me. “I should have been more with you… when the news came. You lost your father, and I was already lost to banners and councils.”

“Don’t,” I said quickly. “You were here. Your family has held me — day after day, night after night. Winterfell has been more home to me than King’s Landing ever was.”

He held my gaze, not soft, not fierce, only steady. He pressed his thumb once along the back of my hand, a small, private answer. “Then we hold it,” he said. “Winterfell. What’s ours.”

We sat that way as the fire shortened, saying nothing else. The shouting of captains and the creak of harness drifted in from the yard; the castle hummed with the work of provisioning and preparation.

The quiet did not last. Maester Luwin entered, parchments under his arm, his chain of offices ticking as he moved. He set the papers on the table without fuss. “My lady, my lord,” he said. “I bring word for your council. The stores are thinner than we first thought; the garrisons have eaten into the last winter’s grain. Manderly has sent wagons — White Harbor has pledged ships with salted fish — and the Manderlys’ supply trains will arrive within three days if the roads hold.” He glanced from Robb to me. “We can feed the men for the march, but we must move soon. If we tarry, the wheels will grind the stores down.”

Robb’s face went hard with decision, the way a man’s does when a plan finds shape. He stood, shoulders squared. “Then we ride as soon as the roads are open and the provisions gathered. Send words to the lords. Tell them to hold their banners ready.”

Luwin inclined his head. “I’ll see to it.”

The horn sounded again, nearer now — a message, another host turning in beneath the walls. 

We rose together. The truth had been spoken; the banners were raised; the work that follows words waited to be done. Outside, men called, horses stamped, and the stones of Winterfell held the sound as if they would not let it go.

I did not know if the choice I had made would save us — or ruin more than it spared. But the letter was burned in my memory, and Robb’s hand in mine told me how we would answer it: not with speeches, but with horse, with men, with the grind of logistics and the steadiness of hunger. War, it seemed, began in the small things — in wagonloads of grain and the steady wingbeat of ravens — and in the quiet between two people who had to decide what side they would stand upon.

Chapter Text

I sat in Rickon’s chamber, the fire burned low, throwing long shadows on the walls. He was curled in his bed, eyes heavy but restless, while I read aloud from an old book of tales — heroes, wolves, and kings long dead. My voice softened as I turned the page, but before I could continue, Rickon’s small voice broke the quiet.

“Is Robb really going to war?”

I looked at him. “He’s going to free your father.”

Rickon frowned. “Your brother put my father in a cell?”

“It’s difficult, Rickon,” I said gently. “And I’m not responsible for my brother’s actions. But I promise you this — Robb will bring your father and your sisters home.”

Rickon’s voice wavered. “I miss them all. And now Robb is leaving Winterfell too. Are you going with him?”

I smoothed the blanket up to his chin and tried a smile. “I’m his wife now. I go where he goes.”

“So you’re leaving us too?” he whispered.

“We’re not leaving you, not for long,” I assured him. “You’ll still have Bran. And your mother will soon return from the Vale. Everything will be fine.”

I set the book aside, brushed his hair from his eyes, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep now, Rickon. Don’t trouble yourself with such thoughts.”

When Rickon finally drifted into sleep, small fists curled tight in the blanket, I lingered at his bedside a moment longer. The chamber was quiet save for his soft breaths and the faint crackle of the fire. Only when I was certain he dreamed did I rise, draw my cloak about me, and slip into the corridor.

The Great Hall was alive with noise and color. Banners hung heavy from the stone walls — the direwolf of Stark, the sunburst of Karstark, the roaring giant of Umber, the flayed man of Bolton. Others I did not know by name, but their sigils were clear enough: the mailed fist of Glover, the silver merman of Manderly. Their colors wavered in the torchlight, reminders of the weight gathering here.

The high seat was Robb’s now. He sat straight-backed upon it, youth buried under the lines duty had carved into him. Beside him, the chair for his lady stood empty, though I felt its pull as keenly as if it called my name. Bran sat stiff and quiet to his right, too young for such company, too proud to be sent away. Maester Luwin stood close by, chain glinting as he bent his head to hear.

The lords of the North filled the benches below, their voices rumbling like thunder. Great-shouldered Lord Umber slapped his palm on the table, words rolling like growls. Across from him, pale-eyed Roose Bolton sat in silence, still as a snake, though his gaze missed nothing. Karstark leaned forward, beard bristling as he argued, while lesser bannermen shouted to be heard, their voices tangling like a storm.

Some of the men noticed me as I stepped further inside. A few nodded with stiff courtesy; some dipped their heads and murmured, “my lady.” Most only stared, cold and unreadable.

I knew what they saw: not the girl who had lived among them these months, not the wife who had shared Robb’s hall, but a southern princess. A girl whose brother had thrown their liege lord in chains, whose mother now urged loyalty to a boy crowned on a lie. A softness among steel.

Still, I did not sit apart. My place was beside Robb, and when he glanced at me, it was steady, deliberate — a quiet reminder to all who watched that I belonged there, whether they liked it or not.

The arguments grew louder by the minute, voices clashing like steel. Trenchers scraped, cups sloshed, lords bellowed over one another until Robb’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding.

“Galbart Glover will lead the van.”

The hall fell still.

Greatjon Umber surged to his feet, broad shoulders shaking with anger. “The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover. For thirty years I’ve made corpses of men, boy. I’ll lead the vanguard, or I’ll take my men and march them home.”

The words dropped like a gauntlet. Lords muttered, shifting. I looked to Robb, my breath caught in my chest.

He didn’t flinch.

“You are welcome to do so, Lord Umber,” Robb said, rising from his chair, voice clear as steel. “And when I am done with the Lannisters, I’ll march back north, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. The Greatjon shoved back his chair so hard it clattered to the rushes. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

“Oathbreaker, is it? I’ll not swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass—”

The words broke off in a roar.

Grey Wind leapt from the dais, a flash of teeth and muscle. The direwolf slammed into the Greatjon, knocking him back against the table. With a snap of jaws, Grey Wind seized his hand, and blood spattered bright across the rushes as two fingers went flying.

Shouts rose, steel hissed from scabbards — but Robb’s voice cut through again.

“My lord father taught me it is death to bare steel against your liege lord,” Robb said, calm as stone. His hand rested on Grey Wind’s ruff, steadying the wolf as he bared bloody teeth. “But doubtless the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me.”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the Greatjon threw back his head and barked a booming laugh. “Your meat is bloody tough!”

Laughter rolled through the hall, rough and loud, breaking the tension at last. Even Bolton’s pale lips twitched.

But Robb did not laugh. He held Umber’s gaze, steady as the direwolf at his side. And in that moment, every man in the hall saw what I saw: not the boy they’d called green, but the lord they would follow.

When the hall finally emptied, we returned to our chambers. Robb unbuckled his belt, laying steel aside with slow, heavy hands. I sat before the mirror, loosening braids, drawing the comb through my hair.

“More of my men arrived today,” he said, voice quieter but still edged. “The Mormonts. The Glovers too. The army is nearly ready to march.”

I looked up, but he didn’t wait for my reply.

“You’re staying here.”

The comb stilled in my hand. Slowly, I turned. “What?”

“My mother is in the Vale. Rickon and Bran will remain here. I need someone I trust to look after them.”

Something hot rose in me. “They have their mother coming back. They have a household, guards, maester, bannermen. I didn’t marry your brothers, Robb. I married you. And now you mean to leave me behind like something fragile to be tucked away?”

His jaw set. “I’m leaving you here because I fear for your safety. War isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” I cut in. “Isn’t a place for wives? For women? For me?”

His face tightened, but I pressed on. “The Mormonts ride for you, led by their lady. And yet your own wife isn’t fit to stand beside you?”

He closed the space between us in two strides, hands gripping my arms, voice low and strained. “Lyanna, listen. This isn’t worth—”

“No,” I snapped. “Say it plain. If it isn’t my sex, then it’s something else. Is it because of what they whisper about me? Because my brother wears a crown? Because my mother’s letters ask you to bend the knee? Tell me — which lord planted this in your ear?”

“Gods, Lyanna,” Robb muttered, his grip tightening. “Do you think this is easy for me? Every part of me wants you beside me. But I can’t take you into war.”

I tore free of his hands. “You make it sound as though I’m a burden. A weight to drag behind you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you mean,” I shot back. The comb clattered to the floor. “You’d rather keep me cloistered here so the lords won’t whisper, so no one questions why the boy lord brought a southern wife while his father rots in a cell.”

His voice hardened. “Enough.”

“No,” I spat. “Am I your wife only when it pleases you? When you want laughter by the fire? But when war comes, when your life is at stake, I’m cast aside like some ornament too fine to weather the storm?”

His words came rough, low. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“And I’m trying to stop you turning me into a ghost in your shadow,” I flung back, my chest heaving. “If you march without me, what am I left with? A hall full of eyes that see a Lannister kin, and a husband who doesn’t trust me at his side.”

“Better suspicion than a grave,” Robb growled.

I stared at him, voice raw. “So that’s it? You’d rather I live with whispers than die with you?”

His shoulders sagged, the fight slipping from him. He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice breaking softer. “If you’re with me, I’ll think of you every time swords are drawn. I need my head clear. Do you understand?”

I stepped closer, my own voice trembling. “And if you leave me here, I’ll sit in these walls tearing myself apart. I’d sooner share your danger than be left behind safe and powerless. I don’t want to be left wondering, Robb. Not every night. Not every hour. If I stay here, I’ll go mad with questions. I need to be with you — even if it means waiting in your tent, even if it means fear. At least then I’ll see you breathe. At least then I’ll know.”

For a moment we only stared, both of us shaking. For a long breath he only looked at me, and all the command, all the lordship, seemed to slip from him. He was only Robb then, the boy I had stolen apples with by the fire.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, the words breaking more than biting.

I closed the space between us, brushing my nose lightly against his, breath mingling in that fragile span. “Don’t joke like that,” I whispered, voice unsteady. “It’s not funny anymore.”

For a heartbeat he didn’t answer, only pressed his forehead to mine, as though the weight of war itself might ease in that closeness. His hands slid at last to my shoulders, anchoring me.

Then, softer than I had ever heard him, he said: “Then stay by me. Whatever comes. I’ll not leave you behind.”

The ache in my chest loosened. My fingers gripped the linen at his shoulders, holding on as though I could bind the vow into him. My lips found his, and the kiss carried no anger now, no pride — only apology, only need. A promise.

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in. His hand cupped my cheek, rough palm warm against my skin. My voice slipped out before I could stop it, quiet and certain. “I love you.”

His thumb brushed my jaw, his eyes steady on mine. “And I you,” he murmured, the words rough but true.

He drew me against him then, close enough that I felt his heartbeat steadying beneath my palm. The chamber seemed smaller, the fire softer and the world outside our walls farther away. 

Chapter Text

The morning of our departure broke colder than I had ever known Winterfell. Mist curled low across the yard, clinging to boots and hooves, turning the banners of the gathered houses into pale shadows of themselves. Horses stamped restlessly, carts creaked under the weight of provisions, and the clang of harness and steel echoed against stone.

It was not the roar of war yet — not yet. Only the hum of leaving.

I moved through it slowly, my cloak drawn close, trying to fix every detail in my mind. The frost on the well’s lip, the smell of forge smoke, the sound of children’s laughter echoing faintly from some far hall. When I first arrived, Winterfell had seemed cold and strange to me — the stone, the snow, the sharp bite of air so unlike King’s Landing. But now, with each step, the thought of leaving pressed tighter, as if the walls themselves had grown into my ribs.

Inside the hall, Bran and Rickon waited with Maester Luwin. Bran sat straight-backed in his chair, his expression too solemn for his years, while Rickon fidgeted beside him, Shaggydog curled at his feet.

Maester Luwin folded his hands into his sleeves, the lines around his eyes deepening with both weariness and fondness. “Our young lord didn’t want you to come, my lady,” he said gently. “He hoped you might stay here.”

I let a faint smile tug at my lips, though it wavered at the edges. “Then tell your lord that such decisions are made by both sides. And I have made mine.”

The maester’s brows lifted, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Stubbornness is a Stark trait. It seems you’ve adopted it quickly.”

“Perhaps,” I allowed.

Luwin gave me a long look, thoughtful and quiet. “You’ve grown into this hall more than you realize, Princess. For all that you came from the South, Winterfell will remember you.”

Bran’s voice broke the quiet. “You promised me you’d teach me to shoot a bow.”

I eased down beside him, brushing back the fall of his hair with gentle fingers. “And I will,” I said firmly. “As soon as I return, I’ll teach you every day, until you can strike the heart of the target with your eyes closed. Bran, do you hear me?”

His solemn face softened into a smile, the kind that made him look far younger than his heavy words.

“And I think Arya will want to learn with us,” I added, laughter catching in my throat. “She always liked bows more than needles.”

Bran’s smile deepened, a flicker of warmth in his grey eyes. “Yes. Arya too.” He hesitated, then said more quietly, “And you won’t let Robb forget about me? Out there? Sometimes I think he looks at me and… doesn’t know what to do with me anymore.”

I held his small hand tight. “He hasn’t forgotten, Bran. He never will. And I’ll remind him, every day, if you wish.”

Rickon’s small voice carried from the other side of the hearth. “I miss them. All of them. I wanted to see my father. And my sisters.” His hand twisted in Shaggydog’s fur, clutching tight as though the wolf alone could keep him tethered.

My chest ached. I reached for him, drawing him close with one arm while my other stayed wrapped around Bran. “You will,” I whispered, my voice steadier than I felt. “Robb will bring them home. All of them. And soon enough, we’ll all be here together again. Can you imagine that?”

Rickon’s face lit, his childish certainty stronger than any vow I could speak. “Yes,” he said with a little smile. “I can.”

He tugged at my sleeve then, his lip trembling. “Will you write me? From the road?”

I kissed his curls. “Every chance I get.”

When the boys were settled again — Bran with his quiet smile, Rickon still clutching Shaggydog as though the direwolf were his shadow — I rose, smoothing my cloak. My gaze lingered on them longer than I meant, as though I could carry their faces with me into the road ahead.

Maester Luwin was waiting near the doorway, his hands folded in his sleeves. He had watched in silence, his expression soft, unreadable, until I stepped to him.

“You’ll take care of them,” I said. It was not a question.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “As I always have. And as you have, of late. They’ve grown fond of you, my lady.”

The words struck something tender in me. “I only tried to keep the promise I made when I wed Robb. To be more than a guest here. To belong.”

“You have,” Luwin said simply. Then, after a pause: “Though I know the burden weighs heavy. You are torn between two names, two houses. And yet, you’ve carried yourself with grace. That will be remembered.”

I smiled faintly, though my throat tightened. “Grace does not always feel enough.”

“It is more than enough,” he assured me. His tone softened, almost fatherly. “Winterfell will remember kindness longer than it remembers crowns or quarrels. Once this hall rang with the footsteps of children, their laughter was its music. Now one by one, they leave it. Soon it will fall quieter still. But it will not forget.”

For a heartbeat, I could not speak. Then I lowered my head in gratitude. “Thank you, Maester. For everything.”

He inclined his head with that small, quiet smile. “The gods keep you, my lady. And bring you back to us.”

I held his gaze, trying to draw strength from the steadiness there. “I pray it is not long.”

The hall doors groaned wider, and Robb stepped in, Grey Wind at his heel. He smelled faintly of cold iron and horse, his cloak dusted with frost. For a moment he only looked at his brothers, the weight of parting pressing his shoulders straighter.

Bran lifted his chin from his chair, solemn as any lord. Rickon scrambled upright, though Shaggydog whined at his heels.

Robb crouched between them, his gauntlets creaking as he took their small hands into his own. “I won’t be gone forever,” he said gently. “Only long enough to bring Father home. And Sansa. And Arya. Then we’ll be together again.”

He turned to Bran, his voice firmer. “Until then, you are the Stark in Winterfell. Run it wisely. Listen to Maester Luwin. Look after Rickon.”

Bran’s eyes glistened, but his nod was steady. “I will.”

Rickon sniffed loudly, clutching at Robb’s sleeve. “But who will tell me stories at night?”

Robb pressed a kiss to his hair. “You’ll have Bran. And Maester Luwin. And I’ll tell you stories myself when I return.”

Rickon’s lip quivered, but he nodded.

Robb’s hand tightened once around Bran’s shoulder before he stood. For a moment his gaze met Luwin’s. “A letter’s already reached Mother in the Vale. She’ll return soon. Until then, I trust you, Maester, to guide them.”

Luwin bowed his head. “With all that I am, my lord.”

Robb gave a short nod, then pulled Bran and Rickon both into his arms. The boys clung to him, muffled words lost against his cloak. I stood a little apart, watching the three of them bound in an embrace that was half blessing, half farewell.

We left the hall together, the heavy doors groaning shut behind us. I glanced back once, fixing the image in my mind: Bran tall in his chair, trying so hard to be a lord; Rickon half-hidden at his side, Shaggydog’s dark head resting on his knee; Maester Luwin standing with folded hands, steady as stone.

It struck me with sudden force that I might never see them like this again.

The corridor beyond was dim, torches sputtering low, our footsteps echoing against the stones. Robb’s hand brushed mine as we walked, and his voice came quietly, pitched for me alone.

“You know,” he said, “there’s still time. You can change your mind.”

I turned my head sharply. “Robb, don’t start.”

He searched my face, jaw tight. “So there’s no way I can persuade you?”

“There is no way,” I said, steady though my chest ached. “So you’d better not waste your breath on things that won’t change.”

The yard was thick with sound — hooves striking stone, harnesses jingling, men shouting orders. Banners of the North rippled in the wind, pale flayed men and roaring bears, mermen and direwolves, all waiting for the signal to march.

Ivory stood among the line of horses, her white coat bright even in the mist. I laid a hand against her neck, smoothing the fall of her mane. Robb came to stand beside me, his presence steady, his gaze on me rather than the hosts gathering behind us.

“I didn’t notice the moment you became like this,” he said quietly.

I turned to him, brow arched. “Like what? So stubborn?”

His mouth twitched faintly. “Like someone the lords themselves will think twice before crossing.”

I let out a breath. “To be fair, I didn’t notice when you changed either. My betrothed — the boy who threw snowballs at me, who rode with me outside the castle and pointed out the stars, who corrected my stance and laughed when I faltered… Now he’s the Lord of Winterfell. The man about to lead bannermen into war against the crown itself, just to rescue his father.”

My gaze swept the yard — the lords, the soldiers, all watching for him, waiting for his word. Then I turned back to him, steady.

“And yet,” I said, setting my foot to the stirrup, “he is still the man I chose.”

Robb’s hand brushed mine before I mounted, a fleeting pressure, warm despite the frost. “And you are still the woman who terrifies me with how little you bend,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The yard hushed, as if the mist itself held its breath. Then a horn sounded — low, deep, and rolling through Winterfell’s stones like thunder. Gates groaned open, iron and oak straining against the weight of centuries. The banners stirred in the cold wind, direwolves and flayed men and roaring bears all bending toward the road.

Robb swung into the saddle of his black stallion, Grey Wind pacing close at his side. His hand brushed the reins, then tightened, his gaze cutting forward.

I turned my head once, only once, to look back at the walls of Winterfell — grey stone rising through the mist, the heart of the North that had become my home. A lump rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down and faced forward.

Side by side, Robb and I pressed our heels to our mounts, and the hosts of the North began to move. And none of us knew, as the gates closed behind us, that I would never see Winterfell the same way again.

Chapter Text

The sound of Winterfell faded behind us like a dream.

Ahead stretched only the road — long, rutted, and crowded with the thunder of hooves and the groan of wagons. Thousands moved together, yet it was no procession of order and grace. The march was a living beast, its limbs made of men and horses, its breath the steam of lungs in the cold.

Banners flapped above the columns — grey direwolves of Stark snapping as if alive in the wind, red suns of Karstark bleeding across white field, the pale flayed man of Bolton twisting grotesque in the air, roaring bears of Mormont bold despite their smaller numbers, the silver merman of Manderly, the clenched fist of Glover, the roaring giant of Umber. Their colors snapped in the wind, grim and bright against the pale sky.

From the high saddle of his black stallion, Robb rode at the front with his lords, Grey Wind pacing restless at his side. I kept Ivory close, her pale mane tossing in the wind, the mare steady even amidst the clamor.

Every mile carried us farther from the walls of Winterfell. I turned once, though the towers had already vanished into the mist. Dust and frost clung to my cloak, the smell of sweat, damp wool, and horse thick in the air. No one spoke of fear, but I felt it riding among us — an unspoken shadow pacing the column, as constant as the clatter of hooves.

The march blurred into weeks. At every halt, squires hurried to pitch tents for their lords, rubbed down sweat-darkened horses, and hauled buckets from streams to fill the troughs. Fires sparked quick from flint and steel, and the smell of stewing oats or salt pork soon carried through the rows of canvas. Some mended tack or polished helms, while others snatched stolen minutes for dice, for song, for laughter that was too loud, as if to drown the silence waiting beyond the firelight.

By dusk, the host sprawled across the fields like a patchwork city — tents sprouting in pale clusters, fires flickering, smoke curling low and bitter in the damp. It was no feast hall, no tourney ground. This was harsher, hungrier, alive in another way.

That night, I gave Ivory over to a stable boy and made my way toward our tent. The path wound through rows of fires where men huddled, and their voices carried clearly in the cold air.

“Lord Eddard never should’ve gone south,” one muttered. “The North belongs to the North. No good comes of bending knee to kings in silk.”

“Aye,” another spat into the fire. “Starks are wolves, not lapdogs. The old wolf forgot, and now the cub pays the price.”

Further on, another group leaned close around their kettle. “Word is Tywin himself’s taken the field.”

“Seven hells,” a man swore. “As if the cub wasn’t carrying enough weight. He’s green yet, for all he tries to sound like his father.”

A rough laugh answered him. “Green or not, I saw him face down the Greatjon without blinking. Lad’s got iron in him.”

“Still,” someone added, quieter. “He rides south with half the North at his back. If he fails, there’ll be widows enough to fill Winterfell twice over.”

I walked faster, but another knot of voices caught me — my name, sharp in their talk.

“And what of her? The wolf’s bride. A Baratheon, trueborn of the south. Kin to the queen.”

“Not her fault,” someone said. “She’s no lion. She’s stood with him since before the banners were raised.”

“Aye, but tell me you’d sleep easy, knowing your lord’s wife writes letters with a Lannister hand.”

Someone shifted, the scrape of a cup. “And what of Robert? They say the king drank himself into the grave chasing a boar. Convenient, that.”

“Convenient for the lions,” came the answer. “And now his get sits the throne — that prancing blond pup. I’d sooner serve a sheepdog.”

The men chuckled, low and rough.

Their voices faded as I moved on, but the words clung like smoke. My mother’s blood, my brother’s crown, my husband’s war — all of it was being weighed in the dark by men who would march at dawn.

The canvas of our tent rustled as I pushed inside. Robb was already bent over a map, his hair damp with mist, a carved direwolf in his hand. He looked up as I entered, and the hard set of his shoulders eased, if only slightly.

“You’re late,” he said, though the corners of his mouth softened. His eyes flicked to the way I rubbed absently at my arm. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “Just sore from the ride.”

He dropped his gloves and crossed to me, crouching before I could protest. His hands closed gently over mine, prying them from my arm. “You always say that,” he murmured, thumbs pressing careful circles into the muscle.

I hissed when he found a knot of tension, and he stilled instantly, concern shadowing his face.

“It’s fine,” I said again, softer. “Truly.”

His gaze lingered, steady, before he brushed his nose against my temple. “You always say that,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Heat flushed my chest. I tilted my head, resting it briefly against his. Outside, the campfires snapped in the wind, men’s voices carrying low. But here, in the little warmth of the tent, it felt almost like a hearth again.

He shifted behind me, his knees bracketing mine as his hands moved slowly along my arms, easing the ache. Now and then his thumbs pressed into the knots along my spine, and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

Later, bent over the map again, Robb slid the direwolf eastward, pushing it along the river lines. But he wasn’t moving the pieces anymore — just staring.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Word came from our scouts,” he said, slow, reluctant. “The Lannisters are mustering in the west. Tywin himself has taken the field.”

The name traced cold down my spine. My mother’s father. The man who had sent me gifts, who had kissed my brow when I was a child. Now he stood in armor across the field from me.

“So it’s true,” I whispered. “My blood on both sides of this war.”

Robb’s jaw worked, but he didn’t answer at once. His finger traced the rivers, steady. “He’ll march east. Toward Riverrun. If we ride straight south, he’ll cut our supply lines before we ever reach the gates. He means to force our hand.”

The words hung heavy. My lips parted, but no answer came. Some part of me had believed this march would be simple: Winterfell to King’s Landing, Robb at the head, gates opening, family restored. A child’s story. But the vision melted like frost in sunlight. 

My grip tightened on his sleeve. “So it begins.”

Robb’s eyes met mine, resolve burning there, steady as steel. “Aye,” he said.

And the camp outside shifted restlessly, thousands of men waiting on his word.

The ground sloped gently beneath Ivory’s hooves, and I let her climb until we reached the crown of the hill. From there the land stretched wide — behind me, the North lay pale and stern, fading into mist; before me, the grass ran greener, softer, as if even the air itself changed once we neared the Neck. My cloak was lighter now, trimmed with fur but not weighed heavy as it had been in Winterfell. The wind stirred it, cool but not biting, carrying the scent of wet earth.

I sat tall in the saddle, looking both ways, unable to stop myself from glancing back as much as forward. A last glimpse of one world, the first glimpse of another.

The steady beat of hooves came behind me. Robb’s black stallion crested the hill, Grey Wind pacing close, and Robb reined in beside me. For a moment he didn’t speak, only followed my gaze — north, then south, as if he too were torn between the two.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet. “Do you know what I thought about, after our wedding?” His tone was low, thoughtful, not the voice of a commander, but of the boy who had laughed in the yard.

I turned my head, curious. “What?”

He exhaled slowly, his eyes still on the horizon.

“I thought, after our wedding, I would take you across the North. To see more than Winterfell. The White Knife when the ice breaks and the river runs wild, foaming white. The wolfswood in spring, when the snow melts and the earth steams, green shoots pushing through the frost. The Flint Cliffs beneath the stars, where the sea pounds so hard against the stone it feels like the world itself might split. The hot springs near Wintertown, where the air steams even in the coldest nights. And Bear Island’s coast, where the waves crash so fiercely the spray will salt your hair.”

His hand tightened on the reins. “I never meant to drag you south, into war.”

I smiled faintly, keeping my gaze on him. “Well… I believe when we return Lord Eddard Stark, and your sisters, to Winterfell—when your duty to your father is done—then we’ll have plenty of time to explore the beauty of the North. Together.”

Robb urged his stallion a little closer, his eyes on mine. “Indeed.”

I turned my face northward, where the mists blurred into the horizon. “I want to see all those places you spoke of—with you. Even the Wall.”

Robb followed my gaze. The Wall wasn’t visible, but the weight of it was there, a line in both of our thoughts. “Aye,” he said softly. “We’ll visit that too.”

His mouth curved faintly. “And perhaps Jon will make us welcome for a short while. He’s grown comfortable there, I think. Maybe he’ll even give us a tour—on the other side.”

A laugh escaped me, light and unguarded. “All these plans, all these little futures… they make the weight in my chest easier.”

My eyes found his again. “Do you think word has reached him? About us? About all this?”

Robb’s expression shifted, thoughtful. “Most like. Ravens fly faster than men march.”

“Do you wish he were here? At your side?” I asked softly.

He looked north again, his voice low but steady. “Yes. But Jon is my brother, and now he is also a brother of the Night’s Watch. His oaths are not mine. His duty is to the Wall, not to war in the South.”

I heard the firmness in his voice and reached for the gentler note. “Then when we return home, we’ll visit him. All right?”

Robb turned his eyes to me. “All right.”

“Do you promise?”

He leaned nearer, the distance between us shrinking with his words. “I promise. We’ll return. We’ll make a tour of the North—Bear Island to the Last Hearth. We’ll climb the Wall and stand atop it, arms linked, and look out together over the edge of the world.”

My heart caught at the picture, so bright against the march’s shadow. “All right,” I whispered. “I’ll remember that, Stark.”

He laughed, the sound warm. “Of course you will. I’ve no doubt. And I’m glad you do—because I don’t break my promises.”

I smiled, soft but sure. “I’ve already found that out.”

Then my eyes drifted southward, to the pale horizon waiting. “Tell me—have you ever left the North before? Beyond the Neck?”

Robb’s gaze turned thoughtful. “I was born in Riverrun. While my father still rode in Robert’s war, my mother gave birth to me in her own home castle. But I was an infant then. I can’t remember it. So no, not truly. This… this march south will be my first time leaving the North with my own eyes open.”

Robb’s eyes lingered on me, searching. “And you? Have you traveled anywhere beyond King's Landing before coming north?”

I drew a slow breath, the memories surfacing like half-forgotten dreams. “Yes. A few times. I went to Storm’s End as a child—the last time when I was about twelve. It was my uncle Renly’s name day. He organized a tournament and a great feast, and my father went to attend him.” A faint smile touched my lips, though it faded quickly.

“Storm’s End is… nothing like Winterfell. It’s a fortress, huge and unyielding, its walls thicker than any I’ve ever seen. The sea beats against it on three sides, waves crashing day and night until the sound becomes part of the air itself. There’s only one way in—by the great causeway. It feels less like a castle and more like the last standing bulwark against the sea itself. They say Brandon the Builder raised it with spells as well as stone. Looking at it, you could believe it — the walls curve so smooth that the storms seem to slide away, as if no hand of man ever set them.”

Robb tilted his head, curiosity softening his expression. “It sounds fierce. Beautiful, but in a different way.”

“Yes,” I agreed quietly. “Fierce, and lonely, too.”

For a moment, my thoughts drifted, the twilight deepening around us. Fires flared across the camp below, men shouting as tents were raised, carts groaning under the strain. I pulled my cloak tighter, and my voice softened. “I was at Dragonstone once, too. Though I remember it less clearly. It was for my cousin Shireen’s name day. My uncle Stannis held a small gathering, and Robert brought me along. There was no great feast, no tourney—Stannis is not a man for such things. But Dragonstone itself…” I shivered at the memory. “It’s different from any place I’ve seen. The stone is black, as though the castle was carved from night itself, and everywhere you look, there are shapes—dragons twisting in the walls, coiled in the gates, crouched over the halls. It feels… heavy. Dark. As though the ghosts of the Targaryens still linger in every stone.”

Robb’s expression tightened slightly, though he listened without interruption, the firelight throwing lines of shadow across his face.

“And once,” I went on, quieter now, “I was in Lannisport. Three years ago, for a short while. My grandfather welcomed us in the Rock.” My hands stilled in my lap. “It was the last time I saw him.”

The words hung between us, heavy as stone. I let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the horizon where the last light drained into shadow. The wind stirred the grass around us, carrying the smoke and noise of the camp.

Robb shifted in the saddle, his voice breaking the silence, steadier now. “Come on,” he said gently. “It’s been a long ride. We’ll eat, take our rest. Tomorrow we march again.”

I nodded, slipping my fingers once more through Ivory’s mane before turning her toward the camp. Still, as we rode side by side into the glow of firelight, the weight of that last glance north clung to me, quiet and unspoken.

Chapter Text

The land grew flatter with every mile, the marshes falling away into sodden meadows where the Trident split and curled. After long days of marching, the towers of the Twins rose in the distance at last — squat keeps of pale stone straddling the river, bound together by the bridge that was the only crossing for leagues.

Robb’s host camped a league from the water, and soon the meadow was a city of banners. Canvas spread like white sails across the grass, smoke from a hundred fires blurred the evening sky, and the sound of men echoed far into the night. Horses stamped in their lines, the smell of damp earth mingled with dung and sweat, and carts groaned as their burdens were unloaded.

I slipped away from the press, cloak drawn close, the chill damp clinging to my skirts. Grey Wind found me quickly, padding from between the rows of tents, his belly dark with mud. He collapsed at my feet with a huff, sending flecks of dirt across my boots.

I crouched beside him, fingers working through the knots of his coat. “Robb will think you’ve gone to war ahead of him,” I murmured. The direwolf only leaned heavier against me, tail thumping once against the ground, content in his filth. Despite myself, I smiled.

That was when the whispers began.

At first I thought them idle murmurings of camp — men calling to each other, boys chasing one another between tents. But then my name threaded through the sound. My lady… the Lady Stark. Heads turned, hands stilled. Even the hammer of a smith paused mid-blow.

She had come.

The soldiers parted as Lady Catelyn walked between them, veiled in dark wool, her face pale with dust. She moved without haste, but the banners themselves seemed to dip as she passed — direwolf, merman, bear, fist. Men bowed their heads and a hush rippled through the camp.

I rose at once, brushing the dirt from my skirts, Grey Wind sliding reluctantly off my legs. “Lady Catelyn,” I greeted, bowing my head.

Her hands caught mine — cool, steady, the grip of someone long accustomed to command. “Lyanna. I am sorry about Robert. I rode from the Vale as soon as word reached me.”

I swallowed. “The news was… sudden.”

Her gaze lingered on me, and for a heartbeat I thought I saw both sympathy and doubt there. Then her eyes swept across the camp, the rows of tents, the fires burning, the clamor that never ceased. “Gods,” she whispered, “he truly called the banners.”

Her words hung heavy. I steadied myself and answered, “Robb could not sit idle. Not after what was done.”

Catelyn’s shoulders tightened. “And has there been any word of my husband? Of my girls?”

“None,” I said. “But no tidings may be better than ill ones.”

She nodded, though her jaw worked with what she did not say. “Take me to him. It has been too long since I last saw my son.”

As we walked, the men bowed their heads again. I felt their stares on me, weighing, measuring. Some looked with courtesy, others with cold eyes. They saw a Stark bride, yes, but also a Baratheon by name and a Lannister’s daughter by half. I walked straighter, Catelyn’s hand on my arm grounding me.

“Do not let them trouble you,” she said quietly, catching the flicker in my gaze. “These men judge quick, but their swords follow strength, not whispers. You have stood beside Robb long enough. They will learn to see it.”

Her words struck somewhere deeper than I expected, and I had no answer.

The guards pulled the tent flaps aside, and the noise of the camp dulled into a muffled hum. Inside, lamplight burned low over maps and carved tokens — direwolves and lions scattered across painted rivers. Robb stood at the table, flanked by Umber, Karstark, Glover, and Bolton.

“Lady Catelyn,” they said together, bowing their heads.

Robb turned at the sound. For a heartbeat, the mask of command slipped. “Mother.”

He moved to her, but stopped short of the embrace that had risen instinctively to both of them. For a heartbeat, I saw her arms half-lift, but she stilled them. He was no longer only her son; he was Lord of Winterfell now, and every eye in that pavilion marked him so.

The silence held until her voice broke it, steady but edged. “Leave us.”

The Greatjon shifted, as though ready to protest, but Robb gave a short nod. Chairs scraped, boots thudded, and one by one the lords filed out, leaving only us three. When the flap closed behind them, the air seemed to settle — quieter, but heavier still.

Catelyn stepped close then, her hands resting a moment on Robb’s shoulders. Her eyes searched his face, pride and fear both plain. “You’ve gathered them,” she said softly, glancing at the carved tokens on the map. “More men than I ever dreamed. But why must it be you who commands them?”

Robb’s jaw tightened, but his voice did not waver. “Because they are Father’s bannermen. Because he cannot lead them. And if not me, then who?”

Her lips pressed thin, her gaze sharp with both love and dread. “You are young, Robb. They are men who have fought battles since before you could walk. Do you think they will follow you long, if you falter even once?”

“I’ll not falter,” he said, the words clipped like steel.

Her hands fell from his shoulders, gathering her cloak tighter about her. “And you brought your wife.” Her eyes flicked to me then, cool, measuring. “Why?”

Robb’s gaze darted briefly toward me, then back to her. “Because she would not be left behind. I tried, Mother. I told her to stay. But Lyanna does not bend so easily.”

I stepped forward, though my throat tightened under Catelyn’s scrutiny. “My lady,” I said quietly, “I made my vows before gods and men. To leave him now would be to break them.”

Catelyn’s eyes lingered on me — not unkind, but not softened either. A silence stretched, until she turned back to her son.

“I came to meet you here for more than words,” she said at last. “A raven reached me in the Vale. Tywin Lannister has Riverrun under siege. My father lies ill within, my brother and uncle hemmed behind its walls. Every move he makes, every torch he sets, is meant to drag your gaze from King’s Landing to the Trident.”

Robb’s hand pressed flat to the map, over the painted rivers. “I want only to bring Father home. To see my sisters safe again.”

Her eyes, sharp with truth, met his. “And when Tywin sees an army of twenty thousand men, it will not matter what is in your heart. Peace or war — he will see only threat. He will not stop.”

Robb’s jaw set. “Then we cross the Trident. There’s no other way south. That means the Twins.”

At that, Catelyn’s shoulders stiffened. “Walder Frey does not open his gates for love of honor. He opens them for price.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “Then name it.”

“I cannot,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Not until I stand before him. But I am his liege lord’s daughter. If anyone can win his favor, it is me. Walder Frey will not bar the gates to Hoster Tully’s child.”

“You would go yourself?” Robb’s voice sharpened.

“It is safer for me than for you,” she answered plainly. “He will not deny me audience. And you cannot linger here anymore.”

Robb hesitated, torn, but at last he gave a short nod. “I’ll send my best men with you. Take what guard you need.”

But Catelyn shook her head, her voice calm, certain. “Walder Frey will yield his bridge. Not to threats, but to bargains. Leave it to me.”

Silence held a moment, then Robb nodded once, curt but trusting. “Very well. Take guards enough. If he names terms, we’ll hear them.”

When at last the lords were dismissed, the tent emptied, leaving only the three of us. The lamplight flickered against the map, the carved lions gleaming red.

Robb’s shoulders eased only a little. “If he delays you, Mother—”

“He won’t,” Catelyn said. Her hand brushed his cheek, lingering there as though he were still a boy. “I’ll see the gates opened. Trust me in this.”

And for the first time since she had entered, Robb’s eyes softened. “I do.”

She left the tent, her cloak trailing through the lamplight, and the murmur of the camp swallowed her steps.

Robb stood silent for a long moment, his hand still braced on the map. The carved tokens lay scattered beneath his palm, wolves and lions frozen on painted rivers. His shoulders tightened, and the fire in his eyes was enough to make me wonder if even stone could stand against him.

When the tent flap closed behind her, silence pressed in. The voices of the camp were muffled now, only the distant neigh of horses and the creak of wagon wheels carrying through the canvas.

Robb still stood at the table, his hand spread over the rivers, his shoulders taut. For a long moment he did not move, only stared at the carved tokens scattered across the map.

I stepped closer, laying a hand lightly on his arm. “She worries for you,” I said softly.

His jaw tightened. “She thinks I’m too young.”

“She thinks you’re her son,” I answered, my voice gentler. “It’s not the same.”

He glanced down at me then, the steel in his eyes softening just enough. “And what do you think? Am I too young to lead them?”

I held his gaze, steady. “No. I think you are young, yes. But I also think no man in that tent doubted you tonight. They’ll follow you because they see what I see.”

His lips curved faintly, though it held little mirth. “And what’s that?”

“That you’re your father’s son,” I said simply. “But more than that—you’re your own man.”

He exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. His hand slipped from the map to cover mine, warm and firm. “Sometimes I forget,” he admitted quietly. “That I don’t have to be him. That I can be… me.”

I squeezed his hand, my voice low. “The North will follow you for who you are, not just whose blood runs in you.”

His thumb brushed once over my knuckles, then he leaned forward, his brow resting briefly against mine. It was not hunger, not even comfort—only the simple need for steadiness, for grounding in the midst of too many choices.

The moment stretched into hours. Outside, the campfires burned low, men’s voices dropping to murmurs, then to snores. I drifted between pacing the tent and sitting at the map table, tracing the rivers with restless fingers. Robb stayed near, sometimes silent, sometimes speaking soft words of plans and half-promises, until even his voice fell quiet.

At last the flap stirred. Cold night air gusted in, carrying the damp of the river and the faint hoot of an owl. Lady Catelyn stepped inside, her cloak dark with mist and her face lined with weariness. Behind her, the guards closed the tent once more.

She stepped toward the table. “He agreed,” she said without pause. “Lord Frey will grant us passage.”

Relief flickered in Robb’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it came when she went on: “He has set his terms.”

Robb straightened, shoulders taut, blue eyes fixed sharp on her. “Name it.”

Catelyn’s tone was flat, unflinching. “First — one of his younger sons will squire for you. He expects the boy knighted one day.”

Robb nodded once, clipped. “So be it.”

“And Arya,” she went on, her mouth tightening. “When she comes of age, she is to wed his grandson, Elmar. That was his condition.”

The words landed heavy. I felt my stomach twist, though I held still. Arya, bound to one of Walder Frey’s brood — I could almost hear her protests already. Robb’s jaw worked, but he only said, “She won’t like it.”

Catelyn gave no answer, only moved on. “And last — a marriage for your uncle. Edmure is to take one of Lord Frey’s daughters as his lady. In time he will inherit Riverrun, and with it the charge of Warden of the Riverlands. Frey means for one of his girls to stand as Lady of Riverrun itself.”

Robb’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “And do you think my uncle will thank you for arranging it without his word?”

Catelyn’s eyes flickered with weariness, but her voice held steady. “Edmure may not greet the news with joy, no. But he sits hemmed within his own walls while Tywin’s host burns his lands. He knows the only way to break that siege is through this crossing, and that it is your army that must win it for him. Compared to that, a wife is no great price. He will understand — he must.”

Robb breathed out hard through his nose, then gave a single nod. “Very well. Tell Lord Frey we accept.”

The matter was settled in words, but the air stayed heavy, thick with the taste of compromise. The lords muttered low, some with disapproval, others with grim acceptance, but none spoke openly against it.

Robb’s eyes lingered on his mother. “And he will keep his oath? He will open the gates?”

Catelyn’s mouth curved faintly, weary but certain. “Walder Frey is many things — proud, petty, sly. But he is not a man to break a bargain, once struck.”

Robb gave a short nod, his hand returning to the map as if it alone could steady him. “Then we cross tomorrow.”

The words carried through the tent like a command already set in stone. But as I looked down at the painted river between the carved wolves and lions, it seemed more than water that barred our path. To cross was to leave behind the last chance of peace — and to step into war that none of us could turn back from.

Chapter Text

The bridge was behind us. For three days we rode beyond the Twins, the river crossing shrinking in the rear until the land beneath our horses changed from sodden flats to firmer green fields. The air was warmer here; the wind smelled of tilled earth and woodsmoke instead of peat and marsh. The warmth offered no comfort.

Villages along the road lay tense and hollowed. Fields had been trampled, barns emptied, and refugees crowded the wayside — women clutching children, old men driving half-starved cattle — moving east toward Riverrun or north to whatever safety remained. They watched the banners pass as if hoping the direwolf might shield them from the lion.

We camped on the southern bank of the Green Fork. The meadow became a city of canvas and smoke; pavilions rose where sheep had grazed weeks before. Fires burned into the evening, smiths hammered, hounds barked, men whetted blades by torchlight. The river was at our back; Riverrun lay ahead, and twenty thousand men waited on Robb’s word.

Inside the command tent the trestle table sagged with maps. Umber loomed like a mast, Karstark sat dour and hollow-eyed, Roose Bolton watched with his pale, unreadable face, and Galbart Glover jutted like a nail. Robb stood at the head of them, one hand flat on the parchment, the other curled at his belt.

When I entered, the lords dipped their heads in quick acknowledgment. “My lady,” Glover said, then returned his gaze to the map.

Karstark jabbed a finger at the blackened smears on the paper. “Villages west are ash. If Riverrun falls, the Trident is lost with it.”

Bolton’s voice slid out, smooth and cool. “We stand at a fork. Strike south and meet Tywin on the field, or turn west to Riverrun and risk Jaime cutting us off from behind.”

Silence settled; the torchlight carved Robb’s face into hard planes — youth and command pressed together. He studied the rivers, then shifted the daggers that held the parchment and marked three lines.

“Roose,” he said at last, “take riders east. Hunt down Gregor’s foragers and drive them back toward Harrenhal. He spreads himself thin; starve his plunder and his strength bleeds away.”

Bolton’s pale eyes lifted, unreadable. “As you command, my lord.”

Robb’s finger moved west. “Greatjon, Karstark — strike the raiding camps along the Red Fork. Smash what you find, pull their banners down, free the smallfolk.”

Greatjon’s grin split his beard. “Aye! Give me teeth and I’ll send the lions home pissing blood.”

Robb’s hand found the line running straight south. “I’ll hold the center and press down the Green Fork with the main host. Galbart rides with me. We’ll secure the road, clear the villages, and send word ahead to Riverrun.”

He straightened, voice sharpened. “At first light we ride. Each man to his charge. By nightfall, I want the lion running backward.”

The tent broke with a clang of benches and leather. Men filed out into the night to rouse their men; the map folded and departed like a thing that had done its work.

I lingered by the table as the flap fell. Twenty thousand men, I thought, and with a few strokes of ink he had sent them loose. The brazier hissed. When the last footsteps died, the tent felt too still.

“You could send them without you,” I said, touching the folded map.

Robb’s head lifted. “No.” The word was short, final. “They ride at my command. I won’t sit back like a steward. You’ll stay with the camp. I’ll set a guard.”

“It isn’t my safety I fear.” My gaze stayed on the parchment. “Why do you insist on riding at the head?”

He came nearer, one hand on the table. “First Mother, now you. How many times must I say it? They follow me. If I sent them without me, they’d wonder if I trust them — or myself.”

“Perhaps we say it because we love you. Because we worry.”

His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my temple; tenderness and iron met in that touch. “It isn’t a pitched battle I want,” he said. “It’s breaking raiders, freeing villages, setting things right.”

“And yet men die regardless.”

He studied me, jaw tight, then eased. His hand moved to my hair and stroked it, steady though it steadied me little. “I won’t throw myself where I’m not needed. But I won’t lead from behind someone else’s shields. My father never did.”

The words sat heavy. I drew a breath, the knot in my chest not loosening.

I caught his collar and pulled him down with a crooked smile. “If I can’t talk you out of it…”

His mouth found mine before I could finish. The kiss was firm, steady; his hand found the back of my neck.

I broke away, breathless, lips still brushing his. “Then at least sleep. You’ll need it when the sun rises.”

He grunted like a sulking boy, but unlaced his doublet with rough fingers and tossed it over a bedpost. When he sank, the commander fell away; what remained was a young man worn thin by duty.

I eased down beside him in my shift. My braid came loose across my shoulders. Robb caught at a strand and smoothed it back, his thumb brushing my cheek as though seeing me close for the first time.

“You bartered two betrothals to cross a river,” I said.

“Two bargains to keep Father and my sisters alive,” he answered.

“They’re alive,” I pointed out.

“And I mean to keep them so.”

“When my father bound me to you, I hated him for it,” I said, the memory bitter and small. “No say. No answer.”

Robb gave a half-smile. “I wasn’t angry. Worried how you’d take it.”

“You dreaded it,” I said, nudging his shoulder.

He laughed, low. “Aye. I was a fool. Luckier than most, too.”

“You did the same for Arya, and for Edmure,” I said softly.

He shrugged. “That’s how it is. Oaths, marriages. My parents’ match, mine — duty and anchor. Not the Red Keep romances you may have imagined.”

I poked him. “I was a silly child once.”

“Don’t say that.” His hand slid lower, firm around my waist. “You see more clearly than you think.”

“You made it sound simple,” I said. “Give Frey what he wanted, and the bridge will open.”

His mouth curved as he kissed my jaw. “If you’re curious — what if you weren’t my wife? Would I have taken one of Frey’s daughters?”

Robb’s breath left him slow. “If you hadn’t been mine, and if the price saved Father…yes. I would have done my duty.”

“And loved her?”

He leaned over me, voice rough. “Lyanna, wasn’t it you who told me to rest? Now you plague me with ghosts.”

“And you?” I shot back. “You’re not resting either. You’re kissing me.”

“Better than what-ifs,” he said, kissing me harder. “I won’t waste thought on shadows when you stand here.”

My throat tightened. “Sometimes I fear you love me only because you had no choice.”

His laugh was rough and sudden. “No choice? You were the only choice I ever wanted. Don’t make it less.”

I pressed close, eyes burning. He brushed my mouth with his thumb. “Enough. Shh.”

I kissed him, and he smiled against it. “That’s the midnight talk I prefer.”

“I’m glad of it,” I breathed. “And yet the dawn waits.”

Robb tugged my shift down with gentle impatience, his mouth trailing from collarbone to breast. “Should I be offended,” he murmured, “that your mind wanders elsewhere?”

I caught his mouth before he could answer, and for a little while the world outside the tent could wait.

Chapter Text

I woke to the cool emptiness beside me. The blankets held his fading warmth. My skin still knew the weight of his hand at my hip, the slow path of his mouth along my collarbone. The ache told me he’d only just risen, and yet the space he left already felt cold.

I stirred beneath the linen… Naked under the blanket, a low curse slipped out before I could catch it. How had he managed to slip away without waking me? How deep had I slept, that he had gone with none of the rustle or stir I was so used to?

The tent was gray with the first thin light, the air warmer and damp with river mist. I pulled the blanket tight, then rose, dragging the shift over my head before lacing myself into a gown.  My hair lay loose over my shoulders, still tangled from where his hands had run through it the night before. I dragged my fingers through the strands and tied them back as best I could. 

Outside, the camp stirred. The Riverlands smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. Men’s voices rose over the neigh of horses, the clatter of pots, the bark of dogs. Smoke from cookfires drifted low between the tents.

Two guards stood at the entrance. They bowed low. “My lady.”

“Where is my husband?” My voice came sharper than I intended.

“Our lord left before first light,” one said. “Lord Glover rode with him, and others.”

I drew a slow breath. “And Lord Bolton?”

“Still in camp, my lady. He keeps his riders eastward.”

I only nodded and moved past them.

The hours dragged like stones. I broke my fast in silence, bread hard and honey too thin to mask it. I walked the rows of tents, watched the smiths hammer new rivets into broken mail, saw the hounds sniff and growl over the scraps flung from the cookfires. 

By midday, I crossed the camp to the command pavilion. Bolton was there, his thin hands folded as he spoke over the brazier with his captains. He spoke smoothly, his tone as calm as a knife set flat on the table. “My riders range east. We’ve salted their foraging—stores burned, lines cut. I’ve left men in the farmsteads. The ground will hold.”

“And Robb?” I asked.

Bolton’s gaze lingered a moment, unreadable. “Your lord husband rides the Green Fork with Galbart Glover. He will return. Soon.”

There was nothing more to be gained there. I inclined my head, offered a word of thanks, and stepped back into the gray light.

I left the pavilion restless, the air pressing damp against my skin as I wandered the camp again. The sun was low and watery, struggling through thin cloud. Men’s voices rose and fell, steel rang against whetstones, and laughter drifted from scattered fires, thin and weary.

Everywhere there was the scrape of whetstones, the low voices of soldiers trading mutters and laughter.

I stopped by a fire where two men hunched over a fire. One, older, with a beard gone mostly grey. The other, younger, with the raw face of a boy not much older than Bran. They scrambled to their feet when they saw me, but I waved them down and sat near enough to share their fire.

The older one’s eyes lingered, and at last he spoke. “Your father was a hard man, my lady. But fair. Lord Eddard… aye, he always saw his men home when he could.”

The words caught me. I pulled my cloak tighter and sat, warming my hands against the flames. “Tell me more,” I said before I thought better of it. My voice was quiet, almost shy. “About Lord Stark. And… about my father. You rode with them, didn’t you?”

His eyes flicked to me, surprised, then back to the fire. “Aye. At the Bells, Robert split the royal host like kindling—hammer high, blood to his boots, laughing as if battle were wine.”

The younger soldier leaned forward eagerly. “And Lord Stark was there too, wasn’t he?”

The grizzled one nodded. “Aye. Ned Stark. Quieter sort. Not one for shouting, nor for boasting. He was steel where Robert was fire. Saw the field clear when all else was chaos. Kept men steady who’d have broken otherwise.”

The younger grinned. “They say Robert killed Rhaegar at the Trident with one blow. Smashed his breastplate open, rubies spilled into the shallows like a rain of blood”

The elder snorted. “Aye, and I saw it. True as any tale. Your father stood knee-deep in corpses and laughed like it was a feast. But when it was done, when the dead were counted, it was Lord Stark who walked among the men, saw the wounded tended, made sure no lad lay forgotten in the mud. That was the measure of him.”

My throat tightened. “And together?”

The old soldier’s mouth curved, a humorless smile. “Together they were a storm—Robert the hammer, Stark the anvil—and the kingdoms shook.”

The old man gave a rough shake of his head, eyes still fixed on the fire. “And who could’ve guessed? Strange, how the wheel turns — another Stark, another Baratheon, bound together with war at their backs.”

I smiled faintly. “I’m no warrior. My father crushed skulls with a hammer. I can scarce crack a nut.”

The old man barked a laugh, the sound carrying with the smoke. Before he could say more, the air shifted.

At first it was only the stir of voices, men turning their heads toward the eastern edge of camp. Then a horn’s long note rolled across the meadow, low and commanding. Steel clattered, dogs barked, and the soldiers around the fire rose as one, brushing ash from their cloaks.

I stood too, my heart quickening. “What is it?” I asked.

One of the guards stepped close. “Bannermen of Glover,” he said. His words struck like a spark to kindling — Glover’s riders meant Robb was with them.

My pulse leapt. I smoothed my skirts, though my hands trembled faintly, and turned toward the noise gathering down the camp road.

Through the press of men and banners I caught sight of him at last. Robb strode between his lords, Glover close at his side, mud caked on his boots and greaves, his cloak stained darker at the hem. His step was firm, his shoulders straight, and though the march had marked him, I saw no hurt upon him. Relief washed through me so sudden it near stole my breath.

“Excuse me,” I murmured to the soldiers at the fire.

The older man dipped his head, smiling through his beard. “No need, my lady. Seems our young wolf brings his first victory.”

I left them, lifting my skirts clear of the muck, and made for the command tent. Inside, Robb stood in his armor, the steel still dusted with mud and ash, surrounded by his commanders.

Glover set a hand flat on the map. “The raiders are broken for now. Camps burned, supplies seized, a handful of captives freed. But if we mean to hold this ground, we’ll need garrisons in place. Otherwise the lions will be back inside a fortnight.”

Robb leaned in, his voice steady. “Then we’ll hold it. Post men at the villages, fortify the crossings, keep the roads clear. Once the road is safe, we march to unite with Blackfish’s forces.”

Robb straightened from the map at last, his tone firm. “That’s all for now. Karstark and Umber aren’t returned yet — we’ll hear their reports when they come.”

The lords bowed out one by one, their boots heavy on the canvas floor until the flap fell shut behind the last of them. Silence returned, broken only by the hiss of the brazier.

I crossed my arms and fixed him with a look. “You sneaked away. Not even a word to wake me.”

Robb glanced up, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I thought you’d be glad enough your husband came back in one piece.”

“You said yourself they were only raiders. Nothing worth a fuss.”

Robb: “Nothing worth a fuss? Tell that to the barns they set aflame. Or the poor sods they thought to chase for sport. They didn’t expect me, though. And you, wife—” his grin sharpened—“you looked far too sweet in your sleep for me to wake you. Do you know how smug it makes me, seeing you soft and smiling when the world outside burns?”

Heat rushed into my cheeks. “You’ve grown unbearably pleased with yourself.”

He laughed, unbothered, and I stepped close, tugging lightly at one of the straps still fastened at his shoulder. His armor was smeared with dirt and blood.

“Don’t lean too close,” he warned, though the grin stayed. “I’m filth from crown to heel. You’ll spoil your gown.”

I arched a brow. “Do you take me for a maid afraid of a little stain?” I said, setting my hands to the straps of his breastplate.

Robb smirked, watching me struggle with the buckles. “Careful. That one sticks.”

“I can manage,” I muttered, tugging harder. The leather finally gave, and I shot him a look when he chuckled. “Don’t stand there grinning like a fool. If you want me to help, at least tell me how these cursed things work.”

The buckle gave at last with a snap, my knuckles brushing the warmth of his tunic beneath. He caught my wrist lightly, guiding my hand to the next clasp. “Not like that,” he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek. “Sideways. You’ll ruin the strap if you keep tugging like that.”

I tried again, and this time the plate came free with less fight. It clattered onto the chair beside his discarded doublet.

“See?” he said, amused. “You’d have me standing here armored until dawn if left to your own devices.”

I huffed, working at the next strap. “If you’d taught me sooner, I wouldn’t be fumbling now.”

His laughter was low, softer this time. “A fair point. Perhaps I should.”

Piece by piece, I worked the metal and leather free, Robb leaning closer only to murmur instructions when I fumbled. His eyes stayed on me more than the armor, though, and by the time the last plate slid away, I felt it as keenly as his touch.

Morning bled into another weary day of march and watch, until at last the dusk brought respite. That night, the steam curled thick against the canvas, veiling the edges of the tent. I sank deeper into the water, working the dust from my hair, the warmth easing travel’s ache from my shoulders. The copper basin was broad enough to let me stretch my legs, though I still felt half out of place bathing in a war camp.

The flap stirred, and Robb stepped inside. He looked less worn than he had in weeks, his cheeks touched faintly with color, his smile tugging boyish despite the weight he carried.

“Look at you. You’re getting far too comfortable, wife.” He said, tugging loose the laces of his jerkin as his eyes lingered on me.

I flicked water from my fingers toward him, smirking. “I take comfort where I can find it.”

“Lucky for you it’s me walking in,” Robb said, pulling off his cloak and tossing it across a chair. “Not one of my bannermen sniffing after their lord.”

“Lucky for them,” I shot back, my lips curling. “Else they’d find out soon enough how jealous their young lord can be—especially where his wife is concerned.”

Robb chuckled, his boots thudding to the floor as he stepped closer. “Jealous? Is that what you call it?” His smirk sharpened. “Tell me, then… what would you have me do if I had found some bold Karstark or Umber at your side?”

I laughed. “They’re twice my age. And northern lords are nothing if not respectful — especially when it comes to their liege lord’s wife.”

Robb sat himself on the edge of the tub, smiling down at me. “That’s true. You are more perceptive than you let on.”

“Well,” I said, arching a brow, “I’ve ridden and lived with them for months now. But no more talk of bannermen.” I leaned back against the rim, challenging him with my gaze. “Want to join?”

His brows shot up, though the corner of his mouth curved. “You would have me join you?”

“Yes,” I said, smirking. “The bath is large enough, and the water’s still warm. But not for long, if you sit there talking.”

Robb gave a low chuckle, shaking his head as though at my boldness, yet his fingers were already working at the ties of his doublet. He tugged them loose one by one, the leather laces falling slack, before he shrugged the garment from his shoulders and laid it across the chair. His boots followed, then the rest of his garments, shed in swift motions until they lay scattered across the chair.

I shifted forward, bending my knees to make space. The water rippled as he stepped in behind me, lowering himself carefully until my spine rested against the broad plane of his chest. The warmth of him spread through me more quickly than the steaming water.

“I forgot to mention,” I said lightly, hiding a smile, “I added jasmine oil to the water.”

“Jasmine oil, hm?” Robb murmured, his voice dipping low near my ear. He swept my hair over one shoulder with a slow hand and pressed a long kiss to the curve of the other. His chest pressed firm to my back, his breath warm against my skin. “I don’t mind.”

Robb’s mouth lingered on my shoulder, then trailed higher, grazing the line of my neck. My breath caught as his stubble rasped against damp skin.

“You smell like flowers,” he whispered, though his hands spoke more than his voice — sliding over my arms beneath the water, rough fingers softened by the heat.

I tilted my head back against him, my hair clinging wet to his chest. “And you smell like horse and steel,” I teased, though my words faltered when his lips found the curve just below my ear.

“Then I should wash,” he murmured. His palms smoothed down over my ribs, my waist, before pulling me back more firmly against him. My body shifted, the water lapping at the rim, heat pooling low in my belly.

I shifted in the water until I faced him, knees brushing against his thighs. Robb leaned back against the rim of the bath, arms spread along the edges as if yielding himself to me. Steam curled around his face, softening the sharpness of his jaw, though his eyes never left mine.

I dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it slowly, and pressed it to his shoulder. His skin was warm beneath the fabric, muscles taut but still beneath my hand. I drew the cloth along the line of his collarbone, across to the other shoulder, then down the length of his arm.

He watched me all the while, his mouth curved in a faint, knowing smile. “You mean to scrub me like a stable boy’s pony?” he teased, though his voice had dropped, low and husky.

“Maybe,” I answered, sliding the cloth down over his forearm to his hand, letting my fingers linger against his knuckles. “Though I doubt a stable boy would glare at me so intently while I worked.”

Robb chuckled under his breath, but the sound caught as I traced the cloth across his chest, slow and deliberate. His body shifted beneath the water, his breathing deeper, heavier.

Robb’s eyes followed the cloth as it circled lower, his voice rough with half-laughter. “You’ll make me forget what the water was meant for.”

I dipped the rag again, wringing it out with slow, deliberate care before running it across the line of his chest. “Oh? And what was it for, my lord? To scrub the mud from your armor, or the pride from your shoulders?”

He tipped his head back against the rim of the tub, arms draped wide, the faintest smirk curving his mouth. “You tell me. You’ve taken command of it well enough.”

I leaned forward, letting my hair brush damp against his skin as the cloth moved over his shoulder. “Then sit still and let me finish,” I said, though my tone was anything but stern.

Robb’s laugh was low in his throat. “You know I can’t sit still with you this close.”

The water shifted as he drew one knee higher, brushing against mine under the surface. I ignored it — or tried to — focusing on the cloth, the steady path it traced down his arm to his hand, where his fingers caught mine and held them still.

“Lyanna,” he said softly, thumb stroking my skin. “If you mean to wash me, then finish. If you mean to torment me…” His eyes glinted, steady on mine. “…don’t think I’ll let you have the sport alone.”

The rag slipped beneath the water, forgotten. His hand still clasped mine, warm and insistent, tugging me closer until I was straddling his lap, the water rising against my thighs.

“Robb—” I started, but the word broke on my lips when his mouth found my collarbone, tasting the drops of water that clung there.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he murmured against my skin, his breath hot in the cool steam. “Circling, teasing… you’ll drive me mad.”

I laughed softly, though it trembled as his hands spread over my hips. “Perhaps that was my intent.”

“Then you’ve succeeded.” He caught my mouth with his, no patience left in the kiss now. 

“Shh,” I whispered against his mouth, breaking the kiss with a sly smile. “Too impatient.”

Robb leaned back against the curve of the tub, arms stretching along its rim, his blue eyes narrowing as though daring me. “Impatient? From you?” His smirk deepened. “Aye, I want everything at once. Can you blame me?”

I braced my hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath my palms. “You don’t know how to enjoy the process,” I murmured, tilting my head as if considering him like a lesson poorly learned.

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Enjoy the process?” His voice dropped, half a growl, half a promise. “You’re telling me that? Fine. Show me.”

I leaned closer, letting the steam curl between us as my lips brushed the shell of his ear, then closed around his lobe in a teasing nip. He let out a sharp breath, his hands tightening on the edge of the bath. My mouth wandered lower, slow and unhurried, tracing the damp line of his jaw, then the hollow of his throat. His pulse thudded hard beneath my lips, a rhythm I lingered on before trailing further, to his collarbone, tasting the faint soap of his skin mixed with the heat of the water.

“Lyanna…” His voice was rougher now, the command in it fraying at the edges. He didn’t move, though — letting me have my game, letting me prove the point I’d set.

I kissed my way down to the curve of his shoulder, feeling his muscles tense under my mouth. My hands pressed firmer into his chest as if to keep him in place when his body threatened to rise against mine.

“See?” I whispered, lips brushing his skin. “There’s more pleasure in taking time.”

Robb’s breath came unsteady, his chest rising beneath my palms. He hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the rim, but the cords of his arms flexed as though he fought the urge.

“You’ll undo me before I’ve even touched you,” he said, voice roughened.

“That’s the point,” I murmured, brushing my lips over the hollow of his shoulder. The water rippled as I lingered there, letting my teeth scrape lightly against his skin until he gave a low sound in his throat.

His head tipped back against the wood, eyes half-lidded in the steam. “You enjoy torment.”

I only smiled, settling more firmly astride him, my thighs pressing to his hips beneath the water. My hands drifted down the length of his chest, pausing just above his stomach, then circling back again — slow, deliberate, never giving him what he wanted.

“Patience,” I whispered against his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin as I kissed my way lower.

I was still holding him at bay with my touch when he suddenly surged forward, the edge of restraint gone from him. His mouth crashed against mine, fierce and certain, swallowing the little breath I had left.

My hands slipped against his wet skin, soap and water making him slick beneath my fingers, but I clung to his shoulders all the same as he dragged me closer. His hands slid up, firm around my waist just below my breast, pinning me against him.

The kiss deepened, drowning thought, washing away the careful pace I’d set. When at last our lips parted, I caught a breathless laugh against his mouth.

“Ah, all my teasing undone so quickly. So much for patience,” I murmured.

Robb’s low chuckle rumbled against my chest. “Patience was never my strongest virtue,” he said, eyes glinting. His thumb traced the curve of my waist as he leaned in again. “And I’ve no taste for being toyed with—least of all by you.”

My breath hitched as I settled more firmly against him, thighs tight to his hips, the water shouldering up in restless waves. His hands smoothed along my back, moving slow, as if learning me by touch alone.

I cupped his face in both wet hands and kissed him unhurried, our mouths sliding together with steady heat. He sighed into me, low and rough, his thumbs brushing the tender place beneath my ribs.

He left my lips only to track my jaw with his mouth, then the line of my throat, lingering where my pulse beat quick. His teeth grazed, then soothed with his tongue, and I shivered, fingers knotting in his damp hair.

I moved against him, slow at first, and the bath rocked. One arm curled hard about his shoulder for balance, my brow tipped to his, breath coming ragged.

His chest pressed to mine, heat burning through the cling of my shift. One arm banded my waist, keeping my measure; the other slid to the nape of my neck, his fingers tightening in my hair as if he could not bear even an inch between us.

Our breaths mingled—uneven, hungry—the rhythm of us finding its pace. His mouth brushed mine between gasps, as if each kiss were a draught of air.

He caught my lower lip, a sharp tug that made me gasp before he claimed my mouth again. His hands settled on my hips, firm, guiding, urging me faster.

Water shouldered the rim with each shift. I poured every broken sound into his kiss; he swallowed them, breath hot against mine. His grip steadied me, answered me, until there was nothing left but the two of us, the press and pull and heat.

He did not stray far from my mouth—only to breathe against my cheek or throat—then back again, each kiss rougher than the last, as though he meant to drink me to the dregs. His hands tightened, drawing me down to the rhythm he wanted.

The bath heaved beneath us, water spilling over in waves, forgotten. His breath was ragged at my ear, mine cut short in little cries, until there was nothing but the sharp climb and the helpless fall.

When it took me, it tore me open with a cry drowned in his shoulder, my nails biting his back. He held me through it, shuddering with me, until his own release came on a low groan against my throat, his arms crushing me close as if he might keep time itself at bay.

For a while we only breathed, the steam closing about us, the water cooling around our hips. I leaned my brow to his, his heart hammering against my palm.

At last I gave a breathless laugh. “You’ve near emptied half the bath, Stark. You’ll drown your bannermen before you drown me.”

He huffed a laugh of his own and caught my chin to steal one last lingering kiss. “Worth it,” he murmured against my lips.

I nudged him, weak for it. “Help me up, before I go soft as kitchen turnips.”

He rose with me gathered in his arms, water streaming from his skin. A linen fell about my shoulders—snug, careful—his hands lingering as he drew it close. “Better. I’ll not have you wanting—for warmth or aught else.”

I lifted a brow over the rim of the cloth. “So thoughtful, after near drowning me.”

He grinned, curls plastered damp to his brow, and pressed a quick kiss to my temple before guiding me to the bed. I let him fuss, laughing low when he tucked the furs high.

“You’re worse than an old nurse,” I teased.

Robb braced a hand beside my head, his hair dripping cool against my cheek. “A nurse wouldn’t do this.” His mouth brushed mine—light, insistent—before he drew back with that infuriating smile.

“Smug creature,” I muttered, burrowing deeper.

“Say what you will,” he said, settling in close. “You’ll sleep the sounder for it.”

I swatted at him, though my cheeks burned. “Go to sleep, Robb.”

His arm curled tight about my waist. As the tent hushed to the faint hiss of the brazier, I let myself rest against him—warm, safe, the storm beyond the canvas held at bay a little longer.

Chapter Text

As Robb pressed deeper into the Riverlands, the host spread wide across field and village, yet for a short while we were granted stone walls. One of Lord Tully’s sworn men yielded his small castle, its scorched gates opened to shelter Robb and his council, while the rest of the army camped without upon the sodden ground. The hall still smelled of smoke and ash, but its roof held against the rain, and beneath it the lords of the North gathered in grim silence.

The horn of a Frey outrider had hardly died when the raven came. Black wings battered the wet air, claws scraping against the scorched sill as if the bird itself carried dread. The maester took it quickly, slit the seal with a knife thin as a finger, and placed the parchment into Robb’s waiting hand.

The fire roared high upon the hearth, yet no heat reached us. Robb’s eyes moved across the page once, twice, then slower, as if the words themselves must be weighed, tested, challenged. His fingers trembled against the parchment.

When he lowered it at last, the silence pressed like stone.

“What is it, my lord?” the Greatjon demanded, his voice too loud for the hush, a rumble of storm breaking against still air.

Robb’s mouth worked soundlessly. He turned the letter once in his hand, then set it upon the trestle table. Glover seized it, his eyes flashing as they raced across the lines. His jaw locked hard. At last he read aloud, though the words caught in his throat.

“By command of His Grace, King Joffrey Baratheon, Lord Eddard Stark, once Hand of the King, is declared traitor to the realm. For his crimes, he was beheaded upon the steps of Baelor’s Sept. Ser Ilyn Payne struck the blow before the eyes of the city.”

The words fell like hammers upon stone.

Catelyn did not weep. She stood with one hand braced upon the table, her knuckles white, her face rigid as carved ice. Only her lips moved, shaping the names that tore the hall deeper than any scream. “Sansa. Arya.”

Karstark’s breath rasped through his teeth. “On the steps of the Sept?” he spat. “Like some cutpurse dragged into the street?” His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

The Greatjon’s fist slammed upon the boards, rattling cups and plates. “Gods take them! Butchery, nothing more! They kill him before the mob and name it justice?”

Galbart Glover muttered darkly into his beard, though the words were lost beneath the roar of the fire. Even the Greatjon, who bellowed at all things, stood stunned for a heartbeat, as if struck.

Only Roose Bolton seemed untouched. His pale eyes slid across the table, his voice as thin and smooth as a blade being drawn. “So. There will be no parley.”

The parchment lay in the center, edges curling in the heat, ash flecking its surface. No man reached for it again.

And still I felt their eyes. Some glanced quick and guilty, others sharp and lingering — as if Ned Stark’s death had darkened their view of me.

Robb saw them too. His chair scraped against the stone as he rose. His voice, when it came, was winter itself.

“Robb’s voice was low. “Do not lay your eyes on her so. My father’s death is no stain of hers.”

The words cut sharper than any sword. No man dared meet my eyes after. Yet the weight of their stares lingered, heavy as chains, until the air itself was thick with grief and unspoken fury.

Robb turned and left the hall without another word. One heartbeat he stood at the table, the next the door slammed wide, rain and night rushing in with him as he was gone.

No one followed. The lords shifted uneasily, some muttering low, some glaring into the fire as though it had mocked them. Catelyn’s hand stayed braced to the table, her head bowed as if beneath a burden too great. At last she lifted her gaze and moved, slow as a woman carved of stone, into the dark after her son.

I stayed a moment longer, smoke stinging my throat, but I could not bear the weight of their eyes. Half of them would see only a Stark’s wife, the rest a Lannister’s kin — and neither left me room to breathe. At last I slipped from the hall into the corridor beyond, the air colder, emptier. My fist clenched tight at my side. I knew Robb would be with his mother, bound in grief only they could share.

The hall stank of smoke and sorrow. I could bear no more of it. My legs carried me out beneath the blackened arch, into the corridor where torchlight faltered against wet stone. The air was colder there, cleaner, but it did not ease the weight in my chest.

For a time I lingered, listening — the restless clatter of men in the yard, the crackle of flames outside the walls. Then another sound reached me, sharper than the rest: steel biting wood, again and again, a rhythm of fury.

I turned toward it. At last, I followed into the night.

Rain soaked the meadow to black velvet. Fires burned low across the meadow, shadows stirring where men tried to forget the weight of the raven. Yet above all, louder than the crackle of flame or the bark of dogs, came the rhythm of steel on wood.

Strike. Gasp. Strike again.

I followed the sound through the trees, the wet grass clutching at my skirts. There, in a small clearing lit only by a lantern’s dim glow, Robb stood with his sword. He swung again, and the blade bit deep into the trunk of an old oak, chips of bark flying. Sap bled down the cut like yellow blood. His knuckles were split raw on the hilt, sweat streaking through the grime on his brow. His breath tore ragged from his chest, each stroke an oath of fury.

Catelyn was with him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her voice low and urgent, but I could not catch her words. I saw only the pleading in her eyes, the way she tried to draw him back from the brink.

“I’ll kill them all!” Robb’s voice broke across the night, raw and jagged. The sword struck again, the trunk shuddering with the force.

Catelyn held him a heartbeat longer, her hand brushing his cheek, her face pale with grief. But even a mother’s touch could not still the storm in him. At last she turned, her cloak heavy with damp, and walked back toward the camp with steps that dragged as though each weighed a stone.

Robb was left alone.

The sword slipped from his hand, falling into the earth with a dull thud. His chest rose and fell, each breath harsh, shoulders bowed as though all the war pressed upon them. His eyes stared past me, into some distance where no one could follow.

I went to him slowly, each step heavy. My throat ached with words, but none seemed enough. When I reached him, my voice was no more than a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” I said. The tears came hot, stinging my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Robb. So, so sorry.”

He turned then, his face wet, twisted with grief and fury both. “I was late,” he rasped. “All these days, all these battles — I swore each mile brought us closer, that every step was toward Father’s freedom. And now—” His voice broke. “Now he’s gone. I was too late.”

His fist struck his thigh, hard, the crack of bone against plate sharp enough to make me flinch. “I thought we’d reach him. I thought—” The words faltered, splintered, and he turned away, as if even grief must be borne like armor.

He spat the name like a curse. “Joffrey. I’ll kill him with my own hands.”

The sound of it cut through me. My chest burned, but I pressed my palm to his sleeve, steadying my voice. “He carries my father’s name,” I said. “But names do not make men. He is Joffrey, not my brother.”

Robb’s grip closed around my hand, trembling and fierce. His thumb ground against my knuckles as if even his comfort had to strike. “Then he is nothing. And I’ll see him pay for it.”

I leaned into him, my brow against his, though the touch offered no comfort. His grief burned too hot, mine too hollow. When my father died, it had been sudden, stupid — a boar’s tusk, the folly of wine. The emptiness had been vast, yes, but shapeless. For Robb, for Catelyn, it was different. Ned Stark had been their anchor, their daily strength — and he was not taken by chance but by malice. Their grief was not a void; it was a wound, raw and bleeding.

The truth lay between us, stark and cold: whatever blood tied me to the boy on the Iron Throne had been severed on the steps of Baelor’s Sept.

The lantern guttered, casting our shadows long across the sodden earth. Robb bent once more to retrieve his fallen sword, but the fury had drained from him, leaving only the weight of grief. He wiped the blade clean against the grass, sheathed it without a word, and walked back toward the camp.

I followed a time later, the night pressing close. Around the fires, men spoke in hushed voices, the raven’s tidings still heavy in the air. Grief hung like smoke over every tent.

By dusk the next day, another raven came — wings slick with rain, a seal dark with wax. 

The words were Stannis Baratheon’s, written without courtesy or crown.

The boy Joffrey is no son of Robert Baratheon. Nor are Tommen and Myrcella. They are bastards of incest, seeded by Jaime Lannister. Robert left but one trueborn child, Lyanna Baratheon. But the law is plain: a daughter may not sit the Iron Throne. Thus the crown is mine, by rights of blood and law. I, Stannis of House Baratheon, claim the Seven Kingdoms. Let every true lord of Westeros bend the knee and swear his fealty, or be named traitor and suffer the fate of all who stand against their rightful king.

Karstark’s gaunt face twisted. “So now we are asked to kneel again,” Karstark rasped, gaunt face twisted. “South today, south tomorrow. Crowns over Winterfell, and each one ready to name us traitors when it suits them.”

Then the Greatjon thundered what the rest had only circled around. His voice rolled through the rafters like a warhorn.

“Why bow to any southron king?” he roared. “Southron lords swaddled in silks, bellies fat with wine—what do they know of the North? They sit their iron chair leagues away, blind to snow, blind to famine, blind to the blood we spill for hearth and hall. They care nothing for us—never did.”

“Aye!” growled Glover. Karstark’s teeth bared in grim approval. Boots stamped, steel rang faintly in scabbards.

“I’ll not bend my knee to bastards of incest,” Umber spat, “nor to perfumed lords who crown themselves with glittering circlets and call it law. Gods curse them! The North bends the knee to Starks, and Starks alone.”

A murmur rolled, sharp as steel on stone. Even Bolton’s silence seemed to lean in closer.

“For thousands of years we knelt to no man but our own!” the Greatjon roared. “Until the dragons came—and even then, only fire broke our swords. We followed Robert Baratheon for Eddard Stark’s sake,” Umber bellowed. “For he was true, and knew what must be done. And what did it bring us? A butchered lord, and his daughters in chains! Robert lies cold, Eddard’s head struck from his shoulders. Yet here stands his son, Robb Stark—and Robert’s daughter too, his blood, who wears the name Stark now.”

The hall stirred like a storm breaking. Even cautious lords muttered assent, the sound swelling like a tide.

“That is enough for me,” Umber swept his sword high, the blade gleaming red in the firelight. “I’ll have no southron kings, no lion bastards, no stag pretenders. I will know only one king—Robb Stark, the King in the North!”

The hall erupted. Swords scraped free, steel clashing, boots stamping. One man dropped to a knee, then another, until the hall thundered like a storm breaking. “The King in the North! The King in the North!”

The cry shook the rafters, a storm of steel and voices, yet at the far side of the hall Catelyn did not move. She stood apart, her hands braced against the trestle, her face pale in the firelight. The flames carved hollows in her cheeks, and her eyes shone with something sharper than grief.

She did not smile, nor join the roar. Her gaze passed over the lords with their blades bared, over Robb with his jaw set hard, over me with my heart hammering in my chest. She looked at us all as a mother might look upon children brawling over a grave.

Her eyes lingered on Robb longest. And though she said nothing, I felt the weight of her silence as if she had spoken aloud: this crown was no victory. It was a shroud, hammered from loss and grief, placed upon a boy too young to bear it.

When at last her gaze met mine, it struck deeper still. In her eyes I saw no judgment, no open scorn, only a truth I had not wanted to face. The North would crown Robb, and I would stand beside him, yet my blood could not be washed away. Robert’s daughter, Lannister’s kin, bound to their king by vows of love and law — and still a shadow among wolves.

Robb stood rigid as stone beneath their acclamation. His hand curled into a fist at his side, and he gave no smile, no nod, no triumph. His gaze swept the hall, then flicked to me. For a heartbeat it softened—as if to say he bore it for us, or because he must. Then he straightened, his voice low but clear, cutting through the din: “They killed my father. They hold my sisters. And they would have us kneel again, to their crowns and their lies. No more.”

The voices rose again, drowning all thought. “The King in the North! The King in the North!” The roar that answered near split the roof.

Chapter Text

The news of Robb Stark proclaimed King in the North spread through the Seven Kingdoms like fire on dry grass.

Robb did not linger to savor it. He split his strength: at Stone Hedge, Umber broke a company of foragers, their wagons overturned in the Red Fork shallows. At Fairmarket, Glover smashed a Lannister column, leaving the road littered with their shields. Bolton moved quieter, seizing villages by night and leaving enemy garrisons gone without a trace.

So it went for days. Piece by piece, ground by ground, Robb’s host pushed south and east, until the siege of Riverrun — once Jaime Lannister’s trap for the Tullys — stood close to becoming the cage that might close on him instead.

The camp bent as I passed. Men straightened from their dice or stew pots, dipped their heads, and gave the word. Your Grace. Some spat it out quickly, as if the taste was strange. Others held it longer, testing the sound. Each greeting sat on me like a cloak I had not chosen.

Robb’s tent stood at the heart of it, firelight flickering through the seams. Inside he was bent over the maps with Roose Bolton. At my step, their talk ended. Bolton’s pale eyes shifted to me; he bowed once. “Your Grace.” Then he was gone into the night.

Robb watched him leave before turning back to me. “It unsettles you,” he said.

I breathed out. “It sounds idle to me. The way they say it, as if they spoke to someone I don’t know.”

His brows knit. “Why? You accepted me as king easily enough. But still you cannot accept yourself as queen?”

I brushed at my sleeve, though there was nothing there. “I never thought myself so. Many ladies dream of marrying a prince, of wearing a crown. But a princess cannot become a queen. Not in the songs, not in truth. I never imagined it for myself. And now they call me Your Grace, and it feels strange.”

Robb’s mouth pulled, not quite a smile. “If it eases you — I feel much the same. Most kings grew up as princes, their whole lives bent toward the crown. I was raised to be Lord of Winterfell. Never more than that.”

Robb’s gaze held mine, steady, thoughtful. “But it’s different now,” he said. “I remember what you told me once—before the war, before our marriage. You spoke of crowns as chains, that kings do little and it is lords who truly rule. I thought it only a jest at the time, some boldness loosed by firelight. But you were right. I remember every word.”

The heat of memory stirred in me — that night months ago, when I was still a child  playing at wisdom, mocking crowns and kings as though war were a story told at a hearth. The words had come easily then, bold and free, thrown into the dark without thought of what they might mean. Now they sat heavy as iron, come back to me through Robb’s mouth.

“You said a crown is only an illusion,” he went on. “That it gleams bright, but the weight of it falls elsewhere. I thought you careless then. But you were wiser than I knew.” His hand tightened slightly on mine. “Because I see it now. It is not the Seven Kingdoms I care for. It is the North. It has always been the North. That is where the weight belongs, and that is where I’ll bear it.”

His eyes burned, not with the fever of victory but with something steadier, harder. “And that gives us freedom. No Iron Throne, no stag or lion to bow to. No king’s whims to strangle us. The North bows to the North alone.”

I felt the words like a rush of cold air. My throat ached. “Freedom,” I said softly, though the word felt strange in my mouth.

Robb’s gaze softened, but his grip did not ease. “And for you too, Lyanna. You have no ties left to them. Not to your mother, nor to the boy she raised. They can claim no power over you now. You are queen here. Our queen. And no crown in the south, can unmake that.”

For a long moment, I could not speak. My thoughts returned to that night — when I had laughed at crowns, scorned their weight, and spoken truths I had not known were true. Now they had circled back, binding me tighter than any chain.

I stepped closer, until the table’s edge pressed into my hip, and slid my hand into his. Our fingers tangled together, his grip rough, mine unsteady.

“You know,” I said, low, “since the first day I came to Winterfell, I’ve begun to doubt every word I ever spoke. Every judgment I thought true.”

It had been weeks since the raven came, yet the weight of it still hung over us. The hall had roared Robb king, the banners of wolf and trout had flown together, but none of it had lifted the shadow from him. Grief had worn at him day by day, carving him leaner, harder, quieter.

Now, as I stood between him and the table and laced my fingers through his, Robb’s mouth twitched, the faintest shadow of a smile. It was the first I had seen since word of his father’s death.

“Is it so?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The first thing I ever believed was that marriage was the heaviest cage a girl could be locked in. The worst of burdens.” My eyes flicked to him, meaning clear enough.

He looked back, steady, and I shook my head. “I was wrong.”

His thumb pressed against mine, silent.

“My second truth was about crowns. I called them cages too — bright, hollow things, lies of glory. I thought they gave nothing but an illusion.” The words tasted bitter now. “And here too, I was wrong.”

Robb’s eyes dropped to the floor, the shadows cutting deep into his face. At length he said, “Then we are alike. I was wrong as well. About more things than I dare count.”

He turned then, drawing a long breath as if to steady himself, and faced the map spread across the table. Wooden markers stood arrayed — wolves and trouts, lions scattered thick along the river crossings. His hand moved one piece, tapping it hard enough to rattle the board.

“I will lead the host to Riverrun,” he said. “Jaime Lannister holds it under siege. I must break him, free the castle, and open our way deeper into the Riverlands.”

The fire threw red light across the carved figures. I reached out, my fingers closing around a lion. I turned it slowly in my hand.

“Jaime,” I said. “My uncle... but more Cersei’s brother thirsting for glory than an uncle. He was never cruel to me. At times he was kinder than my own mother.” The word caught, bitter in my mouth. “But that does not bind me to him.”

Robb’s hand lingered on the edge of the map, his eyes fixed on the carved lions crowding the river valleys. “I hate the thought of it,” he said at last, low. “But I’d be a fool not to ask you. Jaime. Tywin. What are they?”

For a moment I only stared at the table, at the neat rows of painted sigils, as if the answer might rise from the wood. My mouth was dry. “I don’t know battles,” I said finally. “Not the way you do. I’ve never watched armies move, or thought about walls and rivers.” My fingers touched the lion figure, light as if it might burn. “But from what I can say it’s…” I turned the piece in my hand, slowly, as if it might speak back. “My grandfather always thought himself the strongest man in the world. He sat in Casterly Rock as if it were the Iron Throne itself, and he never doubted. He was the Mad King’s Hand, he won battles again and again, and he carried himself as though no man could ever match him.”

 A faint, uncertain breath escaped me. “Maybe that’s his weakness. He believes too much in his own strength. He underestimates others. Always.”

Robb’s gaze flicked toward me, sharp. “Underestimates?”

“Yes.” I nodded, though the word came softly. “That’s… Lannister pride. Glory, they’d call it. But pride blinds them. Tywin believes he already knows the shape of every game before it’s even begun. And Jaime—” my thumb brushed across the lion’s carved mane—“he thinks no one can ever best him with a sword. I can’t tell you where to march, Robb, but I think the only way to beat them is to outsmart them. To strike in a way they’ll never expect.”

The fire popped, a spark drifting up the chimney. Robb’s face had gone thoughtful, his hand pressed firm on the table, his eyes fixed not on me now, but on the board before him — the wolves, the trouts, the lions scattered across the Riverlands.

The flap stirred, and the guard’s voice followed. “Lady Stark.”

I turned, startled, as Catelyn stepped into the tent. The fire caught her face in hard lines, her mouth set, eyes grave. Not grief — that was older, quieter now — but something colder, heavier.

“Mother,” Robb said, straightening from the map. “What is it?”

Her gaze flicked over me once, then fixed on her son. “I need a word with my son. Alone.”

The words struck sharper than steel. I felt the heat rise in me, unbidden. A queen, and yet dismissed as though I were some maidservant. But she was his mother, and the grief had carved her lean and hollow, and I could not bring myself to answer sharpness with disrespect.

Robb hesitated. His eyes went from her to me, uncertain.

I forced myself to move. “I’ll go,” I said softly, though it burned in my throat. My skirts brushed the floor as I turned. The tent flap fell behind me with a whisper, cutting me off from the firelight, leaving only the damp night air.

Inside, the silence stretched a long moment.

Then Robb said, low, wary, “What is it, Mother?”

Catelyn drew a long breath, her voice thick. “A letter. From the queen.”

The air in the tent turned close. The shadows pressed nearer, the fire seemed to burn lower. The queen’s words tolled like a bell.

Robb crossed the floor in two strides, his breath ragged. “My sisters,” he blurted. “Sansa, Arya—are they—?” He faltered, as though the very name might summon doom.

“They are alive,” Catelyn said, steady. Yet her eyes flickered, once, toward the flap where I had gone.

Robb’s jaw clenched. “Then why speak so to her? She is my wife, and—”

Catelyn cut him sharp. “I have buried a husband, and two daughters of mine sit in a queen’s cage. Forgive me, Robb, if I do not weigh her feelings beside theirs.”

The words struck harder than a blow. Robb’s mouth worked, but he swallowed it down. He knew her grief, knew his own, and knew too well that mine was no lighter. He only drew a long breath through his nose. “Then what is it, Mother?”

“They’ve broken the betrothal,” Catelyn said. “Sansa is no longer promised to Joffrey. They call her traitor’s daughter now.” She hesitated, the parchment crackling faintly in her grip. “And… they have annulled your marriage.”

Robb’s head jerked, as though the words themselves had struck. “What?”

“The queen names her price,” Catelyn whispered. “If we would see Arya and Sansa safe, we must send Lyanna back to them.”

Robb stared at her, disbelieving. “Are they mad?” His voice cracked, harsh in the small space. “Do they think I would—” He broke off, teeth grinding, his face dark with a fury that had no outlet.

He wrenched the parchment from her hands. One tear, then another, until the scraps fell like dead leaves to the rushes at their feet. “They think I would sell my wife,” he spat. “Trade her life for theirs. No.”

“Robb!” Catelyn seized his wrist, her nails white in his skin. “Think. They already took your father’s head. Do you think your sisters safe while you sit here, miles away?”

His voice rose. “You know why I am here, Mother. Tywin sits on one road, Jaime on the other. Would you have me charge blind, while my men starve and my host is cut apart? Is that why you asked me alone? To say I should give Lyanna over like a purse of silver?” His eyes burned. “Mother, have you taken leave of your senses?”

Her voice trembled, but she did not let go. “I have not lost my mind. I am a mother. And I know the Lannisters. At the Trident, when Robert slew Rhaegar—do you know what became of his children?”

Robb’s jaw worked. “Rumors only.”

“Not rumors,” Catelyn said, her voice sharp as broken glass. “Two babes. Slaughtered in their beds by Gregor’s sword, at Tywin’s order. That is what they did to Rhaegar’s get. And what do you think they will do to Eddard Stark’s daughters, with their father branded traitor and their brother raising war against them? They will not spare them, Robb. But Lyanna… she is their blood. They would not dare spill hers.”

Robb’s eyes burned. “You set your hand to this match. Don’t deny it. You told me she was the best bride for me — the one most fit to stand at my side. And now you would cast her back to the lions?”

Catelyn’s eyes glistened, but her voice was flint. “She is not only your wife. She is Robert’s trueborn — his only trueborn. That alone is enough to make Cersei tremble. With you beside her, with the North at her back, men might rise to her without a sword drawn. That is why they annul this marriage. With Lyanna as your queen, you are not just King in the North. You could be more. And Cersei knows it.”

She paused, the fire snapping between them. “Robb, I know she is not like them. She has her father’s honor, not her mother’s venom. But Sansa and Arya are your own blood. Your sisters. The little girls who clung to you when the storms woke them. Can you tell me their lives weigh less than hers?”

Robb’s breath heaved, his eyes shining. “Mother, enough. Lyanna is your queen. And she has no hunger for crowns — I swear that. But if I give her up like a purse of coin, what king am I? What man? I would break every vow I’ve made, shame her before all the realm. That is no rescue. That is betrayal. Father lived for honor — and I’ll not spit on his grave to buy my sisters’ lives.”

His hand closed in a fist so tight his knuckles bled white. “I will bring them home. I will have justice for Father. But not with this price.”

Catelyn’s mouth quivered, her grief breaking through at last. “You speak as though I do not know oaths. I gave mine to your father at the sept, and he lies cold in the ground. You speak as though I do not know what it is to love. Robb, love for a wife is not a mother’s love. You cannot know it yet. One day, when you hold a child of your own, you’ll see — that bond runs deeper than any vow, deeper than any crown. I would see every oath broken if it meant saving Sansa and Arya.”

The words hung like smoke.

Robb lowered his head, his voice a growl. “You are not the only one who lost him. I lost a father. She lost hers. You think I will throw her back to the lions who scorn her blood? No, Mother. Never.”

For a long moment they only stared at each other, the fire spitting between them. At last, Catelyn turned her face aside.

“I knew what you would say,” she murmured. “But I had to try. If the next raven brings word they are dead, their deaths will weigh on you as heavy as on Cersei.”

She left him with that.

Robb stood motionless, his hand braced on the table as though he might crush the wood beneath his palm. The fire burned low, shadows cutting sharp across his face. His jaw was set, but his eyes—hard, glinting—were the only answer he gave.

Chapter Text

The dusk pressed close around the camp, heavy and expectant. Torches flared against the darkening sky, their smoke curling above rows of men and horses. Beyond the canvas walls of Robb’s tent, I heard the ring of steel, the mutter of voices low with nerves, the restless stamping of hooves. But inside, the world was smaller, quieter. It was just him and me.

The lamplight caught on his breastplate as I fastened the straps, the weight of it cool and unyielding beneath my fingers. Piece by piece, the armor swallowed him — steel over leather, cloak over shoulders — until I could scarcely see the man I had lain beside the night before. Yet his eyes, when they lifted to mine, were still Robb’s: steady, bright, too alive for the hour pressing in around us.

“You’ll crease your brow so deep the lines will never leave,” he said softly, catching my hand before I could reach for the last buckle. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, a fleeting warmth against all that steel.

“Perhaps I’ve earned the right to worry,” I answered, though the words came lighter than I felt. “You’re not marching out to a hunt.”

A faint smile tugged his mouth, though it never quite reached his eyes. “No. But you’ll see me return.”

I wanted to believe it, wanted to hold his certainty like a shield. Instead, I found myself leaning closer, my voice a whisper. “Then give me something to keep until you do.”

His gaze softened, and in the next breath his lips found mine — a kiss that was neither long nor gentle, but fierce with everything we hadn’t the time to say. I clutched at the edge of his cloak, pulling him nearer, until the world beyond the canvas fell away.

The tent flap stirred.

“Your Grace.” Lord Karstark’s voice cut through, cool and formal. He stood just inside the entrance, his head bowed but his presence immovable. “It is time.”

Robb drew back at once, though his hand lingered against my cheek for a heartbeat longer, as if reluctant to let go. When he turned, the weight of command settled over him like another layer of armor. His voice, when he answered, was firm. “Very well.”

Karstark stepped aside, waiting. Robb reached for his swordbelt, buckled it in one practiced motion, then glanced back at me. Just once. His eyes held mine, steady and certain, before he strode from the tent.

That night I did not sleep. Not a breath, not a blink. It was not the first time Robb had gone out clad in steel and returned with blood on his cloak — but this time was different. He had taken more men, more of his strength, and the weight of it gnawed at me.

At first I stayed in my tent, pacing, tapping restless fingers along the table until the sound itself drove me half-mad. Minutes stretched into hours, every one of them a lifetime. When at last the black of night began to pale with the first gray light of dawn, I could bear it no longer.

I threw on my cloak and stepped out. The air was heavy with smoke and damp earth, the whole camp shrouded in uneasy silence, as though even the men left behind had forgotten how to breathe. Ivory was saddled already, her pale coat catching what little light there was. My hands moved clumsily at the reins, desperate for action, for anything but waiting.

“Your Grace.”

The words stopped me cold. They sounded strange on her lips — stiff, unused, almost reluctant. And stranger still in my ears, as though the title belonged to someone else.

Lady Catelyn stood in the half-light, her cloak drawn close against the chill. She looked as though she had not sat nor slept all night, her face lined with the same strain that kept me awake. We had not spoken since the night she stormed from Robb’s tent. Whatever words had passed then, I had never been told. Robb had cut the matter short, never to bring it up again. But Lady Catelyn’s eyes carried the weight of it still, sharper than any blade.

“My lady,” I said quietly. The title caught in my throat.

Her gaze flicked to the mare, then back to me. “Still no news?”

“No.” The word scraped my throat.

The boy tending Ivory shifted uneasily until Catelyn’s eyes dismissed him. She stepped closer, her voice lower, quieter, as though the whole camp might be listening. “Where are you going?”

“Just outside the camp,” I said, my fingers tight on the reins. “Waiting is killing me.” My throat thickened, but I pushed the words out anyway. “Seven hells, I’ve never wished so much to be born a man as I do now. To make myself useful — anything but this. Anything but waiting.”

Catelyn’s gaze held mine, steady but hard.

“I once waited for my husband through the rebellion your father began. Now I wait for my son through every battle of this war.”

The words hit deep. I couldn’t answer her — not when she had every right to say them. My father had once raised banners, and his war bled the realm for years. Now my half-brother had struck off Lord Stark’s head, and this war was born anew. Both threads wound back to my blood, to my family. How could I answer her grief when it was my house that had fed it?

I drew a quiet breath, steadying myself.

“Robb will soon return. I will meet him outside. I want some fresh air. Forgive me, my lady.” I said, mounting the horse.

It was all I could offer — polite, measured, harmless.

Lady Catelyn only inclined her head, but her eyes lingered, sharp with all the things neither of us spoke.

I was on Ivory’s back, moving toward the edge of the camp — not far enough to lose its safety, but as far as I dared. The night air clung cold and damp, my breath curling pale in the dark. I fixed my eyes on the horizon, where the first faint light began to break across the treetops.

At first, I caught the sound — not just hooves, but the ring of iron, the jangle of bridles, the clatter of riders returning. My heart leapt before my eyes confirmed it. I narrowed my gaze toward the dim horizon, and soon I saw them: the first glint of banners rising above the treetops.

A minute later, they broke clear — great banners snapping in the dawn wind, grey wolves running proud. The host was coming home.

At their head, as always, was Robb.

Relief hit me so fiercely it almost broke into laughter. I couldn’t hold it back — a smile spread across my face, wide and unguarded, the first in hours. By then, the noise had roused the camp. Men poured from their tents, Lady Catelyn among them, gathering at the edge to watch.

And then I saw him clearly. His armor was streaked with blood and dirt, the mark of battle written plain across him. Yet the way he sat his saddle — straight, steady, unshaken — told me enough. He was whole.

When his eyes found mine, he smiled. And just like that, the terror of the night eased from my chest.

The moment his banner broke fully into view, I swung down from Ivory, the reins still clutched in my hand as I hurried forward. My boots sank into the damp earth, but I hardly felt it — my eyes were fixed only on him.

Robb dismounted with practiced ease, his armor clattering faintly as he handed his reins to a waiting squire. He stripped off his gauntlets, not sparing a glance at the bannermen pressing closer, or the soldiers lifting their voices in cheer. His mother was there too, her gaze sharp, searching — but Robb paid none of them heed.

He came straight to me.

Before I could speak, Robb’s hands framed my face and he kissed me, firm and unflinching. The cheer of men, the banners snapping, even his mother’s sharp gaze — none of it mattered. He was no boy to hide affection, no lordling to flinch from whispers. He was a king, and before all his host he claimed me as his queen.

His breath was hot, raw from battle, but steady now against me. And I kissed him back, uncaring of the blood and dirt — only of the fact that he was here, alive.

Our lips broke apart, breathless, and Robb gave only a short nod toward his mother. I caught the way relief softened her stern face, as though for a heartbeat she might run to embrace him — but she held herself still, steel as ever. A Stark showing weakness before bannermen was unthinkable. That was a grace only I could afford.

I hadn’t even found words before a commotion stirred behind us — the sound of men shifting, of chains rattling. I turned, frowning, just as Greatjon Umber strode forward, his voice loud and sharp:

“We have him, my king!” he called. “The Kingslayer!”

The men shoved their prize into the circle. Jaime Lannister fell hard to the ground, his golden hair matted, his armor spattered with blood and mud. His hands were bound, but even in chains, arrogance clung to him. He lifted his head and smirked, as if he had come of his own will.

When his gaze swept over me, a strange tightening seized my chest. 

Jaime’s eyes narrowed slightly, surprise flickering across his face. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice smooth as silk. “My sweet niece, here of all places. Not hiding behind Winterfell’s walls, but in the mud of a camp. Touching.”

My lips parted, but no words came.

Greatjon yanked him roughly to his feet.

“Mind yourself, Kingslayer. She may share Lannister’s blood, but that’s the only tie — and a rotten one at that.”

Steel flashed as swords leveled at Jaime’s throat, but he only laughed, tilting his head.

“Take his head off!” Lord Umber barked, his voice booming. “Send it to his bastard get. He killed your father. Let us kill him for you, Robb!”

Terror clutched at me, but before I could speak, Robb’s voice cut sharp through the noise.

“There is more use for him alive than dead.”

Jaime’s smirk widened, his gaze flicking between us.

“Ah. So here stands the famous Young Wolf. The King in the North. Why waste time with banners and hosts?” Jaime sneered. “One swing, boy, and it’s done — Stark against Lannister, wolf against lion. Swords, lances, teeth, nails — choose your weapons. Unless you’ve not the stomach for it.”

I turned to Robb, my eyes fixed on him. My eyes begged him: Don’t. He’s baiting you.

Robb let the silence stretch, his gaze steady on Jaime as though he might pierce straight through him. At last he spoke, each word clipped, cold. “If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you win. We won’t do it your way.”

My face remained composed, but inside, pride and relief swelled sharp in my chest.

Umber shoved Jaime forward with a grunt. “Come on, pretty man.”

The men jeered and cheered as the Kingslayer was dragged away, but I only watched Robb — unbending and unshaken.

The camp had not yet stilled from victory. Men drifted like restless shades, sharpening blades already sharp, boasting of wounds no one had seen. Robb had ridden with the dawn to break Riverrun’s siege, leaving only a skeleton guard behind. And Jaime Lannister.

His cage squatted apart from the ordered rows of tents, iron sunk in mud. He sat inside with wrists chained, golden hair clotted dark, his face bruised but his smirk untouched.

I told myself I had no reason to go near him. Yet my feet betrayed me, carrying me across the churned earth until I stood before the bars.

Two guards lowered their spears across my path.

“The king said no one is to come near,” one murmured.

“He is chained. He is caged,” I answered, steady. “Do you think I’ve come to loose him?”

Still they held. My tone sharpened, colder than I meant it to be.

“And the Queen tells you to stand aside.”
The word hung there, sharp as steel. They shifted uneasily, trading a look, before lowering their spears.

“Leave us,” I said.

“Your Grace—” one began.

“If I am fool enough to free him, I’ll pay the price.”

Reluctantly they withdrew. The sound of Jaime’s chains followed, then his voice.

“Well, well. My niece, come to visit her doting uncle. Or should I say, Your Grace?”

“You were never my uncle in truth.”

He chuckled, low and weary. “Not me, then. Tyrion, perhaps. You’ve always favored him. Though Renly, I hear, outshone us both.”

I gave him nothing.

Jaime leaned forward, the chain links rasping. His voice was smooth, coaxing.

“These wolves will never trust you, niece. Oh, they’ll kiss your hand, call you ‘Grace,’ but in the dark they’ll whisper lion, lion, lion. Free me, and you’ll have more than a crown of snow. You’ll have a choice.”

I tilted my head, let silence stretch, then answered with a thin smile.

“A choice? To hand myself to the same woman who sold me north like a heifer at market? That’s the choice you offer?”

“She is your mother. Cersei loves her children.”

A laugh slipped from me, sharp and joyless.

“She loves power, Jaime. If you cannot see it, you are blinder than your chains.”

“She erred,” he pressed, his voice lower, almost pleading. “But you are blood. Ours. Think of the war, then — thousands of lives, spared if you open this door.”

“The war your son began, when he commanded Lord Eddard’s head struck from his shoulders.”

At Joffrey’s name, Jaime’s eyes flicked, quick as a blade, before settling back into that practiced smirk.

“He’s your brother. Whatever else you want to call him.”

“Half-brother.”

“Still blood,” Jaime pressed, his voice low, steady. “And blood is what binds us in the end. Kin is all we truly have. No friend, no wolf, no marriage oath will change that.”

“I’ve learned blood means little if it’s poisoned.”

The words cut, and I let them linger before I straightened, smoothing my voice to steel.

“You’re right about one thing. I’ll always be a Lannister’s blood. And perhaps that’s why I can smell when one of them is desperate.”

Jaime’s smirk tugged wider, though his eyes were cool.

“You’ve shed your feathers, niece. No longer the soft little thing from King’s Landing. Tell me—what will your Stark do with me now?”

“Whatever he wills. He is a king, after all.”

Jaime’s smirk deepened, though his eyes flickered with something harder.

“It was you, wasn’t it? Whispering in your young wolf’s ear until he scrawled letters like some dutiful boy to his father. And so this war began with your breath.”

He leaned forward, the chains clinking faintly.

“You spit on Joffrey, and me, and your mother. Very well. But what of Tommen? What of Myrcella? They never wronged you. You were close with them, once. Or have the wolves taught you to forget your own blood so easily?”

I stilled, meeting his gaze through the bars, my voice even.

“I whispered nothing. Lord Eddard uncovered the truth on his own, and for that he lost his head. But not before he sent word to Stannis. It was his hand, not mine, that set the realm to whisper of bastards.”

For the first time, his smile thinned.

“Good night, uncle. May your chains keep you warm.”

I turned from the bars, the mud sucking faint at my boots.

Chapter Text

By the time Robb returned from Riverrun’s walls, the Riverlands were already telling the tale of his victory. Word spread faster than riders: the Young Wolf had broken the siege, the Lannisters scattered, Riverrun freed.

I rode at his side when we went to the castle, though I had never felt so out of place in a saddle. Until now, battle had been something that lived in whispers at campfires or in letters carried by ravens. That morning it lay before me in flesh and ruin.

The fields stank of blood and rot. Fallen men lay where they had dropped, their armor half-sunk in mud, their cloaks torn into rags. Banners drooped like wilted flowers, their colors drowned in mud and blood — lions dragged through muck, trout torn to shreds, wolves dimmed beneath the rain. Crows picked at the corpses, lifting and settling again with no fear of men.

I kept my gaze forward, but it was impossible not to see. Every few lengths, a dead horse sprawled where it had fallen, foam dried at its mouth. A broken spear jutted from the earth like some cruel crop. My stomach twisted. I had thought myself hardened by nights of waiting in camp, by the ache of not knowing if Robb would return. But this was different. This was war laid bare.

And then Riverrun itself came into view — not as rumor, but in stone. Red walls rose above the river fork, strong and proud despite the siege. Its towers caught the morning light, scarred but unyielding, and the waters lapped at its base, swift and cold. For a moment I forgot the bodies, the carrion birds, the banners left to rot. It was the first time I had seen the Tully seat, and it struck me with the same force as Winterfell had: a place that breathed its house’s pride, immovable, defiant.

Robb’s men cheered as we neared the gates, their voices hoarse but fierce. The air was thick with smoke and victory, yet the cost of it lingered all around us, heavy as the stench of iron.

The gates of Riverrun swung wide, and its people poured forth. Some still wore the grime of siege, others leaned on crutches or bore their wounds bare, but all raised their voices when they saw Robb. The King in the North! echoed against the stone, ragged but fervent.

At the forefront came Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, his mail dulled with wear, but his stance as unyielding as the castle he had held. His arms wrapped around Catelyn before words could. For a heartbeat, she was not the stern lady of Winterfell but a daughter, clutching her uncle with a fierceness born of long years apart.

Behind him was Edmure, pale from his wounds but upright, leaning on two men for support. Catelyn broke from Brynden only to gather her brother, her voice breaking into his shoulder. “It has been too long.”

“And too hard,” Edmure rasped, though he forced a weary smile. “Yet the Tully name still stands.”

Her eyes darted past them, quick, urgent. “Father?”

The Blackfish’s expression sobered. “Alive. Failing, but alive. He asks for you.”

A sound escaped her then, half-sob, half-prayer, and she clutched Brynden’s hand as though it were a rope binding her to the world.

Robb sat tall in his saddle through it all, though when the Blackfish turned to him, his voice shifted — less uncle, more knight.

“You’ve done what many thought impossible, boy.” His weathered eyes swept the battered host behind us, then back to Robb. “The Riverlands will not forget who freed them.”

Edmure’s voice, roughened by weariness, carried across the stones. “You have our gratitude, Your Grace. And our condolences, for your father — for our good-brother. Eddard Stark was an honest man, and the realm is poorer for his loss.”

The Blackfish’s eyes lingered on Robb a long moment, sharp and measuring. At last he nodded once, as if some unspoken judgment had been reached. “You have his look about you,” he said quietly, though the words carried weight. “And more than that — his steadiness. The Riverlands could have no truer ally than a son of Eddard Stark.”

A murmur of assent rose among those gathered, rough voices softened with respect. Robb inclined his head, his jaw set with the gravity of it, but I felt his fingers brush against mine where I sat beside him — a small, wordless warmth beneath the steel of his crown.

Robb’s voice carried steady: “And this is my wife. Lyanna Stark.”

Dozens of eyes turned to me. I drew a breath, steadying my voice.

“It is an honor to meet you, Ser Brynden,” I said, inclining my head. “I’ve heard many stories of the Blackfish. Some from my father’s men, some from tavern talk — I can only hope the better ones were true.”

The corner of Brynden’s mouth twitched, sharp as the edge of a blade. “Depends which you’ve heard, girl.”

“My father once said you were among the finest warriors Westeros has ever seen,” I pressed, my lips curving faintly. “Robert Baratheon did not offer praise easily, Ser. But on that, he was firm.”

The Blackfish’s eyes narrowed a touch, measuring me, before the twitch deepened into something like approval. “Your father had an eye for battle, at least. Perhaps you have his tongue, too.”

The great gates of Riverrun groaned open, and we passed beneath its portcullis into the yard. The air still smelled of ash and iron, though the blood on the stones was already drying. Servants hurried about with buckets and cloths, scrubbing away the traces of war, though no work could hide it fully.

Catelyn’s eyes searched at once for her kin. Ser Brynden led her in, Edmure close behind, and soon she was clasping them both in a rare show of warmth. Her voice softened, though the weight of grief still clung to her, and she spoke quickly: “I must see my father.”

Robb inclined his head. “Go. He’ll want you by his side. I’ll give you that time.”

She pressed his hand in thanks before vanishing into the keep with her uncle.

Robb’s gaze lingered after her a moment, then turned to his men. His voice rang sharper now. “See the prisoners secured. Put Jaime Lannister in a cell, under guard. I want two men on him at all hours.”

The order carried. Steel boots clattered as men moved swift to obey. The Kingslayer was hauled from his cart, his smirk unbroken. “Better walls than mud, at least,” he quipped, though the chains bit red into his wrists.

Robb’s hand found mine briefly, a squeeze, before he nodded to a steward. The servants led us through the corridors and into our chambers — plain, older than Winterfell’s and smaller, yet warm with tapestries of red and blue. A great copper basin steamed by the hearth, prepared for Robb after the day’s march and battle.

He stripped the weight of armor piece by piece, his shoulders stiff from days of riding and fighting, before sinking into the water with a long breath. While he bathed, the maids brought me a clean gown; I laid aside my riding cloak, changed, and worked the tangles from my hair.

When at last the water cooled, Robb rose and dressed in a plain tunic, his hair damp and curling at the edges.

He crossed the chamber and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands dragging down his face. The fire snapped in the hearth, the only sound.

He had scarcely closed his eyes since the Whispering Wood — a handful of hours at most, stolen between marches and battle. The weight of it showed now, settling across his shoulders, pulling at the lines of his face.

I sat beside him, close enough that our knees touched. For a while he only stared at the floor, silent. Then his hand found mine, rough and warm, and closed around it.

Robb’s hand tightened on mine, then slipped away. He dragged a palm down his face and let out a breath that seemed to sink him further into the bed.

“I still need to see to the prisoners,” he muttered. “And the garrisons… they’ll be waiting on orders.”

“You should rest,” I cut in. “If you’ve given them victory, they can give you an hour.”

For a moment he only looked at me, blue eyes ringed with weariness. Then he gave a faint nod. “All right.”

I eased him back until his head rested on my lap. His hair was still damp, curling under my fingers when I brushed it aside. I bent and pressed a long, lingering kiss to his temple, the warmth of his skin still carrying the heat of the bath. I saw the lines in his brow ease, the tightness in his jaw give way, until at last his breath fell into a slow, even rhythm.

The war had carried us forward, mile by mile, battle by battle, until grief itself had been pressed into the march. Yet here, for the first time, I saw him unburdened, if only in sleep.

I leaned back slightly, finding the cushion at my spine, and let him rest on my lap. His weight was warm, solid. I only watched him as the minutes stretched, the hush of the chamber broken only by the crackle of the fire. Sleep had stolen him at last, and I sat in silence, guarding the fragile peace — knowing it would not last, yet clinging to it all the same.

Robb stirred at last, shifting against me with a low breath. His eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep.

“Gods,” he muttered, voice rough, “I’d only just closed my eyes. How long…?”

“More than an hour,” I said softly.

He pushed up a little, rubbing at his face. “And you sat through it? Listening to me snore like some drunk in the stables?”

I smiled despite myself. “I’ve endured worse sounds in camp. Though I half-feared your uncle might come pounding at the door, thinking Riverrun under siege again.”

That coaxed a laugh from him, low and tired but real. He dragged a hand through his damp curls. “You should have woken me.”

“I'd sooner steal you time than trade you for one more drawn map,” I said, brushing my fingers across his temple.

His mouth curved, not quite a smile, but gentler. “You’ll spoil me with such loyalty, wife.”

I leaned in, smirking faintly. “If I spoil you, it’s only so you fight harder. The North deserves a king who doesn’t fall asleep in his saddle.”

Robb caught my hand, turning my jest into something steadier. His thumb traced over my knuckles with a warmth that belied the steel he bore before all others. “You’re the only one who dares speak so to me. And the only one I’d hear it from.”

For a moment the jesting faded, leaving just us in the hush. His lips brushed mine — slow, certain, lingering as though the war itself could be held off a heartbeat longer. When he drew back, his breath touched my cheek.

“We ought to go down,” he murmured. “They’ll be waiting for us at supper.”

“Yes,” I answered quickly, too eager. “For the first time in months, I might eat bread not burnt black and meat that doesn’t taste of smoke.”

He chuckled, boyish despite the crown pressed on him. “So all my victories amount to a decent meal.”

“And a softer bed,” I teased, rising with him. “If I must choose a cause to fight for, I’ll take those.”

Robb laughed, the sound freer now, and together we left the chamber. The hall of Riverrun still bore the marks of siege — smoke in the rafters, soot darkening the banners — but warmth filled it all the same. Torches threw long light across the tables, and servants hurried to lay out what food the castle could muster.

We sat together at the high board: Robb at my side, Catelyn between her uncle and brother. Edmure leaned stiffly in his chair, pallor not yet faded from his wounds, though he smiled whenever a servant filled his cup. The Blackfish ate with a soldier’s plain hunger, tearing into his trencher as though it were his first meal in days.

Before us lay roasted trout with herbs, thick loaves of brown bread, butter peas gleaming in their bowl, and a venison stew spiced so richly that steam clung to the air. After weeks of campfire fare — burnt meat, thin broth, charred crusts — the richness seemed near to a feast.

Robb turned to his mother. “How is he? Your father?”

Catelyn set down her knife. “The years have caught him,” she said. “No fever, no wound — just the weight of time. Each day takes a little more.”

Edmure shifted, jaw tight. “I should have been here sooner. I should have—”

The Blackfish snorted. “You’d not have turned back the years by sitting at his bedside, boy. Your father’s temper was stronger than your arms ever were, and even that couldn’t keep him standing.”

Color flared in Edmure’s cheeks. “You think me useless, Uncle, but I’ve fought for Riverrun. I bled for these lands as much as you.”

Brynden leaned back, mouth twisting wry. “And yet it was your king who freed them, not you.”

Edmure’s hands clenched on the table, but before he could answer, Catelyn’s voice cut through, firm.

“Enough. This is neither the place nor the time. My father lies upstairs, not dead yet, and I’ll not have his hall soured by quarreling.”

The Blackfish gave a grunt, unrepentant, while Edmure dropped his gaze to his plate, cheeks still hot.

I busied myself with my trencher, tasting little of what I ate. Better to chew in silence than be caught in the crossfire of Tully tempers.

Brynden’s chuckle rumbled, not mocking but edged with rough fondness. “Seven hells… last I saw you, Robb, you were no higher than the table. And now — a king, and wed besides.” His keen eyes found me, and his mouth curved faintly. “Even my old eyes can see well enough why. No wonder such beauty caught your wolf’s eye.”

Heat crept into my cheeks before I could master it. Robb’s hand brushed mine, steady as ever.

“She is more than beauty,” he said, his voice even but carrying quiet pride. “She is my strength.”

Brynden snorted. “Hmph. Then Robert Baratheon managed at least one good thing before the Stranger took him.” He dipped his head toward me, the lines about his eyes softening. “And you have my condolences, girl. A hard man, your father, but never a faithless one.”

I inclined my head, steadying my voice. “Thank you, ser. My father was… as you say. Hard, not always gentle. Meant more for the battlefield than the throne.”

As the meal wound toward its end and the servants cleared the trenchers, the warmth of wine and fire still lingered in me when we reached the quiet of our chambers. I smirked as the door shut behind us, repeating Ser Brynden’s words with mock solemnity.

“No wonder such beauty caught your eye. Hm?”

Robb’s laugh came easier now, freer without kin watching. He unbuckled his sword belt, setting it aside as his eyes found mine.

“I’ll not deny it,” he said, his tone gentling. “It wasn’t love that set the match. But it is love that keeps it.”

The words settled between us like an oath. His eyes lingered on mine, steady and unguarded, and for a heartbeat I could only look back, feeling the truth of them sink into me. Then he leaned in, slow at first, his lips brushing mine — a kiss that began tender, reverent, as though to seal his vow. But the tenderness deepened, sharpened, until it grew rougher, heavier, carrying all the weeks of silence, distance, and grief we had endured. My body answered before thought could catch, my hands fisting in his tunic, pulling him closer with a need that bordered on desperation.

He pressed me back until stone met my spine, cold and unyielding, while he was all heat and strength before me. His hand tangled into my hair, the other braced firm at my hip while my fingers fumbled at the ties of his doublet, clumsy with urgency, until the laces gave. I shoved the wool from his shoulders, and he broke from my lips only long enough to shrug free, his breath harsh in the hush of the chamber. Then he was on me again, trailing kisses down my jaw, to my throat, each press rough yet reverent. The fabric of my dress slipped from my shoulders, sliding down in a whisper to the floor. My shift clung thin as mist, no shield at all against the heat of his body. His hands seized my thighs and lifted me, strong and unhesitating, and I gasped into his mouth as he carried me the short steps to the bed.

We sank into the coverlets together, the weight of him a comfort more than a burden. His urgency was plain — the harsh edge of need, but threaded through it was care, each kiss along my collarbone, each sweep of his hand as if he sought to memorize me.

He stripped away the last barrier between us with a haste born of hunger, casting it aside as though nothing in the world mattered beyond this moment. His rhythm was fierce, relentless, every thrust driving me into the mattress, every gasp and moan swallowed in the tight space between our mouths.

The sound of us filled the chamber — ragged, urgent, impossible to deny. My body arched to meet him, his hand steady at my hip, his forehead pressed to mine: our lips hovered close, breaths mingling, broken sounds spilling — mine high and breathless, his low and rough.

The pressure coiled sharp within me, unbearable, until I was shaking beneath him. My hand gripped the headboard, nails scraping wood as the wave broke, pleasure tearing me open, violent and consuming. My cry was swallowed in his mouth, my body trembling around him, pulling him deeper still.

His rhythm faltered, turned harsher, urgent. He drove deep and held, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as he spilled, shuddering with the force of it. His muscles strained under my grip until at last his strength gave, and he collapsed against me, his chest heaving, sweat-slick skin hot against mine.

For a long moment neither of us moved, only our hearts hammering in tandem. Then he kissed me once more — tender now, lingering — before rolling onto his side. I turned with him, dragging the coverlet over us, my hand tracing lazy patterns along the lines of his arm.

The silence that followed was softer, steadier. His breath fell slow and uneven, my cheek rested to his shoulder, and in the quiet I felt it — the truth of what he had said. Ours was no match born of love. But here, in the hush of Riverrun, love was what held us fast.

For a time we said nothing, only breathed together, the hush of the chamber broken by the faint crackle of the hearth. At last Robb let out a low hum, half a sigh, half a laugh.

“You’ll be the ruin of me,” he murmured, voice rough but softened now, full of quiet fondness.

I chuckled softly, my body sinking into the calm that followed. “Said the man who near ruined this bed. Not the best jest to break furniture in a hall you only just won back.”

Robb’s lips curved, and he turned his head toward me, eyes glinting faintly in the dim light.

“If the bed breaks, the Tullys will bear it. They’ve weathered worse than a broken frame.”

I smiled, though the jest faded quickly, leaving only the hush between us.

I let out a soft breath, my tone quieter now.

“You should speak to your mother.”

His gaze found mine, steady but questioning.

“What she endures,” I went on, “her husband gone, her daughters in the lion’s den, and now her father failing above these halls. She carries more than any woman should.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “I’ve not forgotten. I sent an envoy to King’s Landing — Alton Lannister, a cousin of the Kingslayer. He carries my terms.”

I shifted slightly against him, my voice low. “His name is Jaime.”

Robb studied me in the dim light, his brow furrowing. “Does it trouble you, the way I call him?”

“No,” I said, with a wry breath. “It only seems his name is forgotten when they curse him. Whatever else he is, he remains a man. What terms?”

Robb’s arm tightened at my waist as he spoke, each word measured.

“Jaime Lannister for the bones of my father, and the rest of the Northmen slain in the capital. And the safe return of my sisters — both of them. And the Iron Throne to name the North free.” 

His voice was iron, steady with the certainty of a king. Yet even as he spoke, I knew the Iron Throne would never yield such terms. Still, I met his gaze and said, “Tywin and Cersei love Jaime. For that reason, they may yet agree. No terms would suit them better.”

Robb’s mouth set firm. “Let us hope so. It will take near three weeks for the terms to reach them and the answer to come back. Until then, we hold here. Riverrun must be secured, and my men need the time — to rest, to mend their wounds.”

Robb shifted onto his side and drew the blankets over us. He bent to press a firm, unhurried kiss to my mouth, then trailed softer ones along my chin, down to the curve of my neck. At last he pulled me close, my back tucked against his chest, his arm heavy around me like a shield.

“Sleep now,” he murmured, pressing one last lingering kiss to my temple.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound of his breath steady mine, and for a moment I let myself believe that walls and vows and love might be enough to keep the world at bay.

Chapter Text

The chamber was stifling with the smell of damp wool and the sharp tang of maester’s herbs. Lord Hoster Tully lay sunk deep in the bed, blankets piled high, though still he shivered. His skin was pale as milk, stretched loose across the bones, and his eyes flickered beneath lids that could not stay open.

Catelyn sat close, her hand wrapped around his, whispering words only he could hear. When we entered, his gaze shifted, cloudy, uncertain, searching for shapes that would not hold.

“Cat,” he rasped at last, voice catching in his throat. “Cat, did you bring… the flowers? You’d come in, little feet tapping the stones, clutching daisies in your fists. Always daisies. Your mother scolded, but I kept them all, pressed in my books. Did you bring them, girl?”

Tears welled bright in Catelyn’s eyes, though her smile was steady. “I’ll bring them, Father. All the flowers you want.”

His lips worked soundlessly a moment, then parted again. “Your hair was always coming loose,” he muttered. “Red ribbons, slipping… I tied them, once. Fumbled like a fool. You laughed at me. My little Cat… always laughing.”

Robb stood stiff near the foot of the bed, as though rooted there, unsure if he was welcome in such a private memory. At last he stepped forward, halting, and bent low to take his grandfather’s other hand.

Hoster blinked at him, squinting through the fog. “A boy,” he said. “Tall lad. Brandon?” His cracked lips twitched in a weary smile. “Handsome boy, that Brandon. Too wild for you, Cat. But you loved him. I knew. I always knew.”

Catelyn’s face faltered, her hand tightening on Robb’s. “No, Father,” she said softly. “This is Robb. My son. Ned’s son.”

The old man’s eyes filmed again, but a spark flared at the name. “Ned. Aye, Ned Stark. Steady lad, that one. Always watching, always listening. Jon Arryn looked after him, didn’t he? Looked after all of you girls too. Good man, Jon. He’ll be watching after your little sister now… watching over Lysa and her boy.”

Catelyn’s breath caught, her eyes shining. “Lysa is in the Vale, Father. Safe with her son.”

Hoster’s hand twitched weakly in hers. “She was my little one. My babe. I carried her when her legs grew tired. Why isn’t she here, Cat? She should be here.”

“She cannot come,” Catelyn whispered, her voice thick.

Hoster sighed, the sound like wind through dry reeds. “Ah. Then Jon will keep her safe. Jon always kept faith. Not like… not like some.” His words wandered, faltered, and his head sank deeper into the pillows.

Robb lowered his gaze, the frail hand still clasped in his, his shoulders taut as though he bore not just his own grief but his mother’s too.

I stood apart, the weight of it pressing down until my breath felt small. Jon Arryn dead. My father gone, Ned Stark slain, and now Lord Hoster Tully fading before our eyes. A circle of fathers, one after another, cut down by war, by years, by chance. And all that remained were their children — carrying grief like a banner no army could lay down.

Hoster’s voice rasped low, almost a sigh. “I am so very tired, little Cat. Let me drift awhile.”

The maester stepped forward at once, cradling a small cup. “The milk of the poppy, my lord. It will ease you.”

Hoster drank, lips trembling against the rim, and sank back into the cushions. His eyes fluttered shut, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling with effort.

Catelyn sat close, her hand brushing across the parchment skin of his knuckles. She bent low: her tears fell freely now. The stern mask she had worn since Winterfell cracked, and I saw her as a daughter again — a child clinging to her father’s hand.

Robb’s voice came quiet, almost ashamed, the words Catelyn could not bring herself to ask. “How long?”

The maester’s gaze flicked to him, then back to the dying lord. “He has not the strength to take food, and his kidneys no longer serve him. Two weeks at most, if the gods are kind.”

He hesitated, then added, his voice lower: “The poppy eases him, but it clouds his wits. His mind wanders more with each draught.” He looked at Lord Hoster again, as if the rambling of moments before had proved his words true.

Catelyn’s shoulders trembled at the maester’s answer. Robb bowed his head, jaw tight, grief and helplessness plain in his face.

Robb inclined his head. “Thank you, maester.”

He cast one last look at his mother — bent over her father’s hand, her tears slipping free despite all her strength — and without a word he turned from the bedchamber.

I lingered only a heartbeat. There was nothing I could say that would ease Catelyn’s grief, no comfort that would not sound hollow beside a daughter’s sorrow. Quietly, I followed Robb.

He stood in the corridor beyond, the torchlight harsh against the strain in his face. His fist was clenched so tight the knuckles whitened. He had faced battles, broken sieges, and scattered hosts — yet here he could do nothing. Nothing to stay the hand of time upon Hoster Tully, nothing to ease his mother’s pain.

“You can fight battles,” he muttered, his voice low and raw. “Break sieges, outmarch lions. But this—” His hand opened helplessly, then closed again. “This I cannot fight.”

I stepped closer, my voice careful. “No man can, Robb. Not even kings.”

His eyes flicked to mine, sharp with the fury he could not loose elsewhere. “But I should be able to do something. For him. For my mother. Instead I wait on ravens, on numbers, on chance. While Tywin gathers strength and every hour slips through my hands.”

The words trembled with a desperation that made my chest ache. I touched his wrist, feeling the tremor there. “You cannot wrestle time into surrender. All you can do is hold fast to those still with you.”

Riverrun’s great hall had been turned into a sickroom, trestle tables dragged aside to make space for pallets and benches. Men lay in rows, some fevered, some silent, all bound in linen and blood. Women moved between them with buckets and cloths, their sleeves darkened with stains that would never wash clean. Robb’s soldiers lay scattered across them, men who only that morning had broken the Lannister siege. Pallets filled the floor where banners once hung; men lay on them like broken things, each one a map of the day’s violence. A mouth panting through splinters of teeth. A thigh wrapped in filthy linen where a spear had found bone. A boy with mud in his hair who kept asking for his mother between shudders.

I moved among them as if I were walking through a field after a storm, trying to put one foot before the other without seeing the ruin beneath. The maester’s hands were everywhere, quick and steady, but there were more wounds than needle-hands to mend them. At one table a man’s arm had been split nearly to the bone; the maester bent over him, packing the wound with a poultice that bled through almost at once.

I stepped closer, the noise of pain filling my ears, thicker than any battle song. “Let me help,” I said.

The maester glanced up, startled. “Your Grace—this is no place for you. You should not—”

“I can hold a cloth as well as any hand,” I cut him off, sharper than I intended. “Tell me what to do.”

He hesitated, torn between habit and need. The soldier beneath him groaned, and choice was forced. At last he nodded. “Here. Press it. Firmly, until I tell you otherwise.”

The linen burned my palms with hot blood. The man grunted; his eyes fluttered. For a moment I thought the stain would never leave my skin, as if the war had marked me too. I pressed harder than I meant to, while some small, sensible part of me catalogued details — the way the blood pooled, the scent of singed hair, the way the maester’s needle snagged on a ragged edge and kept going.

Images came in fragments. Ned’s head on the Sept steps, white and still. Robb’s face in the dark, the tree trunk dripping sap like a wound. The reason for these men’s ruin was a boy’s orders in a far-off city, and the thought made my hands shake until I forced them steady again.

My throat closed, but I would not let sound loose. Tears came and I pinched them back with a pressure that matched the cloth. Shame rose with the salt — not for the men at my hands, but for what my blood had set loose: for the cups they had drunk, the vows I had been dragged into, the map of ruin spreading south from the bones of Winterfell. Guilt is a cold thing; it settled along my ribs and made me breathe thinner.

When the bleeding slowed, the maester tied the bandage off with a quick knot and moved on. My hands smelled of iron and sweat. I scrubbed them on a bucket’s rim until the skin pricked, as if the water could scour more than smell.

I stepped back and let the quiet fold around me. Each man was a number I owed, each wound a proof that there is no neat justice in war. I had thought duty would be clean, a line that could be walked. It was not. Duty was this — holding a cloth to a stranger’s side, steadying your breath while the world went on tearing itself apart.

When I left the hall, Robb was waiting at the corridor’s mouth. He looked at me as if he could read what I had seen. I did not tell him everything. But the weight I had taken into my hands would not leave me light.

“How many men do you still have?” I asked quietly.

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Seventeen thousand, give or take. Some buried, some too hurt to stand. The rest can still march.” His gaze flicked toward the doors of the hall. 

I nodded, though the image of them — pale faces, torn flesh, groans through clenched teeth — still clung to me.

I stepped closer. “And still more than Tywin?”

“For now,” he said. His tone was steady, but I heard the edge beneath it. “But every day he gathers more. Riverrun gave us ground, not safety.”

“You don’t have enough men for Tywin and King’s Landing.”

His jaw worked. “No. I don’t.”

“Robb—both of my uncles are gathering their bannermen. Each of them wants the Iron Throne.”

His eyes cut to mine, sharp. “I know what you’re trying to say.” A pause, heavy. “But the North did not crown me to bend knee to Baratheon or anyone else.”

I looked away, knowing he was right.

“For now,” Robb said, his voice quieter but no less firm, “we wait for the answer from King’s Landing. First my sisters. Then anything else.”

I lowered my eyes, swallowing what more I might have said. At last I only nodded. “Your sisters first,” I murmured. “Then the rest.”

He touched my hand once, brief but warm, before turning back toward the yard where his captains waited. I watched him go until the sound of his boots faded, then turned down the passage alone.

The corridors of Riverrun felt colder without him beside me. When I reached my chamber, I lit the lamp and set quill to parchment. The words came slowly at first, but steadier as I wrote. If Robb would wait on King’s Landing, then I would reach for another path.

“To my uncle, Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Warden of the Stormlands. It has been long since last we spoke, yet…”

I sat back from the parchment, the ink still glistening where my hand had left the page. From my satchel I drew the stag seal — small, worn smooth from years, yet still bearing Robert’s mark. I had carried it since King’s Landing, though I had never thought to use it. Now I pressed it into the hot wax, the stag stamped bold upon the fold. He would not miss it.

I rose, cloaking the letter close, and climbed the narrow stair to the rookery. The air grew colder as I neared the tower’s crown, the smell of guano and feathers thick against the draft. A raven shifted in its wicker cage, restless. My hands moved quickly, tying the parchment fast. The moment the knot was pulled, I lifted the latch and let it fly. Its wings beat hard against the night, vanishing into black sky.

Only then did I hear the scrape of boots on stone.

“Your Grace,” Maester Vyman’s voice came, low but polite. He stood just within the arch, his gaze flicking once to the window, then back to me. He did not ask, not outright, but the silence in his eyes felt like a question.

“If there is anything I can do for you…” His chain shifted as he bowed slightly. The words were formal, neutral — but a shade of curiosity touched them.

“There is no need, Maester,” I said, folding my hands together to still their tremor. “I wished only to send a few words of my own.”

Vyman inclined his head, though his eyes lingered. “Ravens are weighty messengers, Your Grace. They carry more than ink and wax — sometimes more than we intend.”

I held his gaze, forcing calm into my voice. “Then may this one carry little enough.”

He bowed once, offering no further word, and turned back into the stairwell.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed since Riverrun’s gates had opened, yet the castle was far from calm. The wounded still crowded its halls, Robb’s captains came and went with reports, and each morning brought another raven with tidings from the Riverlands. For me the hours stretched slow. I had little to do but walk the corridors, where rain dripped through the courtyards and servants hurried past with their eyes lowered.

I crossed one of the inner corridors and nearly walked into Maester Vyman. His arms were full of parchments, ink still damp at the edges, the weight of them nearly spilling from his grasp. His chain clinked softly with each hurried step.

“Your Grace,” he said quickly, dipping his head as he shifted the bundle higher against his chest.

Before I could answer, two servants came rushing up, breathless. “Maester, it’s Ser Tomard. His fever’s worsened. He’s calling for you.”

Vyman’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting between the papers in his hands and the stair that led toward the wounded. “I’ll come at once,” he said, though the parchments dragged his arms down. “But these must go to Lord Edmure before council. He’s waiting on them.”

“I can take them,” I said, stepping forward before the thought could cool. “I know where his solar is.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to me with a trace of doubt, then gave a sharp nod. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Already he was turning toward the stairs, his chain rattling faintly as he hurried away.

I gathered the parchments against my chest and turned down the corridor. The stone steps that led to the upper chambers were narrow and steep, worn hollow by years of boots, and the air grew warmer as I climbed. 

I made my way to Lord Edmure’s solar and knocked lightly. A muffled “Come in” answered, and I pushed the door open.

Edmure stood at a heavy table, braced against its edge, surrounded by parchments and maps. Surprise flickered there.

“Your Grace,” he said quickly, straightening.

“There’s no need for formality,” I answered, stepping inside. “I met Maester Vyman in the corridor. He said these must be delivered to you — he was called to the wounded.”

Edmure reached out, taking the parchments with a small nod. “Thank you, Lyanna.”

I inclined my head, then let my eyes wander to the table. “What is this?”

He followed my gaze. “Riverrun’s layout. Records of the walls, the repairs needed after the siege. Some of the outer defenses took worse than I’d thought — we’ll need masons and fresh stone before winter.”

I stepped closer, looking over the inked lines of towers and walls. “It’s a fine castle,” I said. “Warmer and lighter than Winterfell, but… wetter, perhaps, than King’s Landing.”

That coaxed the faintest smile to his lips. “A fair enough judgment. The rivers make us what we are — strong, but always damp. You’ll never have the dry walls of the Rock, nor the cold stones of the North. Riverrun breathes water, through every hall and passage.”

Edmure’s hand brushed one of the parchments, smoothing it flat as though that could mend stone.

“Riverrun’s always been a strange stronghold,” he said. “We sit on a fork of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, so the waters guard us on two sides. The third we make our own, by flooding the moat. Siege engines can’t get close unless the waters are drawn down. My uncle calls it our best weapon — though after this last siege, I think the men might call it our only one.”

I traced a finger lightly over the ink, following the jagged lines that marked the rivers. “It seems both shield and chain. No wonder it held as long as it did.”

Edmure gave a tired shrug.

My eyes wandered further across the map, past the towers I knew by name now. A small mark, almost tucked into the line of the wall, caught my gaze. It looked like a doorway, though no doorway should have been drawn there. I tapped it lightly.

“And this?”

Edmure’s mouth tightened, just a little. For a moment he seemed to weigh whether he should answer. Then he sighed.

“A postern gate. Old, and seldom spoken of. It opens beneath the western wall, where the Tumblestone runs shallow.”

I leaned closer, tracing the small mark with my finger. “So that’s a passage out of the castle, then? In case the walls fall?”

Edmure shifted, his hand resting on the table’s edge. “Exactly, but we’ve hardly used it. It’s meant for the household, if things grow desperate.”

I tilted my head, considering the ink. “Then perhaps it shouldn’t be drawn on a layout at all.”

His brows lifted. “What?”

“If it’s meant as a last escape, shouldn’t its secret stay only with your blood?” I glanced at the parchment again. ““If the castle falls, and your enemy holds the map… your escape becomes their entrance.”

For a heartbeat his face tightened, as though I’d struck too near the truth. Then he gave a short nod, pressing his lips thin. “You’re not wrong. My uncle has said the same often enough. But old habits linger, and scribes love their ink. Best I burn this one when I’m done.”

I lingered in the doorway, but their voices left little room for silence.

“The granaries are near empty,” Ser Brynden said, his tone clipped, each word an iron weight. “We’ve mouths enough to feed without seventeen thousand Northmen camped on our fields. With all respect, Your Grace — Riverrun cannot bear it.”

Robb leaned over the map table, his voice steady but tight. “Riverrun would not be standing at all if we had not come south. If Tywin had pressed harder, your walls would not have held another fortnight.”

The Blackfish’s hand struck the table, not hard, but sharp enough to rattle the inkwell. “If Tywin pressed harder… aye. But why press Riverrun at all, if not because of the war called down upon us? Your father — a good, honorable man. But he died all the same. We cannot strike at King’s Landing, and we cannot best Tywin in open ground. All you hold is Riverrun, and all you have is a single Lannister to bargain with.”

Robb’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed level. “They put my father in a cell. They took his head, and they hold my sisters still. Should I have sat quiet in Winterfell while lions ruled over us?”

“Honor won’t fill bellies, and vengeance won’t win wars,” Brynden shot back. “That is the truth of it.”

I stepped into the chamber before either could speak further. Their voices cut off at once; Robb turned to me, the weight of command still in his eyes, while Ser Brynden’s sharp gaze fixed on me like an arrow.

“With all respect, Ser Brynden,” I said, my voice steady though my pulse ran fast, “Jon Arryn was poisoned in the capital, and Ned Stark was slain after him. First Arryns, then Starks. Sooner or later the crowns will fall on your house as well, unless you guard against it.”

His eyes narrowed, but I pressed on.

“Ask aid from your banners. The Freys boast endlessly of their towers, their bridges, their strength to outlast any siege. Do you think such boasts rest only on stone walls? No — they mean stores. Stores enough to keep their bellies full while the river runs dry. More than enough for their household alone.”

Brynden gave a sharp snort. “Ask help from Freys? Hah. That one would sooner feed on his child’s bones than part with his bread.”

I did not flinch, only met his stare. “And yet Walder Frey has already bound himself to you — his oath to House Tully sworn, his daughter promised to Lord Edmure. You think he would risk breaking faith now? I do not. I think the Lord of the Crossing is very eager to see his daughter wed alive and not widowed before she reaches your hall.”

For a moment the chamber was still. Robb’s mouth had tightened, but his eyes flicked between us, considering. 

Brynden’s mouth twisted, halfway between a scowl and a smirk. “You speak bold, girl. Perhaps you’re right about the Freys — perhaps. But oaths mean less in this realm than they once did. A man like Walder counts every crumb twice before parting with it. Frey’s larders may be full, but his heart is hollow. Trust him for bread, and he’ll sell you salt instead.” His gaze flicked between us, sharp as ever. “But don’t mistake survival for victory.” With that he strode from the chamber, boots echoing against the stone.

The door shut behind him, and silence pressed in. Robb had not moved from the map table. His eyes traced the rivers and borders inked there, but I could see he was not looking at lines on parchment — he was looking at everything that had slipped beyond his grasp.

“My father sat in a cell. I raised the banners to free him. And what came of it? The Riverlands bled, men who swore to me lie in graves, and my father’s head still fell.” His hand clenched at the edge of the table, whitening at the knuckles. “Seventeen thousand swords, and I have gained nothing. Nothing but ashes and a war I cannot end.”

He bowed his head, shoulders tight, the weight of it all bending him where no blade yet had. “I thought if I moved quickly enough, struck hard enough… I could change it. Save him. Save all of them. But every step only led to more death.”

I drew a slow breath. “You did what you could, Robb. No man could have broken him free from the Red Keep once Cersei closed her fist. Not you, not twenty thousand. You struck because you had to. The North would never have forgiven a king who sat idle while his father’s head was on a spike.”

I touched the map with two fingers, where the rivers forked. “You’ve not won the war, no. But you’ve kept your men alive, kept Riverrun standing, and held Tywin from pushing further north. That isn’t nothing.”

His jaw worked, but he said nothing.

“Life isn’t a game, Robb,” I went on, quieter. “You can’t win every throw, can’t always choose the right move. And no one is going to stand beside you and tell you which is right and which is wrong. We didn’t choose the lives we were born to, and half the path we walk is already laid before us. All we can do is keep walking it, one step at a time.”

Robb’s eyes stayed on the map, his fingers tracing the curve of the river without seeing it. “A king doesn’t get to stumble one step at a time. Every wrong turn costs men their lives. Every mistake is paid for in blood that isn’t mine. That’s what I can’t set aside.”

I let out a slow breath, the weight of his words leaving little room for answer. Still, I stepped closer, slipping my arms around him from behind. My forehead pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, the wool of his tunic scratchy against my skin. “Then let it be enough that you’re still here,” I murmured. “Enough that they still have you to follow.”

Robb turned slowly, guiding me with him. His eyes closed as he rested his brow against mine, his grip firm around my hands, asking nothing more than to stand there with me. His breath was warm between us, steadying, though I could feel the tension still thrumming through him.

I let my eyes fall shut too, brushing my lips lightly against his, as much a promise as a plea.

“I need to go,” he whispered, the words rough as if he disliked saying them.

“Stay… just a little,” I murmured, holding his hands tighter, unwilling to let the moment slip so quickly.

His hand rose to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, and he pressed a lingering kiss to my forehead. It was tender, but carried the weight of everything he could not say.

“I’ll see you at supper,” he said, softer now, almost reluctant.

He drew back then, his eyes opening to mine just long enough to hold them, before he turned toward the door. The sound of his boots faded into the corridor, leaving only the warmth of his lips still clinging to my skin.

Chapter Text

I pushed the door open with care, balancing the small tray in my hands. The smell of broth and fresh bread rose with the steam, simple fare but warm enough.

“Lady Catelyn,” I said softly.

She sat close by her father’s bed. Lord Hoster seemed asleep, sunk deep into his pillows, his breath thin and uneven. At the sound of my voice, Catelyn turned. For a moment — only a moment — her gaze softened, and it struck me how rare that had become since Lord Eddard’s death.

“The servants said you had not come to the hall,” I went on, setting the tray down within her reach. “So I thought to bring something here.”

Her voice was low, even, but gentled. “There was no need, Lyanna.”

“It’s all right,” I said quickly. “Once, in Winterfell, you tended me yourself when I was sick. Let me do as much now.”

Catelyn’s eyes flicked to the tray, but she made no move toward it. I pressed gently, “You should eat, my lady.”

She gave a faint shake of her head. “I was not with him when I wed Ned. I left Riverrun, and I saw my father only at times since. Now I sit at his side and watch as he leaves me, breath by breath.”

I lowered my gaze, unsure what answer could possibly be enough. My father did not count — I had never truly known him, not as she had known hers.

Her voice wavered then, quiet but sharp as a splinter. “First my lord husband, now my father. I wonder which will be next — my son, or my daughters.”

The words struck cold through me. I cleared my throat, forcing steadiness. “Robb will not die. He will win this war. He will bring your daughters back. I know how hard he tries, and he does all that can be done. I believe in him, Lady Catelyn — and you must too.”

She studied me for a long moment, her eyes tired, too wise for comfort. “You are still very young, Lyanna. As is he. When you are young, the whole world feels as though it might be yours… until it teaches you otherwise.”

I had no words to offer that would not sound hollow. My throat tightened, and at last I only cleared it, forcing something — anything — past my lips.

“Try to eat, Lady Catelyn,” I said gently. “You need your strength. For your son… and for your daughters, when they return.”

She did not answer, her gaze already drifting back to her father’s hand. There was nothing more I could give. With those words, I bowed my head and slipped from the room, leaving her to her vigil.

It was only hours later when the hush spread through the corridors of Riverrun. The servants did not speak it, but their bowed heads told the truth well enough. Lord Hoster Tully had breathed his last.

When we came again to Lord Hoster’s chambers, the air was heavy, still. His chest no longer rose. Catelyn sat at his side still, her hand resting on the cloth as though unwilling to let go. No tears marked her face now — only a stillness, the kind that comes when grief has already spent itself.

Robb stepped forward, setting both his hands gently on her shoulders. His voice was low, steady, but soft with grief.

“It’s time, Mother. Time to give him his last way.”

For a moment she did not move, her eyes fixed on the shape beneath the shroud. Then at last she closed them, drew in a breath, and gave a small, shuddering nod. Robb helped her rise, though her hand lingered on the bed until the very last.

Servants came in silence, lifting the bier with practiced care. Lord Hoster was robed in red and blue, the silver trout stitched bright upon his breast. His body was borne through Riverrun’s halls, past men who bowed their heads and women who crossed their arms in silence.

At the riverbank, the Blackfish and Edmure helped lower him onto the waiting boat. The damp air carried the scent of reeds and cold water. Catelyn stood close, her face pale, her hands clenched tight in front of her.

The bier was pushed from the bank, the boat gliding into the current. Flames licked along the oiled kindling, but too low to catch. Tradition demanded fire send the Lord of Riverrun on his way, and so Edmure stepped forward with bow in hand.

His first arrow flew wide, hissing into the river. A murmur stirred through the watching men, quickly hushed. He nocked another, pulled hard, and loosed. This one fell short, vanishing into the current. His jaw tightened, sweat beading at his temple as he tried a third. The shaft glanced from the stern of the boat and spun uselessly into the water.

I felt the air tighten, heavy with unspoken judgment. Even Catelyn’s eyes closed, pain creasing her face.

The Blackfish moved then. With a sharp motion he took the bow from Edmure’s hands. “Enough.” His voice was low, flat, but it cut sharper than any shout.

He did not loose at once. His gaze lifted briefly to the small banner at the bank — a scrap of cloth with the Tully trout snapping in the breeze. He judged the wind there, then lowered his eyes to the river. His fingers eased against the string, not rushed, not strained. 

Then he loosed.

The arrow hissed through the gray air, true and straight. It struck the bier dead on, burying itself in the oiled wood. Flames leapt high at once, racing along the planks until the boat blazed, a bright pyre carried out upon the current.

A sigh seemed to move through the host — not approval, not relief, only finality. Heads bowed. No one spoke.

I found myself watching the Blackfish, how he had waited, how his aim had been patient. He had not fought the wind; he had used it. The lesson was plain enough, though he gave it without words.

I looked back to the burning bier. Robb’s gaze stayed fixed on it, unblinking, while Catelyn’s tears shone though she held herself rigid. I stood beside them, the heat of the flames reaching us even across the water, until the river carried Lord Hoster beyond sight.

By evening, when the long day finally dragged to its end, I returned to the chambers spent of all strength. My head was heavy, my body heavier still. I barely touched the food the servants had left, only stripped out of my clothes and pulled on a fresh shift. The weight of it all — the funeral, the wounded, the endless talk of war — pressed down until even lifting the coverlet felt like labor. I slid beneath it, staring at the dark beams above, too tired for thought, too restless for sleep.

That was how Robb found me when he came in.

“How is your mother?” I asked.

“Quiet,” Robb said, tugging at the laces of his doublet. “But she ate, at least.”

I watched him tug at the laces of his doublet. “Maybe she should go back to Winterfell. To Bran and Rickon. It’s been months since she’s seen them. At least there she’d have someone to care for.”

Robb shook his head. “I asked her. She won’t go. Not until Sansa and Arya are safe.”

I sighed, shifting on the pillow. “You can’t blame her. She’s a mother, after all.”

Robb sat on the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down his face. “The answer from King’s Landing should come any day now.”

“Robb,” I said carefully, “they won’t ever accept your terms. They might give you Sansa and Arya. But the North? Hardly.”

His jaw worked. “And what would my men say, if I gave up Jaime Lannister for two girls and nothing more?”

I pushed myself up, leaning on an elbow. “You don’t know my mother. She won’t yield. Power is what she lives for, and giving the North independence would mean losing it. And once the North is free, what keeps the Vale, or Dorne, or the Reach from claiming the same? Not counting the fact that she already faces two men who name themselves kings of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Robb exhaled, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Aye, she has Baratheons snapping at her heels and Stannis with his fleet, and still she’ll clutch tighter to that chair of hers. Maybe you’re right — maybe she’ll never give an inch. But what choice do I have? To lay down my sword and tell the North their sons died for nothing?”

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “You told me before they’d yield. That Jaime was worth enough to them to meet my terms.”

“Lyanna—let’s not fight in our chambers,” he cut me off, his voice low, tired. He tugged at the ties of his tunic, shoulders sagging with the motion. “I’ll wait for the answer from King’s Landing. After that, I’ll decide the course. Alright?”

I sank back into the pillows, heat rising in my face. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Just want to make things better,” he finished for me. His tunic dropped to the chair, and he sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots. “Blackfish says the same, my mother says the same. Everyone has their counsel. But for now… I only want sleep.”

I bit back more words, ashamed of pressing him when his mind was already so frayed. Perhaps there was still a chance the crown would answer, and here I was, gnawing at his weariness.

Robb slipped beneath the blankets at last, the weight of him warm beside me. After a moment, his arm came around my waist, pulling me close. “No more battles tonight,” he murmured, his breath against my hair.

I only nodded, tucking myself into the crook of his chest, letting silence settle between us.

Chapter Text

The council chamber was crowded, the air close with smoke and damp stone. Robb sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped before his face. Catelyn was at his right, the Blackfish and Edmure beside her, and the northern lords ranged along the benches. I kept my place at Robb’s side, silent as the doors swung open.

Ser Alton Lannister entered flanked by guards. Dust streaked his face, his cloak heavy with road-stains, and for all his name he looked more squire than envoy. He bowed low. “Your Grace.” His eyes slipped to me for a heartbeat before he straightened.

Robb did not rise. His voice was low, tight. “And? What answer from the crown?”

Alton hesitated, the pause stretching.

Robb’s fingers curled into a fist. “If every man were hanged for the sins of his kin, there would be no lords left in Westeros. Speak.”

Alton’s throat worked. “The queen does not accept your terms.”

Robb’s voice sharpened. “What did she say?”

Alton shifted, uneasy. “She… tore your letter in half.”

The silence was heavy. I looked to Robb, my gaze saying what my tongue did not: as I warned you.

Alton pressed on quickly. “But Lord Tyrion, the King’s Hand, sent this in good faith.” He motioned, and two men stepped forward with a narrow casket, iron-banded. “The bones of Lord Eddard, returned with honor.”

My breath caught. Tyrion — Hand of the King? Since the day he had left Winterfell after my wedding, we had neither spoken nor written. Strange that he had not reached out, though perhaps he did not even know I was in Riverrun.

Robb inclined his head, voice clipped but steady. “Thank you, Ser Alton.” He turned to his guards. “See him fed. Then keep him under guard until I decide his fate.”

The scrape of boots echoed as Alton was led away, the casket of bones left resting on the table.

No one spoke. The only sound was the guards’ boots fading down the corridor and the far scrape of a chair dragged back.

Catelyn’s hand moved first. She touched the lid as though it might burn her, breath caught in her throat. Her lips shaped a prayer and fell silent.

A northern lord — Lord Karstark — leaned forward, eyes hard. “Hang the Kingslayer — and send his bones back to King’s Landing,” he barked. “Let the Lannisters learn what their crimes cost us.”

“Hang him!” a dozen voices answered, rough and quick, the room answering like a struck horn.

Greatjon Umber rose so fast his chair scraped. “Cut off his head and feed it to the wolves,” he roared. Rage tasted like iron in the air.

Robb’s hand went to the table and stilled on the wood. He did not shout; he did not need to. When he spoke, his voice was low and like steel. “No.” The single word shut the room as if a gate had fallen. “Not yet.”

Heads turned. Some faces bristled, others fell away; Catelyn’s fingers clenched at the edge of the bier. Her eyes found Robb’s. For a long moment she said nothing; then, quietly, “You’ll be judged for this, son.” The warning was soft but full of consequence.

“My lords, my lady. Leave us.”

The words cut sharper than I intended, and for a heartbeat the chamber went still. Murmurs stirred, but no one dared gainsay me. Robb might be their king, but none expected me to claim a queen’s voice. Chairs scraped, boots echoed on stone, and one by one they filed out until the hall was ours alone.

I turned back to Robb. “As I said.”

His palm slammed flat on the table, the sound ringing against the walls. “I’m in a deadlock,” he snapped. “Every path shut, every choice wrong.”

“No,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re not.”

From my sleeve I drew a letter and set it on the table. The wax bore a stag.

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “Renly.” His voice hardened. “You’ve been exchanging letters with your uncle behind my back?”

“One letter,” I answered. “Nothing more. I didn’t speak of numbers, or plans. I only wrote, and he replied. He commands the Stormlands now, and the Reach stands with him. He has a hundred thousand men.”

Robb gave a bitter half-smile. “And let me guess—he wants me to bend the knee.”

I held his gaze. “I can speak to him. In person.”

His fists curled. “You can’t think of going there alone.”

“I must. Cersei has refused your terms. The only way to force King’s Landing is with strength enough to break it. Renly has that strength. His aim is the throne, yours is justice. Together, it could be done. And he will listen to me. At least by law, you are his nephew.”

Robb shook his head. “By law, Joffrey is my brother. By law, Stannis comes before Renly. That was my father’s word.”

“Do you want to do only what’s lawful?” I asked quietly. “Or do you want your sisters back—and your father’s death answered? Stannis may be rightful, but he’ll never accept the North free. Renly might. I know him better than I know Stannis.”

I covered his hand with mine.

“Send me. You will not lose anything. Renly will not harm me. If he refuses, I come back. At least I can be of use to you.”

Robb’s eyes searched mine, hard and unsettled. His mouth tightened, but the anger that had burned a moment ago gave way to something heavier.

“You ask me to let you ride straight into another camp of lords and banners,” he said, low. “And trust they won’t see you as leverage against me.”

“I’m not leverage,” I answered firmly. “I’m your wife. And if I can open a door you cannot, then let me.”

I set my hand on the edge of the map. “Renly writes he gathers his banners in Bitterbridge.”

Robb nodded, already tracing the parchment. “Then here’s your road. South along the Trident, then east — but keep well clear of King’s Landing. You’ll skirt wide of the city, then cut down into the Stormlands. Follow the Mander west and you’ll come straight to Bitterbridge.”

He tapped the mark, then looked back at me. “I’ll send twelve riders with you. Enough to keep you safe, few enough not to draw every eye along the road.”

“Discreet, then,” I said, nodding. “Better to look like a household party than a marching host.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “I’ll choose them myself. Men I trust with your life.”

He caught my hand before I could answer, his grip firm. His eyes held mine, steady and unflinching. “Promise me you’ll come back. Whatever Renly offers, whatever words are spoken — come back to me.”

“I will,” I whispered.

The torches guttered low, throwing long shadows across the damp stones. Jaime sat slouched against the wall, wrists bound, chains clinking with every small shift. His golden hair had lost its shine, and the fine clothes he’d once worn were dulled with dirt and sweat, the fabric stained by weeks of confinement.

I stopped before the bars. “It seems my mother doesn’t think much of your life, uncle. She tore Robb’s terms apart without a thought. If you were worth the price, you’d be free by now.”

Jaime’s smirk tugged wider. “She isn’t afraid for me. She knows you wouldn’t let your wolf put me to death. Whatever else you pretend to be, you’d never watch your own kin cut down. Not you.”

The words hit harder than I expected. For a moment I stood silent, heat rising in my chest. He was right — and he knew it. As long as I stayed at Robb’s side, Jaime’s life wasn’t a piece to trade at all. My mother would never fear for him, not while she could trust that I would stay his execution. Robb thought he held a lever. In truth, it was useless, blunted by my very blood.

Jaime leaned forward, chains rasping. His smirk had softened into something closer to triumph. “See? You know it. You’re no wolf, niece. Not really. You’ll bare your teeth, but in the end you’ll protect your pride — your kin. Even me.”

I forced a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Don’t flatter yourself, uncle. If you live, it’s not for your sake. It’s only because you’re worth more breathing than buried.”

Jaime’s smile tugged wider, lazy as ever. “As you say, niece.”

I turned toward the door, but his voice followed, light with mockery. “Leaving already? Come now — stay. Give a poor man some company. How long have I been languishing here? A month? More? You’d think they’d let me out just to keep me from dying of boredom.”

I glanced back, my lips twisting. “I’m sorry, uncle. I’m not blond enough to keep your company welcome.”

His laugh rang off the stone, low and sharp. “I see Cersei in you. You’ve more of her in your veins than you care to admit.”

I stopped cold, my hand tightening hard on the bars until the iron bit into my palm. “Don’t mistake her for me,” I snapped, louder than I meant. “I’ve nothing in common with her.”

His smile only deepened, sly as ever. “If you say so, niece.”

Heat rose in my chest — anger, shame, something I couldn’t quite name — and I turned on my heel before he could see more of it.

The laugh still rang in my ears as I climbed back through the castle. The air grew warmer above the dungeons, but it did nothing to ease me. Servants passed with lowered heads, their whispers dying as I drew near.

I pushed open the door to our chambers at last. Robb sat at the edge of the bed, half-undressed, his boots at his feet. He looked up as I entered.

“Where have you been?”

I hesitated, unwilling to tell him where I’d gone or what lingered in my thoughts. “Just… walking the castle.”

His gaze sharpened. “Since when do you lie to me?”

“I’m not lying,” I said, meeting his eyes.

“No?” His mouth tightened. “You send letters behind my back, keep things from me, and call it truth.”

I drew a breath, stepped closer, and set my hands on his shoulders. “Please, Robb. Not tonight. It’s my last night here before I ride to the Stormlands. Don’t spend it making me your enemy. I’m not.”

Robb closed his eyes and let out a long breath, his shoulders easing beneath my hands.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Just…”

“I know,” I said softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Nothing’s unfolding the way you planned. Not the way you needed it to.”

Robb pulled me gently onto his lap, his arm firm around my waist. “No,” he admitted, his voice low. “But having you here… that’s more than I expected too.”

I smiled faintly, the weight in my chest easing just a little. “Good.”

I pressed a soft kiss to his lips, guiding him back with me until we sank onto the bed. His hand slid up my side, steady and certain, and I let myself sink into the closeness of him — the warmth, the steadiness, the quiet that came when words no longer mattered.

Chapter Text

The dawn was pale when I rose, light spilling thin through the shutters. Riverrun’s stones were cool beneath my bare feet, the chamber still heavy with sleep. I dressed in silence, piece by piece, as though the quiet itself might shatter if I moved too quickly.

I drew the gold cloak, trimmed in black about my shoulders, fastening it with a silver pin I had carried since King’s Landing. My hair I bound into a single braid down my back, tight enough to hold on the road, but left a few strands loose to soften my face.

On the bed, Robb stirred. His hand moved across the empty side where I had lain. His eyes opened, catching the colors I wore.

“You’re wearing your father’s colors,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

I smoothed the edge of the cloak with my palms. “I want my uncle to see me as I am,” I said quietly. “To know I’m still his kin.”

Robb pulled on his trousers and crossed the room, his steps soft against the rushes. He came up behind me, his hands finding my waist, his breath warm at my neck.

“I don’t like the thought of letting you ride off alone,” he murmured.

“You can’t go with me,” I said, steady but quiet. “You can’t abandon your army, not now. And I’ll return as soon as I’ve spoken with my uncle.”

His nose brushed against the curve of my neck, his grip tightening. “I still don’t like it. A month, maybe more… we’ve never been apart so long—not since you first came to Winterfell.”

I turned to face him, searching his eyes. “The idea doesn’t appeal to me either. But if it’s the cost to end this war, to bring us all back to Winterfell… I’ll bear it gladly.”

For the first time that morning, Robb’s mouth curved into a faint smile. He pressed his lips firmly to my forehead, lingering there a heartbeat. Then he pulled back, straightening as he tugged his tunic over his shoulders.

“I’ll walk you down.”

Together we left the chamber. The stone steps carried us into the yard, where the chill air still clung to the morning. A dozen riders waited as Robb had promised, their mounts saddled but unmarked by banners, plain as any lord’s retinue on the road.

Ivory was saddled too, pawing at the stones as if she sensed the journey ahead. Among the riders stood a knight in dark mail, helm tucked beneath his arm. He stepped forward, inclining his head to us both.

“My king. My queen.”

Robb’s hand tightened briefly on mine before he looked to the man. “Ser Edrick, her safety is yours to answer for. With your head, if need be.”

The knight bowed his head deeper, voice steady. “She will come to no harm, Your Grace. Not while I draw breath.”

Robb caught me before I could reach the stirrup. His hands framed my face as he bent to kiss me, firm and lingering, then he pulled me into his chest. I felt the weight of his arms, the way he held me as though he might keep me there by strength alone. When at last he let me go, his lips brushed my temple, softer than the first kiss.

Ivory stamped once against the cobbles, the plume of her breath white in the morning chill. I swung into the saddle, settling the reins in my hands.

Robb stepped close, one hand firm at my knee as he looked up at me. His jaw was set, but his voice was softer than he meant it to be.

“Keep yourself safe. Write to me. Send a raven the moment anything feels wrong. Promise me that.”

“I promise,” I said quietly.

For a heartbeat he held my gaze, as though he could fix me there by will alone. Then he gave a short nod, his hand squeezing once against my leg before he stepped back.

Ser Edrick swung into his saddle and wheeled his horse closer. “It’s time, Your Grace.”

The portcullis groaned above us, the chains of Riverrun’s drawbridge clattering as the gatekeepers lowered it. The bridge thudded into place across the moat, wood against stone, and the path beyond opened onto the road south.

I turned once more in the saddle. Robb stood where I had left him, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his hair caught in the morning wind. I held his eyes for as long as I dared, until distance began to claim me.

Then I set my heels to Ivory’s sides, and she stepped forward, carrying me across the bridge. The riders fell into formation around me, their horses’ hooves thudding hollow on the planks. Behind us, Riverrun’s gates closed with a heavy clang, sealing me from Robb until the road brought me back again.

The sound of the gates echoed long after Riverrun was lost to sight. Then only the road remained — long, gray, unchanging, until the days blurred one into the next.

The rhythm never changed: rain, mud, the endless beat of hooves. Now and again I spoke with Ser Edrick, who kept closest to me. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of grief long held. One evening, as the men settled by the fire, he spoke at last.

“My brother rode with Lord Stark when he went south,” Ser Edrick said. “Jory Cassel. Captain of his guard. He never returned.”

The name hit hard, though I had little to answer. “How did he fall?”

Edrick’s jaw tightened. “They say it was Ser Jaime. The Kingslayer.”

My mouth went dry. Jaime’s face came to me in the dark — the chains, the smirk, the mocking laugh. I lowered my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

Edrick gave a small nod, his gaze turning back to the fire. “Blood runs strange in this war, Your Grace. But I swore my sword to the King in the North. And I’ll keep you safe, no matter the blood you carry.”

I let his words settle a moment, my gaze drifting to the trees, their branches heavy with the day’s rain. The camp was quiet save for the fire’s snap and the horses shifting at their tethers. For a while neither of us spoke. At last, I cleared my throat and asked, “Where are we now? And how long until Bitterbridge?”

“We’re south of the Blackwater Rush,” he said. “Two days more to the Mander, and another four or five will see us to Bitterbridge, if the roads stay clear. A week at most.”

He adjusted his cloak, then added, “Try to rest, Your Grace. I’m sorry we’ve avoided the taverns on the road, but it’s safer this way. Best no one recognize you, or worse, that we stumble into Lannister scouts or men from King’s Landing.”

The week wore on in the same rhythm — ride, camp, watch the roads. By the third evening the ache in my back was constant, my palms rough from the reins. When the men stopped to make camp, I stayed with Ivory, stroking her neck as she pawed at the dirt. The simple rhythm of her breath, steady and warm against my sleeve, eased the strain more than rest ever did.

Ser Edrick approached, helm tucked under his arm, his steps slow across the trampled grass. His gaze lingered on my hand smoothing the mare’s mane.

“You seem fond of horses, Your Grace.”

I gave a tired smile. “Only this one. She was Robb’s first gift to me — a betrothal gift, as he said.”

Edrick’s mouth curved faintly. “A wise gift.”

I nodded, fingers combing through Ivory’s tangled mane. “He told me at least I’d have someone to care for.”

I smoothed Ivory’s mane, the memory tugging at me. “When Robb gave her to me, he joked I might’ve wished for a jewel instead.” I glanced at Ser Edrick, a faint smile tugging at my mouth. “But he was wrong. No jewel would have carried me this far.”

Ser Edrick’s mouth curved faintly, his tone low but approving. “A gift with purpose, then. A husband who thinks beyond glitter is a rare thing.”

That night the men built a small fire in the lee of a hill, its smoke curling thin into the cold air. I sat a little apart, Ivory grazing in the dark beyond, when the smell of meat drifted across the camp. One of the riders crouched close to the flames, turning a spit. A squirrel hung there, its small body charred at the edges.

I watched as he peeled back the last of the skin with his knife, the motion quick, practiced. “Did you catch it yourself?” I asked.

The soldier looked up, startled for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Aye, Your Grace. Snared it near the stream. I used to hunt most days, before…” His words trailed, and he swallowed, the rest clear enough without saying. “…before the war.”

For a moment the crackle of the fire filled the silence. The squirrel turned slowly on the spit, its smell sharper now, mingling with the smoke.

The soldier turned the spit again, then glanced up at me. “Did you ever hunt, Your Grace?”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “No. I’ve never caught anything to eat, never skinned or cooked it myself. There was always someone to do that for me.”

He gave a crooked smile. “You’re a queen. You’re not meant to.”

“Perhaps not,” I said, brushing my palms against my cloak. “At least I can shoot a bow.”

That made him lift his brows. “That’s no small thing. Not many girls can handle a weapon.”

I shrugged, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “It wasn’t a weapon to me then. I shot for sport, not for killing. Hunting never called to me. I never cared to loose an arrow at something living.” My gaze flicked toward the fire, the meat turning slowly. “I suppose that makes me unlike my father. He loved the hunt. He would have called it a disappointment.”

The soldier’s knife worked steady over the squirrel’s hide. He gave a small shrug. “I think it’s the duty of every father, Your Grace — not to let his daughter touch a weapon, or worry about living rough. Especially one in your place.”

I smiled politely at that, tilting my head. “What’s your name?”

“Tomlin, Your Grace.” His voice carried no pride in the name itself, but he met my eyes without shame.

“Do you have children of your own, Tomlin?”

At once his face brightened. He nodded, almost proudly. “Aye. My wife gave birth not long before I left.”

“Where are you from?”

“White Harbor,” he said with a hint of fondness, as though the name alone warmed him.

I leaned in slightly. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” he said, his smile spreading wide. “Curly little hair, and eyes so big they near cover her whole face.”

The pride in his voice softened the camp’s harsh edges. Then my gaze fell back to his hands, steady on the knife as he worked the hide away from the meat. The task was simple, bloody, ordinary — a jarring contrast to the tenderness he’d just spoken of.

I wondered if this man would ever return home to hold his daughter, to see her grow. For an instant the war felt heavier, sharper: it was not only for justice, not only to bring the Starks home. It was for this too — to give husbands and fathers back to their wives and children.

I watched him a moment longer, curiosity stirring. “Alright,” I said at last. “I like learning. Show me how to skin it.”

His head snapped up. “Your Grace,” he stammered, almost dropping the knife. “If Ser Edrick saw me showing you—Gods help me, I’d be lashed for it.”

I arched a brow. “And where is Ser Edrick now?”

He shifted uneasily. “Walking the perimeter.”

“Then he isn’t here,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “So teach me. I’m bored of sitting idle. At least this would be something useful.”

The soldier hesitated, then gave a nervous laugh and handed me the knife, guiding my grip. “Careful with the edge. You start here, just under the foreleg… press light, not deep, else you’ll spoil the meat.”

I followed his hand, the blade tugging against the skin. The smell was sharp, musky, and I wrinkled my nose, but pushed on. He corrected my fingers, showing me how to pull as much as cut. Bit by bit, the hide came free, slick and strange between my hands.

“Not bad,” he said at last, taking back the knife to finish the work. “For a first try.”

I wiped my palms on the grass, grimacing at the feel still clinging to my fingers. “Useful, maybe. Pleasant? Not in the least.”

The soldier grinned, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh. “That’s the truth of it, Your Grace. Useful, aye, but never pleasant.”

Bootsteps crunched over the leaves, and Ser Edrick came into the firelight. His sharp eyes flicked from the half-skinned squirrel to my stained hands. “Gods be good,” he muttered, “turn my back and you’ve a knife in hand.”

I smirked, brushing my palms against my cloak. “Only a squirrel, Ser. Nothing more.”

For a moment, he only stared, then a rare twitch of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Just don’t ask me to eat it if you cooked it.”

The men laughed, the fire crackled, and the night wore on. Tomorrow the road would carry us closer to Bitterbridge; tonight it was only smoke and tired voices in the dark.

Chapter Text

The hills broke open at last, and there before us sprawled Renly’s host.

It was nothing like Robb’s camp. Where his had been gray canvas and mud, here the tents themselves seemed spun of silk, bright colors gleaming even in the morning light. And there were far more of them — not thousands, but tens of thousands, stretching across the fields like a city raised overnight. Smoke rose in a dozen plumes where kitchens worked to feed the host, the air thick with roasting meat, dung, and trampled grass. Horses whickered, men shouted, and above it all banners snapped in the wind.

Many were unknown to me — bright silks embroidered with grapes, falcons, and stars. I knew some belonged to the Stormlands, though the names of their houses escaped my memory, and there were dozens of others besides. Yet among them stood out those I could name: the golden rose of House Tyrell, and the stag of House Baratheon. Only it was not the black crowned stag I remembered flying above the royal banners in King’s Landing. This one reared golden on a field of green.

At my side Ser Edrick muttered, his eyes narrowing. “I thought the Baratheon colors were different.”

“As did I,” I said, keeping my eyes on the banners. I did not look at him, only set my heels to Ivory’s sides and urged her forward, closer to the sprawl of tents.

We had not gone far before a knot of mailed riders broke from the camp, thundering across the field toward us. Spears lowered as they slowed to a trot, eyes sharp beneath open-faced helms. At their head rode a knight in a surcoat of green and gold, who raised his hand to call his men to a halt.

“Hold!” His gaze swept over us before fixing on me. “What business brings armed riders to the king’s camp?”

Ser Edrick urged his horse forward, his voice carrying clear. “This is Her Grace, Lyanna Stark, Queen in the North. We come seeking audience with King Renly Baratheon.”

The knight’s eyes flicked over me, then back to Edrick. His gaze shifted once more. “There is but one queen here, and she is Margaery Tyrell — wife to King Renly, the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

I counted them in a breath — one in the Red Keep, one in the North, one at Renly’s side. Too many crowns, none secure.

I held his stare, refusing to look away. “King Renly is my uncle. By blood. My men and I have ridden far to reach his camp. Do you think he would be pleased to hear his niece was questioned at his gates instead of welcomed within them?”

The knight shifted, his tone measured now. “Very well, my lady. My men will see you and yours provided for, while I inform the king of your arrival.”

At “my lady,” Ser Edrick went rigid in the saddle. I gave him the briefest look — hold.

“There is no need,” I said then, my voice even. “I will go to him directly.”

We rode deeper into the camp, escorted between long rows of pavilions. At last we halted before one far larger than the rest — vast enough that three of Riverrun’s halls might have been fitted within it. Its walls of silk were green and gold, the stag stitched in bright thread upon the banners that hung at its entrance. Two guards in polished mail barred the way, their halberds crossed before us.

The officer dismounted and stepped forward. “I will announce you.” He vanished inside, and a moment later I heard his voice carry from within: “Your Grace, Lady Lyanna Stark has arrived at your camp. She asks an audience.”

At my side, Ser Edrick shifted uneasily, his hand tightening around his sword hilt. “Your Grace,” he said low, “perhaps—”

“It’s alright,” I cut in gently, turning my head toward him. “There is no danger for me here.”

His jaw worked, but at last he dipped his head. “Very well. I’ll be just outside.”

I drew a steadying breath and stepped past the guards.

The air inside was warmer, heavy with the scents of wine and incense. Rich silks draped the pavilion walls, and the floor was strewn with thick carpets. Low tables groaned beneath bowls of fruit and flagons of wine, and cushions were scattered about as though this were a hall rather than a tent.

At the center stood three figures.

My uncle Renly Baratheon sat at a wide table, broad of shoulder, dark hair falling to his brow. A golden crown rested upon his head, its antlers catching the lamplight. His smile was easy, practiced, though his eyes weighed me closely as I entered.

At his side stood a young woman, fair and poised, near my own age. Her gown of green and gold left little doubt who she was — Margaery Tyrell, I guessed, the new queen the knight had spoken of.

Behind them lingered another, armored in bright plate chased with roses. The sigil marked him plain: a Tyrell knight, his youth and bearing matching the tales I had heard.

Renly’s eyes found mine the instant I stepped forward. He straightened, shoulders squaring, and studied me for a heartbeat before a smile tugged at his mouth.

“You wear new colors, uncle,” I said, keeping my gaze steady on him.

“And you wear a new name, niece,” he answered easily. A laugh followed, rich and sudden, as he closed the distance between us in a few quick strides.

Before I could think to move, his arms swept me into a broad embrace. I stiffened, caught off guard, then let the tension ease and wrapped my arms around him just as tightly.

He kissed my temple, holding me close. “I’ve missed you, Lyanna.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I breathed, the words slipping out before I could temper them. “Very much.”

After a moment we parted, and Renly guided me a step nearer the great table. “Come,” he said, his hand light on my arm. “Let me introduce you properly. My wife, Queen Margaery Tyrell.”

It was then I looked at her closely. She was as beautiful as the South itself, her hair coiled in soft braids threaded with gold, her gown silk and green, cut to flatter and reveal without shame. Every line of her posture carried the ease of a woman raised to be admired.

For a fleeting instant, I remembered my own reflection after weeks on the road — travel-worn braid, dust on my cloak, the plainness of my colors. I felt the difference keenly.

Margaery’s smile, however, was warm and untroubled. She inclined her head slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Lyanna. You favor your uncle so strongly — one can see it at once.”

I only smiled and said simply, “The pleasure is mine.” I offered her no titles, not yet.

Renly’s hand gestured toward the knight at his side. “And here — my most loyal ally, Ser Loras Tyrell.”

I turned to him, letting my gaze meet his. He was as striking, with the kind of beauty meant to turn heads. I gave him a brief smile, and he returned it with one of his own, though his eyes were sharper than his lips.

“As the last reports say,” Loras said, his voice calm but carrying weight, “your husband Robb Stark has proclaimed himself King in the North. And you, his queen.”

“That’s right,” I answered, steady, not flinching.

Loras’s smile thinned. “But Renly is king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Before I could reply, Margaery’s voice slipped in, smooth and warm. “Brother, perhaps the formalities can wait. I’m sure Lady Lyanna is tired from her journey. I’ll escort her to my tent so she can rest.”

Renly inclined his head. “Of course. We’ll dine together this evening, and speak properly then.”

I turned to him, my voice careful. “I had hoped to speak with you privately, Uncle.”

Renly gave a short laugh, though his tone was final. “At dinner, niece. There’s no need for secrets — not with my wife and my sworn brother. What I hear, they may hear.”

The dismissal was plain enough. I swallowed the protest rising in my throat and lowered my gaze. This was not my camp. Here, I gave no orders. So I only nodded and turned to follow Margaery as she glided toward the tent’s flap.

Ser Edrick shadowed me without hesitation, hand never far from his sword.

Outside, Margaery slipped her arm through mine as though we were old friends. Her touch was warm, her smile practiced, yet not unkind. “It’s so lovely to meet Renly’s family,” she said brightly.

I glanced at her, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “Perhaps you’ll feel less lovely when you meet the rest of his family in King’s Landing.”

Her laugh was light, almost musical, but her eyes were keen. “Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. But I was raised in Highgarden, Lady Lyanna. I learned early that family is seldom chosen — and never escaped.”

As we walked, Margaery’s hand remained lightly looped through mine, her voice soft as though we spoke of nothing but gowns.

“If I may ask… what brings you here, Lady Lyanna?”

Her tone was careful, not prying, but laced with curiosity.

I matched her politeness with a faint smile. “Nothing so grand, my lady. I only wished to see my uncle again. It has been long since we last spoke.”

“Of course,” she said smoothly, though her eyes lingered on me a heartbeat longer. “And how do you find his camp? Quite different from the North, I imagine. I heard you’ve been traveling with your husband… Robb Stark, is it?”

“The King Robb Stark,” I corrected, evenly.

Margaery’s lips curved, neither wide nor narrow. “Ah. Then it seems we are both queens now.”

I let the smile touch my mouth, but my voice carried a sharper edge. “A kingdom has many crowns, my lady. The hard part is keeping them.”

Margaery’s laugh at my sharp reply was light, untroubled. “Then let us both hope the crowns we wear sit steady. It’s a heavy thing to keep them from slipping.”

Her tent was as rich inside as it looked from without, heavy silks draped to soften the walls, the floor scattered with cushions and low stools. She let my hand go at last and gestured gracefully. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You must long for a proper bath after so many days on the road.”

I lowered myself to one of the cushions, my eyes flicking over the silks. “You don’t live in King Renly’s tent?”

Margaery’s smile did not falter, though her tone carried careful lightness. “The king is much occupied with councils. I find it simpler to keep my own space — else I’d risk interrupting matters of state at every turn.” She poured herself a cup of watered wine, her brows arching faintly. “Camps are difficult places for young ladies, don’t you agree?”

I tilted my head, lips curving faintly. “Not if they learn quickly enough.”

Her answering smile was soft, practiced. “A fair answer.”

By the time the servants returned with steaming buckets, the tent was warm with heat. I slipped into the bath, the water lapping at my shoulders, and let my braid fall loose. If Margaery minded the frankness of my bare skin, she gave no sign.

Her voice came smooth, almost idle. “Do you and your husband… share much, Lady Lyanna?”

I gathered the water-damp hair over my shoulder, wringing it out with slow fingers. “We do. A husband and wife should — in all things.”

Margaery’s eyes lingered a heartbeat before she smiled, gentle as ever. “Then you’re fortunate. Not every match is so… complete.”

Margaery moved closer without asking, lifting the ewer from the side of the tub. I had just drawn the cloth across my shoulders when she tipped the water gently over my hair. The warmth ran down in rivulets, washing away the grit of the road.

“You have beautiful hair,” she said, her tone light as though it were nothing more than an observation. “Like silk, once the dust is gone. Your husband must count himself very fortunate to have such beauty at his side.”

I smiled politely, inclining my head just enough. “And Renly is no less fortunate.”

Margaery’s smile lingered as she poured another stream through my hair, her fingers brushing lightly along the strands as if testing their smoothness. “Fortune favors him, perhaps. But fortune alone does not win wars. A queen’s presence can steady a man more than any army.”

I glanced up at her, a brow arched. “You speak from experience?”

Her laugh was soft, polite, practiced. “I speak as any wife would. A husband’s burdens are lighter when he does not carry them alone.”

I leaned back slightly in the water, folding the cloth more firmly over my shoulders. “True enough. But burdens shared must still be borne. And no crown sits light.”

Margaery’s expression softened, almost approving. “Wise words for one so young. You speak more like a queen than many who wear the title.”

I gave a small, wry smile. “I was raised in King’s Landing. If I sound sharp, blame the place — it teaches you quickly, or not at all.”

Her lips curved, amused, though her eyes stayed thoughtful. “Then perhaps we may learn from one another.”

“I’m afraid we won’t have much time together,” I said, drawing the cloth tighter across my shoulders. “Once I’ve spoken with my uncle, I must return to my husband.”

“Of course,” Margaery replied lightly, as though she had expected no less. She clapped her hands, and two maidens entered with fresh towels and folded gowns. “I brought a few dresses from Highgarden. I believe they may suit you.”

She lifted one, silk flowing like water between her fingers. “This green would flatter your eyes, I think.”

I rose from the bath, wrapping myself in the towel, and ran a hand along the line of the laces.

Margaery’s smile turned playful. “The air of Highgarden makes such gowns quite comfortable. Perhaps they meet your taste?”

I shook my head with a faint laugh. “I don’t remember the last time I wore anything like this. For months I’ve lived in a war camp. Before that, Winterfell was little kinder to silks. There were more gowns like this in King’s Landing than I could count,” I said lightly. “But they served a different purpose there.”

Margaery’s smile lingered, gentle as ever. “And every place demands its own kind of dress, does it not? In Highgarden, silk is for gardens and feasts. In camps, it is for showing strength in gentler colors. In King’s Landing…” she let the words trail just long enough to leave them hanging, then added smoothly, “in King’s Landing, nothing is ever worn without meaning.”

I looked at her and smiled. It was strangely refreshing to speak with someone my own age — someone whose words carried both courtesy and intelligence. I had never truly had a friend among women; there had been only family, duty, and the cold weight of politics. Yet here, for the first time, I felt the faint flicker of a conversation I could almost enjoy.

The maidens brought the gown forward, rich green silk that shimmered as they lifted it into the light. Its sleeves were long and flowing, open at the shoulders so that the fabric draped and shifted with every movement. As they laced me into it, the silk lay cool against my skin, the gold embroidery at the waist catching the candlelight. I turned back toward her and inclined my head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Her smile warmed, a touch of mischief glimmering at its edge. “It suits you — better than you think.”

For a moment I wasn’t certain if she spoke of the gown, or of the place I had taken — queen, wife, niece of a king. Perhaps all of it at once.

We made our way back to Renly’s pavilion, the largest in the camp, its silken walls glowing with lamplight as dusk settled over the fields. Inside, the air was warm with the heavy scent of roasted meats, honey, and spice.

Renly was already seated at the great table, Ser Loras at his side, the two of them bent in quiet discussion. Their words carried too low for me to catch, though I heard the quick laugh Renly gave at something spoken. At our approach, he rose at once.

“Lyanna,” he greeted, his smile broad as ever. “You look fresher now — as though the road itself could not mar you.” He pulled out a chair with a flourish. “Sit. You must be hungry.”

I smoothed the folds of the green silk Margaery had lent me as I lowered myself into the seat. Renly drew a chair for her as well, seating her neatly at his right. I let my gaze drift over the heaping platters, then looked back at him with a faint smile.

“With respect, Uncle — I expected dinner, not a feast.”

Renly laughed, the sound booming across the silken walls, before he lifted his goblet in salute.

The table groaned under its weight of dishes: roasted capon and quail, steaming venison pies, wheels of cheese, bowls of olives and figs, grapes spilling across silver platters, pears slick with honey, peaches split open so their juices ran. Loaves of fresh-baked bread steamed beside glazed hams, while flagons of Arbor Gold caught the lamplight.

Margaery turned her smile toward me, her voice smooth, each word a gentle courtesy. “This is no feast, Lady Lyanna — only the fare of an ordinary evening. The Reach is blessed with abundance, and Highgarden has long supplied both host and harvest.”

I returned her smile politely. “Then the Reach is fortunate indeed.”

But the words sat hollow on my tongue. Behind them rose images I could not push away: Blackfish’s voice sharp in Riverrun’s hall, warning Robb that there was never enough grain for men and horses both; the broken bodies after battle, groaning through fever and pain; the banners whipping above the camps like silent accusations. Catelyn bent in mourning for her father and her husband, her face lined with grief, her thoughts with her daughters far away. The northern soldiers who sat by their fires in silence, longing for families left behind. None of it belonged beside silver cups and tables groaning with food. This felt less like war, more like a celebration of it. But I said nothing. I let those thoughts stay mine alone.

Margaery lifted the flagon and poured for me, pale gold wine swirling in the cup. Renly’s eyes brightened as he leaned forward, his tone almost playful.

“Come now, Lyanna — taste the pies with raspberry. You were fond of them once, in King’s Landing.”

I set the cup down untouched. “Uncle, I didn’t ride here for pies or wine. I came to speak with you.”

Loras shifted, his voice clipped. “With respect, you should address him as Your Grace.”

Renly waved a hand, laughing. “There’s no need, Loras. She is family.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “And my family now is in the Riverlands, bleeding for a war they did not ask for.”

Renly’s smile faltered, his voice firm. “We are all at war, Lyanna.”

I leaned forward, my gaze steady on his. “Have you seen it? Truly? You have banners enough to cover the fields, tables enough to feed a kingdom. But have you seen men screaming for their mothers while they bled out in the mud? Have you seen brothers bury brothers, or wagons sent home half-empty?”

A silence fell, heavy as the canvas above us. Then I broke it again.

“You might call yourself a king, but Joffrey wears the crown, and sits the Iron Throne.”

Loras leaned forward, his tone cutting. “And yet, the same can be said of Robb Stark, can it not? By rights, the Seven Kingdoms already have a king. What makes your husband different?”

“My husband never claimed seven crowns,” I shot back. “He claims only one — the North. And every man who follows him does so because he is their choice. He does not need silk or feasts to prove it. He protects his people, and for that they call him king.”

Loras leaned forward, his eyes keen. “And yet you come to ask for aid.”

My head snapped toward him. “I came to speak with my uncle, Ser Loras — not to justify my husband to you.”

The air thickened, the silence taut as a drawn bow.

Renly lifted a hand, his voice smooth, carrying over the table. “Enough. Margaery, Loras — leave us. Lyanna and I have words to share that are best spoken in private.”

Margaery inclined her head gracefully, rising without protest. “As you wish, My Love.” She set her hand lightly on her brother’s arm, guiding him to his feet. Loras’s gaze lingered sharp on me, but he followed her from the pavilion.

When the flap closed behind them, I let out a slow breath. “I was too harsh. I shouldn’t have spoken so quickly.”

Renly’s mouth curved in a smile. “No. It’s Robert I see in you. Not in his looks — Seven spare us — but in the way you speak. Direct. Blunt.”

His gaze softened for a moment. “I’m sorry, Lyanna. When he died, I never reached for you.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” I said evenly. “And no need for pretenses. Robert was never much of a brother to you—or a father to me.”

“Lyanna…” he began, but I cut him with a sharp shake of my head.

“It’s true. But even so, I doubt he’d have wished the throne left to Lannisters and their bastards. Not after all he bled to smash the Targaryens.”

Renly’s jaw set, his eyes steady on mine. “You’re right. A Baratheon should sit the Iron Throne. But between us—when Lord Eddard uncovered the truth in King’s Landing, he turned to me. And he said Stannis had the greater right. He is older, after all. Tell me—what does Robb Stark think of that?”

“Robb Stark is not his father,” I answered at once. “He listened to me, and he cares nothing for who sits the Iron Throne. He isn’t chasing crowns or playing at court. He wants no part of ruling the Seven Kingdoms, no part of your intrigues. His only aim is the North. His people.”

Renly leaned back slightly, studying me. “And yet he wears a crown all the same.”

“His people gave him that crown,” I said, firm. “The North is not like King’s Landing. Not like the Stormlands or the Reach. They are proud, and they are loyal. After Lord Eddard’s death, they will never bow to the Iron Throne again—no matter whether it’s Joffrey, or Stannis, or even you who sits it.”

I paused, my voice lowering. “And truth be told, I doubt they would bow to me, either. To them I will always be a southern girl, a Lannister by blood, a stranger to their ways. I have seen it in their eyes. What holds them is not my name—it is Robb, and the cause they chose.”

Renly let his voice soften, his lips tugging into a faint smile. “This boy loves you, does he not?”

I arched a brow, the sound that left me half a laugh, half a proud defense. “This boy leads men into battle. He carries a war on his shoulders. I don’t think he’d thank anyone for calling him a boy.”

Renly laughed, though it sounded half-bitter. He looked past me, gaze drifting toward the banners stitched in silk above the table. “And yet, Robert never took me seriously. To him I was always green, soft, more court than camp. He gave his respect to Stannis, never to me. Even now, half these lords whisper that Stannis is the rightful king, and the other half only fear the Lannisters more than they doubt me.”

For a moment I watched him, his shoulders heavy despite the crown on his brow. Then I said quietly, “Robert had his ways of showing love. They weren’t kind, and not always clear… but they were there.”

His eyes flicked back to mine, doubtful.

“He gave me to Robb Stark,” I said. “A man I barely knew. He told me I’d belong in the North better than in King’s Landing. And he was right. I only understood it recently, but still—I’m grateful. He sent me away before things soured beyond mending.”

I leaned forward slightly, my tone steady. “And you. After he took the throne, he made you Lord of Storm’s End, Warden of the Stormlands. He gave you not only command but the keeping of lands that have always belonged to our house. The legacy of House Baratheon — its castles, its bannermen, its wealth — he placed in your hands. That wasn’t nothing, Renly. That was Robert’s way of telling you that you mattered.”

Renly leaned back in his chair, studying me with that easy smile of his, though his eyes weighed my words. “Perhaps.”

He reached for his cup, turning the wine between his fingers before glancing back at me. “And yet, Lyanna, whispers travel faster than ravens. Some say you’ve set your sights higher than your husband. That as Robert’s firstborn, trueborn, with the North at your back and a young wolf who’s yet to taste defeat… you mean to claim the Iron Throne for yourself.”

I met his gaze without flinching. “Uncle, I have no wish for that chair. To be fair, I’d rather stay as far from King’s Landing as life allows me. As for Robb — court lies and whispers would choke him before he ever drew his sword. That’s not the life either of us want.”

I leaned forward, my tone firm. “What I came here to say is this: you may never be king of all seven kingdoms. But you could be king of six. And Robb — Robb is already king in the North. You want the Iron Throne, he wants justice and his sisters home. Your aims don’t clash. They cross. The North will never bend to another crown, not after what’s been done to them. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be allies. Two kings, not enemies — standing against the same foe.”

Renly chuckled, spreading his hands as though weighing the words. “King of six kingdoms… and my niece ruling the seventh. One way or another, it’s still Baratheons on the thrones, isn’t it?”

I smiled faintly. “If you like how it sounds, Uncle, then take it. But tell me—what do you think?” I stepped closer to the table, my eyes tracing the map strewn with markers of men and banners.

Renly’s gaze followed mine, his voice steady. “Before King’s Landing, there’s Stannis. He’s calling his banners.”

“You have the largest host in the Seven Kingdoms.” I pressed.

Renly’s mouth curved, confident. “That’s true. But first, I must break Stannis.”

I looked up at him sharply. “You mean to kill your brother? For a crown?”

“If he bends the knee, no,” Renly said easily. “He can keep Dragonstone as he always has. But if not…” He spread his hands, leaving the rest unsaid.

“Do you truly think Stannis will bend?” I asked, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.

“He has no other choice,” Renly replied, firm as if conviction could make it true.

I exhaled slowly, the thought sour in my chest. I had no wish to see uncles set against one another. But his eyes were on me, waiting for my answer.

“I don’t care who warms the Iron Throne. But between you and Stannis? I would choose you.”

Renly’s smile widened, boyish in triumph. “I always knew you loved me best, niece.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Don’t flatter yourself too much, Uncle.”

Renly leaned an elbow on the table, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Tell me, niece — how many men does Robb have?”

I met his gaze evenly. “Do you ask because you want him to help you fight Stannis?”

“If we are to be allies,” Renly said smoothly, “then I must know what aid I can count on.”

“With respect, Uncle, it is not my right to name his numbers.” I answered, steady but firm. “And in truth, I do not think he would lead his men for you, or for any other.”

Renly’s brow arched. “So you come here asking me to ally with your husband, but deny me any help from him?”

“It isn’t only Robb,” I said, leaning forward. “It’s his people. The North will not fight for you, Uncle. They will fight against Lannisters, because that is what matters to them. They don’t care who sits the Iron Throne — Baratheon or Lannister or any other. They want their liege lord avenged, and their daughters safe at home.”

Renly’s lips pressed into a thin line, but I went on before he could speak.

“And Robb cannot march south for you even if he wished it. His men are in the Riverlands, and have been for months. They’re fighting Tywin Lannister — holding him back, bleeding for it. If Robb leaves now, if he abandons that, then he loses everything he has fought to hold.”

He rose from the table and moved to the great map spread across a sideboard, the candlelight spilling over it. His fingers swept across the parchment, tracing the wide green fields and coasts of the Stormlands.

“I’ve near a hundred thousand men beneath my banners,” Renly said, his tone light but deliberate. “Stormlords who have never failed my house, and the Reach besides. The Florents, the Rowans, the Oakhearts, the Redwynes, the Tarlys—and of course the Tyrells. All sworn. All marching at my word.”

I let my eyes drop to the map, tracing the painted sigils spread across it. Robb’s banners in the Riverlands were a fraction of this — seventeen thousand men, brave but thin against the weight of numbers gathered here. I drew a slow breath.

“Your alliance with the Reach has its benefits,” I said at last.

Renly’s smile grew, quick and certain. “That’s right. Margaery wants to be queen, and I want to be king. So our interests met — and the realm will follow.”

I said nothing further, though the thought stirred all the same. Marriages for love were rare; marriages for power were the way of the realm. Margaery’s crown was bought with roses, not passion, and yet she seemed content enough. My own match had begun as another bargain of politics, but had grown into something else. Perhaps that was fortune, or perhaps it was a kind of defiance.

I leaned forward, my voice steady.

“Good. Admit the North’s independence, and Robb will support you when you march on King’s Landing. I swear I’ll never claim the Iron Throne. Robb fights Tywin in the Riverlands, you deal with Stannis. After that, join forces.”

Renly gave a short laugh, then nodded.

“Straight to the point. Fine, niece. The North will be free, and together we’ll deal with the Lannisters. That much I’ll give you.”

I inclined my head. “Then I’ll write to Robb tonight. He’s waiting for this answer.”

I stood, smoothing my dress. “And I hope my tent is ready by now. I’d rather not test the Tyrells’ hospitality longer than needed.”

Renly chuckled, settling back into his chair. “You’ll always have a place at my court, niece. When the North and its snows grow too cold for you, come south — it’s warmer here.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “I’ll keep it in mind, uncle.”

Chapter Text

Renly’s summons came in the morning, the silk of his pavilion walls stirring faintly in the breeze. When I stepped inside, he was already waiting, a small chest set upon the table before him.

“I’ve never missed your name day, Lyanna,” he said with a grin, though his eyes softened. “This past one, I missed. And it was more than your name day, too — your wedding. I had no gift for you.”

I smiled faintly. “I’m not a child anymore. No need to bring sweets and trinkets set with gems.”

Renly chuckled. “I could foresee that answer. But no — this one, I think you’ll like.”

He flipped the latch. Inside lay a dagger, resting on dark velvet. He lifted it free, the blade flashing in the lamplight. Its hilt was gold, shaped into the form of a stag rearing, the antlers curving to guard the hand.

I took it carefully, testing the balance in my palm. “I was half-expecting some sparkling bauble for my hair. A ribbon, maybe, or a ring that pinches.” I held the dagger up, the stag catching the light. “But this — this is much more useful. At least I can cut my own meat at supper.”

Renly laughed under his breath. “I’d hope you’ll use it only for meat. But times are uncertain. Better you have something to protect yourself. And something to remind you of home — of who you are. Who you truly are.”

I slid the dagger back into its case and tucked it beneath my arm. “Thank you, uncle. Truly. It matters more than I can say.”

Renly’s smile widened, boyish despite the crown on his brow. He rose and swept a hand toward the tent’s entrance.

“Come on then, little stag,” he said with an easy laugh. “Let’s take a walk through my camp.”

The flap stirred as he pushed it aside, sunlight spilling over the silk carpets and onto the grass beyond. The noise of the host pressed close — the clatter of arms, the calls of stableboys, the endless murmur of thousands. I fell in step at his side as we left the pavilion, the air outside sharp with smoke and horses.

I kept pace at his side as we made our way down the packed rows of pavilions. Men straightened when they saw him, some bowing low, others thumping fists to their chests. Renly returned each greeting with easy familiarity, calling a name here, clasping a forearm there. It struck me how swiftly they warmed to him — not the stiff courtesy given to lords out of duty, but something closer to affection.

We walked a little farther before another voice hailed him. “Your Grace!” cried a portly lord with a green cloak clasped by a bronze falcon.

Renly grinned. “Lord Caron. Keep your archers sharp — I’ll want them at the front if we meet Stannis.”

The man bowed deeply before retreating.

“And who was that?” I asked.

“Lord Bryce Caron of Nightsong,” Renly said easily. “Falcon sigil, as you saw. A good man, and his house has guarded the marches against Dornish raiders for generations. He knows how to hold a line.”

I arched a brow. “I didn’t know you had strife with Dorne.”

Renly gave a short laugh. “Not open war, no. But the Dornish like to test our borders. Raids, ambushes, a quick strike across the marches before slipping back into their sands. Old grudges die hard in the Stormlands.”

Renly’s eyes slid toward me, his smile crooked. “Don’t tell me the North lives peacefully.”

I met his look evenly. “No. But they are closer to the Wall than any in the realm. Their troubles come down from the frost — wildlings. Though I’d say Last Hearth feels it more keenly than Winterfell. The Umbers guard that line.”

Renly tilted his head, studying me. “You know your North.”

I gave a small shrug. “I’m a Stark now, after all. And as my husband says, I must know the place I rule. Though I’ll admit — my knowledge of Northern bannermen far outstrips what little I know of the Stormlands.”

That drew a laugh from him as we walked on, men bowing low as he passed. “We’ll mend that, niece. Look there—” he lifted a hand, pointing toward a banner rippling above a cluster of tents. “A black field, with two crossed keys picked in gold. House Wylde of Rain House. Staunch men, sea-faring folk. They’ve guarded Shipbreaker Bay since before the Conquest. When storms come, they’re the first to feel it — and the first to rise when called.”

Renly’s hand lifted, pointing toward a green banner marked with a sea turtle.

“A sea turtle on green. House Estermont. My mother’s kin — Lady Cassana.”

I glanced at him. “How was she?”

His smile faded, the words coming quieter. “I never knew her. She died when I was born. All I’ve had are stories. They say Robert’s fire came from her side, and Stannis’s silences too. What I do remember is the ship — my father’s ship — breaking on the rocks below Storm’s End. Robert and Stannis told me I cried, though I don’t recall it. That was the last time we saw him.”

His gaze turned away for a moment, voice thinning. “Sometimes I think Stannis blamed me for it — as if by being born, I stole her life.”

I slowed my steps, watching the banner stir in the breeze. “It wasn’t your fault, uncle. No child is to blame for the cost of their birth. If she were here, I don’t believe she’d see it that way.”

The words lingered, but in my thoughts came another face — Tyrion. I had often wondered if that was the true root of Cersei’s hatred for him: that his birth had taken their mother’s life. Perhaps it was the fate of some children, to carry blame for a tragedy they never chose.

Renly’s voice broke the silence again, lower now. “I loved them both — Robert and Stannis. Truly. And deep down, I don’t want to fight him.”

I drew a breath, soft but firm. “Is there no way to come to terms? I don’t want Baratheon blood spilled against Baratheon blood. I already lost my father. I would not want to lose my uncles as well. I don’t know Stannis well, but I don’t believe he deserves to die over a crown.”

Renly turned his gaze back to me, his expression set but not unkind. “It’s difficult, Lyanna. It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s best for the realm. It cannot prosper under Joffrey. And with Stannis…” he shook his head. “He makes everything into war. He’s a good general, aye. But generals aren’t good rulers. And my people — the lords, the banners you’ve seen here — they understand that. That’s why they follow me.”

I studied him for a moment, then asked quietly, “And how would you rule, when you become king?”

Renly’s smile returned, easy and certain, as though the weight of crowns were no heavier than a feather. “Differently. Better. I’d rule by making men glad to follow me, not fearful of it. Look around — they come because they want to, because they believe in me. I don’t need to beat them into loyalty or starve them into obedience. A king should make his people proud to stand behind him.”

He spread a hand toward the endless rows of tents, the banners snapping in the wind. “That’s the realm I mean to build. One where strength isn’t measured only in battles won, but in peace kept.”

I smiled. ‘Sounds like a fine plan. But what of the innocents — Tommen, Myrcella, my cousin Shireen? They are only children, who never chose their families. What would you do for them if you sat the Iron Throne?’

Renly’s expression grew serious. “I would not make children suffer for the sins of grown men. I promise you — none of them will be put in danger while I sit the throne.”

I let out a breath that was half a laugh. “Well, then you have my blessing. Perhaps with you on the throne, King’s Landing might even become endurable — if you do something about the city’s aroma. I swear, even your Reach roses would wither in that stench.”

Renly threw his head back and laughed, warm and unguarded. “Gods, if I could rid the capital of that smell, the realm would crown me without a fight. But I fear even kings have limits. Some enemies are too entrenched, even for me.”

He winked, leaning closer. “Still, if the throne can’t change the air, perhaps it can fill the gardens with enough roses to mask it.”

We stepped further into the camp, the ground alive with movement — squires running errands, smiths hammering at blades, knights raising hands in greeting as Renly passed. Every few paces, another man bowed his head or called out a blessing, and Renly answered each with the same easy smile, a word here, a nod there.

I found myself glancing upward again, the wind tugging at the banners that crowned the pavilions. I lifted a hand, pointing toward one in white, where a swan spread its wings across the cloth.

“That one,” I said. “Swans.”

Renly’s laugh rumbled low, amused. “An easy guess — their banners speak for themselves. House Swann of Stonehelm.”

I asked, tilting my head toward him, “who stands as your strongest among the Stormlords?”

He gave me a sidelong look, lips quirking. “Spying on me, are you?” His tone was light, but his answer came steady. “The Tarths of Evenfall — Lord Selwyn’s daughter serves in my Kingsguard, Brienne. The Dondarrions of Blackhaven — Beric rides for me now, sharp-eyed and bold. The Conningtons of Griffin’s Roost and the Penroses still keep Storm’s End — no house more steadfast to my line. With them, the Stormlands stand firm.”

I arched a brow. “Do women serve in the Kingsguard now?”

Renly’s smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Why not? She is worthy of the post. I don’t judge a person by their sex, Lyanna — nor by the desires the world insists should be bound to it. Those things matter less than loyalty, and the will to serve.”

The meaning was clear enough, though he spoke it as lightly as any jest. In King’s Landing, such words would have been turned into daggers. But Renly said them without care, as though he’d long decided he would not be bound by the world’s measures. I wondered if that was what made men follow him so easily.

Renly’s smile softened, though it didn’t fade. “I’ll be marching soon myself — within a few days at most. Toward King’s Landing. Stannis will likely be waiting for me along the way.”

“You could ride with my host,” he went on, “and when we near the city, turn north again. My men would see you safely back to the Riverlands.”

I gave a small nod. “That would ease Robb’s mind.”

We walked a little further before I spoke again, more hesitant this time. “May I ask something of you? Robb still holds the Riverlands, but every day it costs him men and food. He fights Tywin with what strength he has, but without more—” I broke off, pressing my lips together.

Renly studied me for a moment, then said evenly, “Sooner or later I’ll have to face Tywin as well. But Stannis comes first, and I cannot strip my banners bare before that’s done.”

I lowered my gaze, biting back the words, until he added, almost lightly, “Still — I can spare some strength. Three thousand men, with provisions from the Reach to keep them marching. Grain, salt fish, wine. Enough to stiffen your husband’s lines.”

My head lifted at once, relief warming my chest. “Uncle… that would be wonderful.”

He grinned, boyish for a moment despite the crown on his brow. “Then take it as a belated  wedding gift.”

I hugged him, quick but firm. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Renly chuckled, patting my shoulder before turning away. “Rest now, niece. Duty calls.”

Back in my tent, I laid the case carefully aside and took up quill and parchment. My words flowed swiftly, set down for Robb alone: Renly’s promise of grain from the Reach, and three thousand men sworn to Riverrun. Not men to replace those who had fallen  — fresh strength — horses and steel to hold the lines where his host bled thin. As the ink dried, pride stirred in me. At last, I had something solid to send him, something more than empty hope.

Chapter Text

On the morrow of another day, I found myself wandering the camp when the ring of steel drew my ear. I stopped at the edge of a training yard, where a knot of squires shouted encouragement as two knights sparred. Blades flashed in the sun, heavy strikes echoing through the yard.

One wore armor chased with roses; it took no great wit to know him—Ser Loras Tyrell.

The moment he caught sight of me, he broke off the bout. A quick word to his partner, then he lifted away his helm, handed his sword to a waiting squire, and crossed the yard toward me.

He inclined his head with formal grace. “Your Grace, I owe you an apology. At table my words were too sharp. I spoke out of turn.”

His honesty caught me off guard, the plain sincerity of it. Likely Renly had spoken with him, for now he addressed me with the courtesy I had been denied before.

I offered him a small, polite smile. “You were only defending your king. Anyone in your place would have done the same.”

“Even so,” Loras said quietly, “I meant no slight.”

I studied him a moment, then asked, “You’re loyal to him. Fiercely so.”

His chin lifted, no shame in it. “He is the best of us. Strong without cruelty, beloved without fear. If I speak sharply in his defense, it is because too many doubt him. I will not stand idle while they do.”

“I understand,” I said softly. “I would do the same for Robb.”

Loras’s eyes lingered on me, thoughtful. “Then perhaps we are not so different. We both serve crowns we believe in. And we both know how swiftly the world seeks to tear them down.”

For a heartbeat, the clang of the training yard filled the silence between us. Then I inclined my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

“Then let us say both our kings will have what they seek, Ser Loras.”

His mouth curved faintly, though the steel in his eyes did not soften. “On that, Your Grace, we are agreed.”

I let the smile linger a moment, then softened my tone.

“Please — call me Lyanna. I’d rather avoid formalities. Especially with Renly’s friends… and his family.”

Loras inclined his head, the formality easing. “As you wish… Lyanna.”

He studied me for a moment. Then, almost idly, he said, “Renly used to speak of you. Often.”

I arched a brow, careful to keep my tone level. “I suppose you are close friends.”

I tried to make it sound light, not edged with the suspicion tugging at the back of my mind.

A smile curved his mouth, softer than before. “We first met at a tourney in Highgarden. I was newly knighted, eager to prove myself. He was already a Baratheon of the court, a king’s brother. Everyone wanted his notice. I rode well that day — unhorsed three men twice my size. But when he came to me afterward, it wasn’t for the victory.”

He paused, as though weighing whether to say more, then went on. “He said I carried myself with pride, but without arrogance. He said it was rare, and worth keeping close. From that moment, he treated me not as the son of Highgarden, but as… myself.”

I smiled at his words. “I suppose that’s one of Renly’s best traits — seeing people beyond their names and appearances.” My head tilted, teasing lightly. “And what exactly did he say of me? Should I hope it was only good things? Though, knowing how much of a child I was, I doubt it.”

Loras’s laugh came quick, more genuine this time. “Good things… and stories. He once told me how you hit him square in the face.”

The memory struck so suddenly I laughed too, shaking my head. “He started it. Nearly tore half my hair out.”

Loras’s smile widened. “He told me you’d been pestering him for days to teach you to ride. He finally agreed, and when you were done, your hair was a complete mess.”

I groaned, covering my face with a hand. “Yes. He said it was unseemly for a princess to look like that, so he tried to fix it. Stuck a comb in, yanked too hard, and pulled one braid nearly out by the root. I jumped, swung, and caught him on the nose.”

Loras’s laughter rang out in the yard, unguarded this time. “I almost wish I’d seen it. He never told me it hurt — only that he deserved it.”

I found myself laughing too, the sound strange and light in a camp so thick with armor and banners. But squires were already clearing the yard, voices carrying news that the evening meal was being laid. The smell of roasting meat drifted on the air, mingling with the clang of steel as the day’s drills wound down.

Loras inclined his head once more, composure returning as he stepped back. “Lyanna. Until supper.”

I turned toward the pavilion lights pricking the dusk. The clang of steel and the shouts of squires faded behind me, replaced by the low murmur of men gathering at their fires.

Ser Edrick fell into step beside me, helm tucked under his arm. His voice was low, meant for me alone. “Your Grace, I’ve had word from the ravens’ keepers. No answer from Riverrun yet.”

I drew a quiet breath, steadying myself. “Then the birds are still on their way. Robb will have my letters soon enough.”

Edrick’s gaze shifted toward the endless sprawl of tents, their banners stirring in the dusk breeze. “How long do you mean for us to stay here?”

“Not long,” I said. “Renly marches for King’s Landing within days. When he moves his host, we’ll ride with him. From there, we’ll turn north for Riverrun.” I glanced at him, allowing the faintest smile. “He’s given three thousand men to Robb, with provisions from the Reach.”

Edrick inclined his head, but his jaw stayed tight. “Then may the gods grant those men reach us before Tywin does.”

At the threshold of my tent, a shadow moved. Margaery Tyrell stood waiting, her hands folded loosely before her, her smile as warm and polished as ever.

“Lyanna,” she said lightly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to seek me out. “I thought you might welcome some company before supper. The camp can be a lonely place when there are no women near your age.”

I inclined my head, gesturing her inside. “You’re kind to think of it. I was only just returning.”

She stepped in without hesitation, her gown whispering against the rugs. “It’s habit, I suppose. I’ve always found the hours before dinner pass more easily with conversation.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the case holding Renly’s dagger where it lay near my cot, then back to me, curiosity unspoken.

I offered a faint smile. “Conversation is welcome. Ravens and knights don’t make the best companions.”

Margaery settled gracefully at the far edge of the bed, her skirts fanning around her as though the rough cot were some cushioned seat in Highgarden. She smiled, lowering her voice as though we shared a secret.

“I hope it’s not a trouble if I dismiss the titles, Lyanna. Between us, I’d rather speak simply.”

“Not at all,” I said, leaning back slightly on one hand. “I’ve little use for them outside the hall.”

Margaery tilted her head, studying me with that practiced warmth of hers. “Tell me, Lyanna — what is the North really like? The Reach is my world, and it feels a world away from yours.”

“Well,” I said with a small smile, “cold, for one. You’d have little chance to wear such silks and gowns there.”

She laughed lightly, hands smoothing the folds of her skirt. “A pity. But I suppose the North must have its own charms.”

“It does,” I admitted. “It’s cleaner, for one. Not so… stifling. And the people—” I paused, thinking. “They’re simpler.”

Her brows rose. “Simpler?”

“Yes. They say what they mean, and they mean what they say. No pretenses. No courtesies meant to mask a knife. It can be startling, at first… but refreshing too.”

Margaery’s eyes glimmered with amusement. She leaned in slightly, her smile turning sly. “And I imagine the men are… different, too?”

Heat crept to my cheeks before I could stop it, though I managed a crooked smile. “I don’t think so. Whatever people whisper about Northern men — it’s all lies.”

Margaery leaned back slightly, her eyes glinting in the candlelight. “And your husband?” she asked with careful lightness, as though it were nothing more than idle curiosity. “Do Northern kings speak as plainly as their bannermen?”

I let a smile tug at my mouth. “Robb speaks plainly enough. Words don’t come as easily to him as action. He shows more than he says.”

Her brows arched, her voice gentle. “Then he must show you often. It sounds… steadying.”

I dropped my gaze for a moment, fingers brushing the edge of the coverlet. “It is,” I said simply. My tone was even, but the silence that followed betrayed more than I intended.

Margaery’s smile curved, sly but not unkind. “I thought so. The way you said his name gave you away.”

Heat touched my cheeks, though I answered with dry humor, “You sound as though you’ve made a sport of reading hearts.”

Her laugh was soft, practiced. “Not a sport. A necessity.”

I shook my head with a faint smile, tugging the blanket a little higher. “And I suppose I should be grateful you haven’t turned it on me entirely.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” Margaery said smoothly, though the spark in her eyes suggested otherwise. She reached for the tray a maid had left earlier, plucking a grape between her fingers. “Besides, it’s nearly time for supper. Best to save your strength for Renly’s table — I promise you, there will be more dishes than any sane host should attempt.”

Her tone was light again, teasing, but the weight of her earlier words lingered. I only gave a small nod, my thoughts drifting unbidden to Robb.

Margaery tilted her head, as though sensing it, then smiled once more — bright, practiced, untroubled. “Come,” she said, rising from the bed. She offered her arm, and I took it, letting her lead me out into the cool evening air. Lanterns already burned along the rows of pavilions, their glow spilling across silks and banners, and the hum of voices grew louder as we neared the king’s great tent. Servants hurried past with trays of wine, the scent of roasted meats thickening with every step.

We entered the pavilion together, the lamplight gilding the silken walls. Renly rose at once, his smile quick and warm.

“I’m glad,” he said, spreading his arms, “that tonight the most beautiful woman in camp will join me for supper.”

Margaery glided to him with easy grace, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’ll make the ladies of camp blush if you speak so boldly, my King. But if you mean me, I shall graciously accept the compliment.”

I arched a brow, settling into my seat. “Good — because if you meant me, I’d have thought the wine had gone to your head already.”

Renly laughed, the sound booming through the tent, while Margaery only hid a smile behind her goblet.

Loras slid into his seat, the plates clattering faintly as he adjusted his chair. His sharp eyes flicked between us. “You look cheerful, sister.”

Margaery’s smile was bright, practiced but not without warmth. “Oh, I was merely enjoying Lyanna’s company. It’s a relief, truly — to speak of something other than war and council matters.”

Loras gave a faint huff of amusement, leaning back. “And yet war and council are what keep this camp standing. You’ll find little else for talk, sister.”

She tilted her head at him, unruffled. “Then I am glad to have at least some variety. With such a brother as you, forever sharpening swords and tempers both, I’d risk wilting from tedium. But I’ve managed well enough so far — with no fear at all.”

For a heartbeat, a flicker of something close to jealousy stirred in me. Margaery had Loras — a brother at her side since childhood, fierce in her defense, arranging her safety, her marriage, her place in the world. She had never needed to wonder who would protect her. Whatever I had was not the same. Joffrey was never truly a brother to me. Even before war made us enemies, he seemed to delight in making me small — every word a barb, every glance a challenge. There was nothing between us but spite, sharpened with each passing year. Renly — an uncle I saw too rarely, though I was grateful for him now. Robb — my husband, and a love I had not expected to find. Different, hard-won, something that grew between us rather than being given. But none of them could compare to the bond of a sibling who had been with you from your very first breath.

Margaery set her cup down gently, her voice carrying that calm assurance she always wore. “The trains have already gone north — grain, cheese, fresh bread, and a few casks besides, bound for Riverrun.”

I inclined my head. “I appreciate your generosity.”

Renly chuckled then, swirling his cup as though some thought had struck him. “Lyanna, do you remember how you used to slip out of the septa’s lessons? Every time she turned her back, you’d vanish, and half the Red Keep would be searching for you.”

A smirk tugged at my mouth. “Only because the lessons were dull. You found me once hiding in the kitchens.”

“And you were eating an entire tray of lemon cakes,” Renly finished, grinning.

I arched a brow at him, feigning offense. “Hey — you demanded half of them in exchange for keeping my secret. That was quite a fair trade.”

Renly laughed, lifting his cup in mock salute.

Margaery’s eyes sparkled as she leaned in, her voice lilting. “So the mighty Baratheon prince could be bribed with cakes? That’s a tale worth remembering. It seems I’ve discovered your greatest weakness, my King.”

Renly pressed a hand over his heart with exaggerated solemnity. “Only when shared with family.”

Everyone laughed, the sound easing the weight of war that lingered at the edges of the camp. Margaery rose gracefully, cup in hand, her smile poised yet warm.

“Then let’s have a toast,” she said, her voice carrying lightly across the table. “For family — the one we are born to, and the one we find along the way.”

Renly lifted his goblet at once, Loras followed, eyes steady on him, and I raised mine as well, feeling the weight of her words settle deeper than her courtesy alone.

The warmth of the laughter still hung in the air when a draft stirred the tent. It was sudden, sharp — a chill that didn’t belong in these soft southern nights. The candles guttered, their flames bowing low, and a hush fell so quickly it seemed the whole pavilion held its breath.

The hair rose on the back of my neck. A weight pressed down in my chest, the kind that warns of danger before the eye can see it.

Renly had just lifted his cup, smiling at some half-formed jest, when the air behind him darkened. It was no shadow cast by firelight but something thicker, alive, shaping itself as it slipped across the tent. My breath caught as it drew form — a man’s outline, faceless, all in black.

A blade flashed, then drove through his back; the point burst from his chest.

Renly’s eyes went wide. The cup tumbled from his fingers, wine spilling red across the silks. His knees buckled, the crown slipping askew as he crumpled forward onto the table.

And then — nothing. The shadow dissolved as swiftly as it had come, thinning to smoke, vanishing into the air as though it had never been. Only the toppled goblet, the dark stain, and Renly’s still form remained.

Margaery’s scream pierced the air, high and ragged, shattering the silence that followed. She stumbled back from the table, hands clutching at her skirts as though to ward off what she’d just seen.

Loras was faster. He sprang forward, catching Renly before his body could slide from the chair. “Renly! Gods—Renly!” His voice cracked, fierce and desperate, as he tried to lift him upright. Blood seeped hot between his fingers.

The tent flap tore open. Guards rushed in, steel flashing, their eyes wild with confusion. Ser Edrick was the first through, blade already bare, his stance instinctively set at my side. “Your Grace—back!” he barked, scanning the shadows for an enemy he could not find.

I couldn’t move. My legs felt nailed to the ground. I blinked once, twice, as if my eyes had tricked me, as if the sight before me were some foul dream. Only a moment ago, Renly had been laughing, warm and alive, and now— his body slumped in Loras’s arms, eyes already glazing, lips parting soundlessly. I wanted to scream, to run to him, but nothing came. My throat locked tight, as though the air had frozen there with the shadow.

The guards shouted, some cursing, some praying, but it was all a dull roar in my ears. I could only stare, heart hammering painfully against my ribs.

I stumbled forward.“Renly!” Loras cried, his voice breaking, shaking him as though he might wake from some cruel jest.

I dropped to my knees beside them. The blood was hot, spreading fast, soaking into the hem of my gown until it clung heavy against my skin. My hands hovered uselessly, trembling above the wound I could not close.

“Uncle…” The word scraped from my throat, a whisper, a plea. Tears blurred my vision, spilled unchecked down my cheeks, falling onto his still-warm face.

I shook my head, the denial breaking from me in fragments. “No… please—” My hands pressed against his chest, slippery with blood, trying to hold it in, to keep him whole.

Only minutes ago he had been smiling at me, teasing as he always had. My uncle. The one who read me stories before sleep, who kissed my brow when I was small, who brought me sugared fruits when I was ill. How could he be gone?

The tent erupted around me.

“King Renly is slain!” a guard bellowed, voice ragged with shock. Another’s sword rasped free, the point swinging wildly toward shadows at the edge of the pavilion. “Find the killer!”

“Murder!” another cried, and steel clashed as men turned on each other in blind fury.

“Hold him—gods, hold him—” Loras’s voice tore through the din, hoarse and breaking, as he clutched Renly tighter, rocking him as if he were only sleeping.

Margaery screamed for a maester, her cry high and sharp, cutting across the chaos. Servants stumbled in, wide-eyed, then scattered as swords flashed and men shouted, some falling to their knees in prayer, others snarling accusations.

But I hardly saw it. The panic, the swords, the cries of “traitor” and “witchcraft” blurred into a storm. All I could feel was the weight of Renly slipping away beneath my hands, the warmth fading from his skin.

“No,” I whispered again, shaking my head, the tears choking me now. “Please, not you. Not you…”

Steel rang as guards nearly turned their blades on one another, the panic spiraling.

“Witchcraft!” someone shouted.

“No man was here—no blade struck him!” another bellowed.

“Lies! A knife was in his heart—”

“Find the sorcerer, find the traitor!”

Ser Edrick seized my arm, dragging me back from the body, his sword raised toward the guards who pressed too close. “Stand down!” he roared. “No hand in this pavilion struck him — gods witness me!”

But still the shouting went on — cries for vengeance, cries for blood.

A silence finally cracked through the chaos, jagged and uneasy. One voice — I never saw whose — spoke what all must have been thinking:

“If the king can be struck down by shadows, what hope have the rest of us?”

No one answered. Not even Loras, who rocked Renly’s lifeless body as though cradling him to sleep.

Edrick’s grip tightened on my arm. His voice dropped low, fierce at my ear. “Your Grace — we must leave. Now. Before this madness turns on you.”

Margaery lurched to Loras, both hands catching his shoulders. “Brother—” Her voice broke, then steadied. “Not here. Not like this.” He didn’t move, only clutched Renly closer.

She looked up, all poise snapped back in an instant. “Ser Parmen,” she called, and a Tyrell officer shouldered through the press. “Seal the pavilion. No one in or out but my household. And see to Her Grace’s safety.” Her gaze found mine, sharp and sure.

“Your Grace,” Edrick urged at my ear. “Now.”

A maid thrust a cloak into my hands; Margaery herself swept it over my shoulders, hiding the blood that had soaked my hem. Her fingers tightened once on my wrist—quick, human, not queenly at all. “We’ll speak again,” she said softly. “But not tonight.”

Edrick’s hand tightened at my arm, pulling me into the lane the Tyrell guards had forced open. The roar of voices chased us, “sorcery,” “traitor,” “vengeance,” tumbling one over the other until I could hardly tell them apart.

I glanced back once. Renly lay cradled in Loras’s arms, Margaery bent beside them, her green silks blotched with blood. On the table beside them, The golden stag of his crown glimmered red in the wine — his last jest turned cruel.

Edrick dragged me on, the night air closing around us, the camp already fracturing into shouts and suspicion. The camp was already breaking apart. Shouts rang out in every direction.

“We’re under attack!”

“Stannis is here! To arms, to arms!”

The Tyrell banners blurred in the firelight as men scrambled for weapons, some already fleeing, others crashing into each other in blind panic. My escort closed in around me, shields raised, steel bared.

Edrick’s grip clamped hard around my arm, dragging me forward though my feet felt rooted to the ground. My voice broke. “No—I can’t go.”

His eyes burned fierce under the torchlight. “Your Grace, the camp is under attack. Stannis’s men are here—we need to get you out.”

“Tyrells are still there—” I pushed weakly against him, but his hold only tightened.

“They’ll find their way,” he snapped. “But if you stay, you’ll not live to see the dawn.”

I stumbled after him, half-carried in his grasp. Beyond, through smoke and flame, I saw them: ranks upon ranks pouring into the camp beneath a banner that blazed in the firelight — a heart in flames, with a stag within. Stannis.

The clash of steel roared around us. Men screamed. Horses reared. Pavilions caught fire, collapsing into ash.

A knot of soldiers charged our way. My guards met them head on. “Hold the line!” one cried, before vanishing into the melee.

Edrick swung me into the saddle of his destrier with brutal efficiency, mounting behind me in the same breath. His voice cut like iron over the chaos. “Ride damn you! Protect the queen! Break us clear!”

We spurred forward. Three of my men fell within moments, cut down in the press. Their shields shattered, their blood splashed across the trampled grass. The air was thick with ash and smoke, each breath choking, each heartbeat a hammer in my ears.

I twisted once, only to see the face of one of the fallen — Tomlin. His eyes were wide, unseeing, his body crumpled among the mud and fire. A sound tore from my throat, a scream too thin, too broken to carry.

Edrick’s arm locked around me. “Look forward!” he barked, and the destrier surged into a gallop.

From the rise of the hill, I turned once in the saddle. Below, the camp stretched in ruin, a sea of fire and smoke devouring what hours before had been pavilions bright with laughter and light. Green banners — proud with golden stags — toppled into the flames, their silk curling black, antlers swallowed by ash. The air reeked of burning canvas, of horses screaming, of men shouting names that no longer had a king to answer.

It looked less a host than a pyre now — a crown and a dream consumed in one night.

Chapter Text

The horses had run as if hell itself were at their heels, and time blurred into something shapeless. I couldn’t tell if hours or days had passed — only that every minute I kept replaying the same image in my head. Renly, laughing one moment, struck down the next. His eyes — once quick with mischief — gone still, his lips parted in silence. The warmth that had seemed fixed to his face was simply gone, stolen in an instant.

Again and again I saw it: the way he had spoken of plans with such certainty, the proud tilt of his smile, the promises I had believed. I played it over until the memory became a thing that lived inside my chest — the shadow striking, his voice breaking, the heat of his blood spilling through my fingers.

With every replay the ache only sharpened. I had spent all the tears I had the moment it happened; my eyes were dry and useless now. All I could do was think and think, turning every scrap of what we’d shared over and over until the thoughts themselves felt like wounds.

It was only hours later — or minutes, I could not tell — that another thought struck like a knife: Ivory.

I looked down at the heaving white beneath me, sweat foaming along her flanks. Only it wasn’t her. Around us rode other strange horses, mounts seized in the chaos, none of them ours. And in that moment the grief widened to something new and sharper.  

I pictured her as if she stood before me: flank pale as bone, mane tangled with ash. Was she still waiting where I’d left her, patient, ears flicking, head turning at every sound? Or had she bolted when the pavilions burned? Did a spear find her chest before she could flee? Was she frightened, nostrils wide and trembling, or had some stranger taken her by the halter, leading her away with a voice that wasn’t mine?

The questions cut like knives. All the little things came rushing back — the mornings I braided her mane, the way she stamped when the bit pinched, the nights I slipped her the last crust of bread. Robb had given her to me with an awkward tenderness, so I’d have something to keep, something alive to care for. She had been mine. And I had left her. Left in the smoke, in the fire, in the enemy’s camp.

The thought made me sick. I had lost an uncle — too much to hold. But this smaller grief pierced through with its own cruelty. It was humiliation as much as sorrow. I had been called queen and princess, wife and niece. Now I felt only like a deserter of a horse.

“I want to stop,” I rasped, my lips cracked, throat raw.

Ser Edrick leaned closer, his eyes sharp. “Are you unwell, Your Grace?”

My body swayed, too heavy, too hollow. I nearly slid from the saddle before his arm caught me.

“I want to stop,” I said again, hoarse and weak.

His jaw clenched. “Be patient a little longer. We’ve ridden six hours without pause. A stream lies ahead, hidden in a copse of oaks. There we can water the horses, rest, and eat. Hold on.”

I nodded faintly, though I barely heard him. His voice was a rope tugging me forward, nothing more.

At last, after what felt like another lifetime, we heard it — the thin, steady rush of water under the trees. The horses slowed on their own, eager for it. Edrick was down before the reins slackened, pulling me with him, his hands hard under my arms.

“Easy, Your Grace.” He muttered. “Don’t fall.”

My legs quivered so badly I nearly crumpled anyway. I let him steady me, then pulled away, moving without thought toward the stream.

“Don’t go far,” he warned, his voice sharp. Behind him I heard the curt rhythm of his orders: break camp, post scouts, keep the fire low.

“I want to be alone,” I said. The sound of it startled even me — small, thin, almost childlike.

He studied me for a long beat, then inclined his chin, grim and resigned. “Aye. Ten paces. But I’ll have eyes on you.”

I walked until the trees opened to a ribbon of water touched faintly by dawn. The ground was cold beneath my knees as I sank before it.

I lifted my hands, and froze. They were still stained — faintly pink in the creases, dried hard beneath my nails. His blood, clinging to me as if it refused to let go.

A tremor passed through me. Then I plunged my hands into the stream. At first I washed carefully, rubbing between the knuckles, dragging at the skin beneath my nails. But the motion became frantic, then furious. I scrubbed until my arms burned, until my skin stung raw, as if hard enough pressure could scrape away not just the blood but the memory of it — the warmth spilling hot and fast across me as he fell.

When I looked down, I saw worse: my dress still stiff with dried stains, the hem clotted dark, the fabric clinging heavy. The sight turned my stomach. I wanted to rip it off, to burn it, to see it gone. But I had nothing else. We had left the camp with only what we could carry.

I slid forward until the water lapped at my waist. The cloth soaked through at once, dark patches spreading and thinning pink into the stream. I pulled the dagger Renly had given me from its case and set it carefully on the bank. The golden stag on the hilt caught the weak dawn light, a gleam against the dirt, fragile and small against the shaking of my hands.

The current swept the pink away as quickly as it came, but I could still smell the iron, still taste it in my mouth. No matter how far we had ridden, the air carried ash, the smoke clinging to my throat. I rubbed my palms again, harder, though the skin was already raw.

My teeth were clenching from the chill by the time I rose from the stream. Water dragged heavy at my skirts, dripping in steady trails down to the grass. I gathered the dagger from the bank, the golden stag dulled by dirt, and walked back toward the faint glow of fire.

The camp was quiet, muted. Men moved about in silence, their faces drawn and stiff. One led the horses to the stream to drink; another crouched at the bank, rinsing a sword already clean. A third stacked kindling where sparks licked at damp logs, coaxing flame. A pair had slipped into the woods, likely to bring back what game or roots they could find. None looked at me directly. None spoke.

I lowered myself onto a log by the fire, holding my raw palms close to the warmth, willing them to dry, to stop trembling. The crackle of the flames seemed too loud against the hush.

They were soldiers hardened by war, brothers in arms, but grief clung to them as well. Every man here had seen death, yet none had seen a king fall to a shadow or a niece cradle him as he bled. They moved cautiously, as though any word might shatter what composure remained.

At last Ser Edrick came to stand across from me, his figure long in the firelight. His face was stern, but the set of his jaw was weary. “We’ll rest here a few hours,” he said. “You need sleep. We’ve ridden hard through the night.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I muttered, staring into the flames.

“You should, Your Grace—”

“No.” My voice cut sharper than I meant. I shook my head, forcing steadiness. “Take time to rest the horses. Then we ride. To Riverrun.”

The words nearly broke on the next breath. “The news of R—” I could not finish the name. If I said it aloud, it would harden into something undeniable. “It will spread fast. It will reach every castle. It will reach Robb.” I swallowed; the image of him hearing and rushing to answer tightened something in my chest. “We have no ravens. He doesn’t even know if I escaped — if I’m alive. I don’t want him riding blind after me, or worse—swept by grief into rashness.”

I looked around at last, my gaze moving over the men who had ridden with me through fire and smoke. I knew only half their names. The rest were strangers, and yet they had bled for me, would bleed again if the road demanded it. Disgust twisted in my chest. They risked everything, and I could not even speak their names.

Tomlin’s face rose before me — not pale and still on the ground, but only days ago, laughing as he showed me how to peel a squirrel, talking of the newborn daughter he had left behind in White Harbor. Now he lay far from home, breathless and cold, because he had chosen to defend me. Me — a useless, stupid girl whose worth was nothing beside the life of a father, a husband, a soldier.

My gaze found Ser Edrick. He had told me once of his brother Jory, cut down in King’s Landing by Lannister steel. And now more men under his command had fallen — again, for the sake of a Lannister. Half-Lannister. But still.

“How many men did we lose?” My voice was low, unsteady.

“Three, Your Grace,” Edrick answered at once.

“What were their names?”

He met my eyes and said them as if each one cost him. “Alden of Hornvale. Merek of Brune. And Tomlin. All of them good lads.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Tomlin had a family left in White Harbor.”

Edrick gave a slow nod. “Yes, he did. But he died defending his queen.”

The words struck like a blow. My chest tightened until I thought I would choke. Defending his queen. Why should my life weigh heavier than theirs? Alden, Merek, Tomlin — they had given more to this war than I ever could. They had families waiting, lords to serve, swords that could still carve a path in battle. And yet it was me they had chosen to protect.

Queen. The word turned bitter on my tongue. I almost laughed — a jagged, joyless laugh that burned in my throat. What use was a queen who could do nothing? Nothing but weep and survive while better men died around her. I felt only disgust — at myself, at my blood, at the family into which I had been born.

I stared into the fire a long while, the heat drying the sting on my palms though it did nothing to ease the weight in my chest. At last, my voice broke the silence, low and hoarse.

“Ser Edrick… where are we now?”

He glanced at me from across the flames, his face drawn by sleeplessness but steady as stone. “We’re north of Bitterbridge, Your Grace. Past the Rose Road by near half a day. The woods here run thick enough to hide us from any scout Stannis sends.”

“And how long,” I pressed, my throat tight, “if we stop only for a few hours’ rest? How long until Riverrun?”

He shifted, leaning closer, his hands folded over one knee. “Four, maybe five days’ ride if the weather holds and the horses endure. We’ll keep the stops brief — water, meat, a snatch of sleep. If we press, you’ll be in Riverrun before the tenth dawn.”

The words were meant as reassurance, but they felt heavy all the same. Four or five days more of this silence, this weight.

A rustle broke through the stillness as one of the men returned from the trees. His bow hung at his shoulder, three squirrels dangling from his hand. He tossed them toward the fire, muttering something about stew, and bent to strip the pelts with practiced fingers.

The smell turned my stomach. I thought I had lost my appetite for the rest of my life. The last meal I had taken was in Renly’s pavilion — the bright platters, the fruits, the pies from the Reach. I could still see them, untouched, now curdled in my memory. Even that sweetness felt like ashes on my tongue.

I rose without a word and stepped away from the circle of firelight. Only a few paces, just enough. I leaned against the rough bark of an oak, the tree cool at my back, and closed my eyes.

But the darkness behind them was no kinder.

Chapter Text

It took us a week to reach Riverrun — a week of silence, broken only by hoofbeats and the rasp of harness. I barely noticed the passing of the days; they blurred into one long ride, shapeless and heavy, as if time itself had slowed to a crawl.

I sat slumped in the saddle, Ser Edrick’s arm a constant weight at my waist. Without him I might have toppled a dozen times over. He made me drink when I would have gone dry, pressed bread into my hands when I had no appetite, steadied me when sleep dragged at my eyelids. I resented it in some quiet corner of myself, but I had no strength to resist. His presence was the only thing keeping me from sliding off into the mud.

The rest of me was elsewhere. I rode in silence, but inside I was running — from memory, from myself, from the uselessness that clung to me heavier than armor. Sometimes I thought if I closed my eyes long enough, I might wake to find it had all been a fever dream — Renly still alive, Ivory waiting tethered in camp, the men laughing around their fires. I woke more hollow than before, then slept again because thinking was worse than any dream.

When the towers of Riverrun at last rose from the haze, I felt no relief. The sight of stone and water should have steadied me, but all it did was sharpen the conflict inside: I wanted, above all, to see Robb and hide in the steadiness of him. Shame came with the thought. The last letter I had sent him had been full of pride, boasting of Renly’s gift: men, grain, wine from the Reach. For a moment I had felt useful, as if I had done something that mattered. That small comfort had been broken so quickly that the memory of it only made the loss worse. 

Loss had become a pattern, an ugly rhythm that checked my breath. A father taken, the wars, other deaths that kept arriving like unwelcome messengers. Now this: an uncle felled in a tent by a thing that had no name. It felt obscene to be alive while names I had come to know were turned into silence. I clenched my hands around the saddle pommel beneath me, the leather rough against my torn palms, and for a long, small second I could not tell whether what I felt most was grief, fury, or a shame so sharp it swallowed both.

The first thing I noticed was the camp. Smaller. Thinner rows of tents, fewer banners stirring in the wind. A knot of unease coiled in my chest. If I’d had any strength left, I would have asked why.

Men rose from their fires to watch us ride in. Patrols on the towers leaned forward, voices carrying across the river. “Open the gate!” one shouted. Chains rattled, wood groaned, and the drawbridge lowered, thudding against stone.

My eyes searched ahead at once, straining past the men at the gate, past the riders falling in around us. I looked for him — for broad shoulders, for the dark auburn head, for the piercing blue that had always found me first. I searched as though sheer will might pull him into view.

But there was no sign of him. No familiar figure waiting at the gate, no blue eyes to meet mine. 

The moment we passed through the gate into the inner yard, she was there. Lady Catelyn, her skirts gathered in her hands, came hurrying down from the castle steps.

Ser Edrick was already at my side, dismounting in a rush to lift me down. My legs screamed from the endless ride — stiff, shaking, nearly useless beneath me. I stumbled the instant my boots touched stone, the yard tilting, but she was the first to reach me.

“Lyanna,” she breathed, catching me as though she feared I might vanish from her arms. Her voice broke as her hands clutched my shoulders. “Gods, I thought…you…when we heard of Renly…how could you…” The words tangled and died, her throat too full for questions.

The maids came from the steps, one to either side of me, steadying me as my knees sagged. I could only force out one sound, thin and broken, a whisper torn from my lips.

“Robb…”

Catelyn’s words struck first: “Robb is not here. Nor Edmure, nor Brynden. They marched west with the host. He strikes at the Westerlands now, beyond the Golden Tooth.”

I stared at her, stunned. Of course he would. He had mended the wounded, gathered strength at Riverrun, and then moved west. It was foolish of me to hope he might have been waiting here, idle within these walls.

Her gaze softened. “Come, dear. Only the gods know what you have endured.”

She turned sharply toward the servants hurrying in the yard. “Fetch Maester Vyman!”

I lingered only a moment, eyes dragging over the stones, the faces, the banners, before Catelyn and her maids closed around me, guiding me toward the castle. My gaze found Ser Edrick.

I managed a nod — brief, almost nothing, yet heavy with everything I had no strength to say. Gratitude. Apology. The truth that if not for this man, and the men who followed him, I would never have reached these gates alive.

As they led me through Riverrun’s gates and up into the keep, the maids closed in around me. By the time we reached the chambers Robb and I had once shared, they were already tugging at the heavy cloak. The wool was caked with mud and ash, stiff with old blood. Beneath it, the gown was worse — worn thin, the hem stiff with filth, pink stains still blotched across the fabric. The sight made sickness rise sharp in my throat.

They drew me toward the washstand, the wide copper basin filled and waiting. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rippling surface. For a heartbeat I did not know the face. My hair — once brushed to a sheen — was snarled and matted, streaked with dust and ash. My eyes were hollow pits, sunken and dark, lips cracked and raw. Wind had burned my cheeks, left the skin dry and rough. I lifted my hands and saw the calluses split and bleeding across my palms. When I shifted, I felt the raw sting of my thighs, rubbed red and swollen from the saddle.

The maids whispered to one another, hands quick and careful as they laid out cloths and fresh water. I saw the flicker of their glances, caught the edge of their murmurs. Catelyn stood behind them, her face unreadable, but her eyes moved from my torn gown to my bleeding hands, and then to my face, with something between pity and steel.

I saw the silent caution in Catelyn’s eyes. She hadn’t the heart to question me, not yet, not when my very face gave her the answers. When the maids stripped the last tattered fabric from me and I sank into the steaming bath, the heat bit into my skin so sharply I hissed aloud. They worked around me with careful hands, draping cloths across my shoulders and arms, pouring warm water slowly through my hair as though I might break at a careless touch.

I kept my gaze low, unfocused, the steam rising thick before me. The words slipped from me in a whisper, hoarse and cracked.

“Renly is dead. Stannis struck him down. The rest… I don’t know.”

Catelyn’s eyes hardened, though her voice was steady as stone. “The news reached us already. They say half his host scattered, and the rest bent the knee to Stannis.”

I closed my mouth against the quickness to condemn. In my mind I sorted through the image of men seeing their banners fall, of small camps in the dark — the ones who had no time to choose, and the ones who chose to go home. Maybe they fled because they feared for their lives; maybe they bent the knee to keep their children or their wives. I could not stand in their boots and claim I knew what I would have done.

I had fled. Who was I, then, to cast stones at those who found other paths when the ground broke beneath them?

Catelyn pressed her hand to my cheek, her thumb warm against my jaw. “I’m so sorry, truly,” she whispered, the words raw. “I know how you loved Renly — I know how it hurts to lose someone you care for.”

She hesitated, then drew a steadying breath. “You once told me I had to be strong for my children. Now let me return the favour: be strong for yourself, Lyanna — and for Robb. Rest. I will send for Maester Vyman — he will see to your wounds. And I will send a raven to Robb at once.”

She let her hand linger a moment longer, then straightened and left without another word, as if she understood that grief must be borne in its own shape, and that sometimes silence is the only thing that helps.

I closed my eyes and let the maids work, the hot water and their careful hands blurring the edges of the world into something softer for a little while.

After a while, I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, half-lost in a haze, when Maester Vyman entered with bandages and vials of salve. I felt as though I were watching through water, everything distant, muffled. He murmured softly as he worked, words I barely registered, his voice a low drone meant to soothe. He cleaned and dressed my hands with careful fingers, wrapping them in linen, then moved with quiet diligence to check for other wounds. I gave him no clear answers — only silence, my body yielding to his touch while my mind wandered elsewhere, caught in its own shadows.

After a moment, Maester Vyman said quietly, “You must sleep, Your Grace. Your body is exhausted. You’ve pushed past your limits.”

He guided me gently back against the pillows, then drew out a small vial of white liquid. I blinked at it, my voice only a whisper. “What’s that?”

“Milk of the poppy,” he answered. “It will bring you dreamless sleep. You need to restore your strength, Your Grace.”

I did not object. Oblivion sounded like mercy. I drained the vial, its bitterness coating my tongue. The maids moved quietly around me, drawing a blanket over my body. Their murmured words blurred together, lost beneath the sound of the door shutting as they left.

I rolled onto the other side of the bed — Robb’s side. My arms closed around his pillow. I buried my face against it, inhaling deeply. The linen should have been changed long ago, yet I swore I still caught his scent — sharp and cold as frost, even here, far from the North. Or perhaps it was only my imagination.

And with that, the milk of the poppy pulled me down into dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Time no longer moved in hours or days. It came in pieces — a face above me, a spoon of broth, the sting of salve on my skin. Then darkness again, dreamless and deep. Each time I woke, I found my bandages changed, though I could not remember the hands that had touched me.

The maids never seemed to leave the chamber — their faces shifted, one girl replaced by another, but always watchful, always near. Catelyn must have set them to it, to guard me without calling it such.

The first word that scraped from my lips each time I woke was the same: “Robb.”

And always the answer came, quiet and steady, as if rehearsed: “His Grace has not yet returned.”

They pressed a bowl into my hands — broth, sometimes bread softened in milk. I had no strength to refuse, no appetite to want it, but they coaxed me until I swallowed enough. Then the weight of my body would drag me down again, back into sleep, where the world was mercifully dim and soundless.

When next I woke, the sun was already leaning toward the horizon. My throat burned dry, and I reached at once for the cup on the table. Before my fingers could close around it, a maid hurried forward, lifting it to my lips.

“Here, Your Grace,” she murmured.

I drank greedily, emptying it in long gulps until the ache eased. Lowering the cup, I drew a breath and rasped, “It’s fine. I can hold it myself.”

The girl bobbed her head, though her hands lingered at the rim a moment before she drew back.

“How long?” I asked, my voice rough, foreign in my own ears.

She hesitated, then answered, “Near three days.”

Three days. Gods. It felt like nothing, like hours folded into a fever dream.

I swallowed again, throat tight. “Any word from Robb?”

Her gaze dropped at once to the empty side of the bed. “His Grace has not returned yet.”

The words struck colder than the stone beneath me.

The maid smoothed her skirts, hesitant. “Shall I fetch Maester Vyman?”

I shook my head. “No need.” Only then did I notice my hands: raw, but healed over, the creases faintly pink. Someone had seen to them while I slept.

“There’s no need to trouble him,” I said softly.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” she murmured, and with a small bow added, “Shall I bring you a meal instead?”

I gave a faint nod. She slipped away, leaving me with the stillness.

Slowly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The cold stone floor bit into my feet. My whole body felt alien, stiff and sluggish; every step was like learning to walk anew. I stood for a long moment, stretching my arms, rolling my shoulders, forcing the blood to stir.

The window drew me next. I leaned against its ledge, peering out over the courtyard as though Robb’s host might appear at any moment, banners flashing in the sunlight. But there was nothing — only empty air and the slow drift of clouds.

I circled the bed once, pulling a robe loosely about my shoulders, the fabric soft against my skin after days of rough linen. Stretching again, I rolled my neck, my arms, trying to shake loose the heaviness of sleep that clung to me like chains.

When the maid returned she set the tray down with a soft clink: a slab of roasted venison, a portion of tench wrapped in leaves, a wedge of hard cheese, oatcakes and a cup of watered ale. For a long moment I only looked at it — at the plainness of the food — and felt strangely grateful. Hunger had hollowed me; my ribs sat sharper beneath my gown than they should have. I lifted a fork with hands that trembled, told myself to breathe, and began to eat.

Each bite was ordinary and therefore miraculous: the warm grain of the oatcake, the smoky meat, the taste of watered ale on my tongue. I kept my gaze firmly away from the small velvet case on the stool where Renly’s dagger lay. I could not bear to look at its stag-hilt; every time my eyes drifted toward it my throat tightened and the room spun. So I pretended, as long as I could, that nothing had happened — that my hands were not the hands that had been stained, that the cup beside me did not hold the memory of his laugh. Focusing on the spoon, the lift to my lips, the taste — that small, domestic rhythm — steadied me a fraction. It did not mend anything, but for a little while the world narrowed to the hollow of a bowl and my body’s need to fill it.

I managed barely half the meal before the taste turned to ash on my tongue. Pushing the tray aside, I rose and dressed slowly, each movement clumsy after so many days spent between sleep and silence. The gown hung loose on my shoulders, my steps unsteady as I made my way into the corridor.

I thought first to seek Lady Catelyn, or failing her, Maester Vyman — someone who could tell me where Robb was, what tidings had come, how long I must wait. The passing servants lowered their heads as I walked, some offering murmured greetings. From one, I gathered that Lady Catelyn had last been seen in her solar.

I followed the winding stair until I stood before her door. My hand lifted, knuckles poised to knock, but before I could, voices reached me through the heavy wood.

“…Cat… you know I would never harm you.”

“You speak of betrayal,” came Lady Catelyn’s voice, sharp and frayed at once.

“…do you want to see your daughters again? Sansa—radiant, the very image of you. And Arya—still fierce, untamed. They miss their mother.”

“Are they both well?” Catelyn’s words quavered.

“Not for long. You already rejected one demand for exchange. What do you think the Queen will do with them now, if they hold no value?”

“Robb refused that,” Catelyn said, her voice weighted, breaking on the name.

I froze, breath shallow, straining to catch every word. The second voice rang faintly familiar, though I could not place it — silken, measured, too careful. My head was still fogged with sleep, and the words tangled like threads I could not quite unravel. Demand? Rejection? Robb? I could not piece it together. I could not even tell what bargain they spoke of, only that it pressed against me with the weight of something I should have known.

“I am sorry for your loss—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“He was a good man, and Lord Tully was like a father to me. Don’t let your daughters share their fate.”

I heard Catelyn’s breath catch, then the scrape of a chair as she sat heavily.

The second voice dropped low, murmuring words I strained for but could not catch. Then, clearer:

“I leave for King’s Landing in a few hours. I trust you will not begrudge me Riverrun’s hospitality a little longer.”

Footsteps drew nearer. My heart jolted; I darted back from the door, trying to look as though I had only just approached rather than lingered. The latch turned, and the door swung open.

A figure stepped into the corridor.

Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger. The Master of Coin. Once he had served my father; now, no doubt, he bent the knee to Joffrey. And of all places, here he was in Riverrun.

His eyes slid over me, quick and assessing, before he dipped into a smooth bow. “Princess.”

The title struck oddly after all these months, it clung like some old garment that no longer fit.

I had never trusted him — his smile was too polished, his gaze too sharp. Around men like him, you felt like a coin turned in someone else’s palm, examined for weight and value. Even now, I had the sense he saw more than he ought, that he was filing me away for some use I could not yet name.

I held his gaze, unflinching, but he was already speaking.

“My sincere condolences on your father. The king.”

The false courtesy scraped against me. I swallowed it down. “What are you doing here?”

A smirk curved his lips. “Visiting old friends.”

I narrowed my eyes, but unease prickled beneath my skin. Another shallow bow, and then he was already moving past me, his steps fading down the opposite hall.

I went to Lady Catelyn’s solar. She was seated by the window, her hands knotted in her lap, her eyes rimmed red. She had been weeping—there was no mistaking it. The moment her gaze met mine, I felt the weight of it. A look unguarded, raw, and I knew at once I was not welcome.

I stood there awkwardly, as though I had stumbled into a place forbidden.

A thousand questions pressed against my tongue. What was Littlefinger doing here? What words had passed between them? What was happening in King’s Landing? Where was Robb? The thoughts jostled in my mind like a storm of arrows, too many at once, and I could not tell where to begin.

I began softly, almost unsure of my own voice. “Lady Catelyn…”

Her reply came quick, stripped of title or courtesy. “Lyanna.”

The sound of it stung. No Your Grace, no child, no warmth. Just my name, clipped and bare. In that instant I felt small, reduced to nothing more than the girl she had first met in Winterfell.

I could not read her, not anymore. Before the war, she had treated me with a kind of guarded kindness, even warmth when she thought I needed it. But now—now her eyes slid over me as if weighing something I could not name. I did not know what I had done to earn the distance. When I first arrived, she had taken me into her arms, soothed me like a daughter. Now she looked at me as though I were a stranger, perhaps even an intruder.

And I wondered, bitterly, if she wished that in my place it had been Sansa and Arya.

I swallowed the questions pressing at my tongue and forced out only one. “What of Robb? What news?”

Catelyn’s hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes, red-rimmed, did not soften. “He’s moved further west. Struck near Ashemark. The Lannisters scatter, but he means to press them — not to give Tywin ground to gather again.”

Her words were plain, stripped of comfort, but their weight struck me harder than any blow. Ashemark was days beyond Riverrun. Farther with each step. He was not coming back. Not yet. Perhaps not for a long while.

I looked at her, my voice cautious.

“Lady Catelyn… what happened?”

Her head lifted, and when she spoke the composure I had always known her for was gone.

“What happened? My daughters are trapped in King’s Landing, that’s what happened! I don’t even know if I’ll ever see them again—while my son leads this stupid war!”

The sound of her words cracked through me like a slap. Her voice, raw and unguarded, cracked in the air. For a moment, I could only stare.

I wanted to shout back. Robb risked his life every day. The Lannisters had refused to trade Jaime for the North’s independence and for her daughters’ return. That was why Robb pressed Tywin. If not through Jaime, then through Tywin himself. He couldn’t march on King’s Landing, not without ships, not without siege engines—it would take months, years. Reaching Tywin would be faster. The lions were bleeding, retreating; Robb understood that.

But Catelyn’s gaze burned into me. “I know what you’re thinking. This war could drag on for months, years. My daughters may not live to see the end of it. Every day is a threat to their lives. I can have them back in a fortnight.”

The pieces snapped together in my mind like cruel puzzle-work. My voice fell to a whisper.

“By releasing Jaime? That’s why Lord Baelish came, isn’t it? And he chose this moment—when Robb is gone, when all his bannermen are gone.”

She would not look at me.

“Lady Catelyn, you can’t—”

“I can. And I will.” She rose so suddenly the chair scraped against the floor. Her voice shook with fury. “If it weren’t for you, Sansa and Arya would already be here. By my side.”

My breath caught. “What do you mean? What do I have to do with—”

Her words cut through me like a blade. “Of course Robb didn’t tell you. Before Jaime was captured, Cersei sent a letter. They annulled your marriage and demanded you back in exchange for my girls.”

The room tilted around me. I remembered that day—the way Catelyn had come to Robb, demanding my leave. His silence after. And her coolness since. It explained everything.

But how could he not have told me?

Why had they demanded me? Afraid I might claim my right to the Iron Throne? Afraid I might raise banners in Robert’s name?

I swallowed hard. Robb had kept it from me. Robb, who had sworn I was his equal, who had taken me into his tent and into his vows. He had read Cersei’s words, seen the demand, and never spoken of it.

The silence stung worse than the truth.

I saw now the change in Catelyn’s eyes from that day. It wasn’t mistrust that had crept in — it was the sight of her daughters chained in my place. Every time she looked at me she must have thought of them.

“I…” The words died. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I was not worth this war, not worth three men dead in a night, not worth the daughters she ached for. But my tongue felt leaden.

All I managed was, “He should have told me.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed thin. “Perhaps he thought sparing you the knowledge was kindness. Or perhaps he feared you’d go back willingly. I cannot say.”

Her words landed heavy, because some small, secret part of me knew she was right. Suddenly everything hit me like a wave. Jaime’s smirk; his cruel words that his life was safe because I was beside Robb and I’d never let them cut off his head. The northerners might hate Lannisters, but one man was the true villain for Lord Eddard’s death — Joffrey. Jaime had fought for his house; he should not be punished for the crimes of another.

And then the girls. Sansa’s bright face; Arya’s fierce impatience. The thought of them in King’s Landing made bile rise in my throat. I felt an ugly envy flare — because their mother raged and pleaded for them, while mine had left me in Winterfell once, and now called me back only when it served her.

I felt as if I were drowning in my own uselessness.

If Arya and Sansa were harmed beneath Joffrey’s hand, Catelyn would never be able to look at me again. I could not live with that.

A dangerous thought took shape. It sounded like betrayal toward Robb. But he was not here. He believes me safe within these walls; he cannot see what I see now. He has marched west — striking at the Westerlands, pressing Tywin. Jaime in his cell is his greatest leverage; Tywin cannot fight a war on two fronts without his heir.

If he turned to King's Landing, Tywin would be at his back in days. Tywin’s host was still strong, prowling through the Riverlands and the Westerlands, waiting for a mistake. To leave him free while Robb battered himself at the capital would be suicide — Tywin would cut the roads, starve the army, and strike when Robb was most exposed.

And even if Tywin did not come — how could Robb reach the city? He had no ships, no fleet to carry him down the coast. Marching overland was worse. Hundreds of leagues of hostile country lay between him and the walls — no fords, no safe supply lines. His men would starve long before they saw the capital’s gates.

And what gates they were. The walls of King’s Landing had stood against fire and siege for centuries. Robb had no rams, no trebuchets, no engines of war. To build them would take months — months he did not have. Time — that was the last and hardest truth.  A siege would not end in days, but in seasons. Each week would bleed his host, while Tywin gathered more swords to strike him down.

No. Robb was not blind. He knew his strength lay elsewhere. If Jaime stayed a prisoner, Tywin was weakened. If Jaime were freed, Tywin would regain his sharpest sword. Jaime’s pride would be raw; he would throw himself into vengeance, and Tywin would know how to turn that fury against Robb. But if Sansa and Arya were returned to Riverrun, their safety would be bought. Robb could then take time to move with strategy, not be driven into reckless haste. 

So where does that leave me? Here, idle at Riverrun, I am nothing but a reminder of Cersei’s reach, a shadow falling over Catelyn’s grief. 

But if I go — if I offer myself in exchange for something that buys time. In King’s Landing I would be a hostage, yes, but Cersei would not dare kill me. She might hate me, but I am her blood. She knows it, as I do: spilling my life would weaken her children’s claim to Robert’s throne. My presence would be my shield. 

Robb will not return to Riverrun until Tywin is broken. Whether I wait here, in these damp stone walls beneath Catelyn’s bitter gaze, or in the Red Keep under Cersei’s venom, it makes no difference. I have lived sixteen years with my mother’s poison. What are a few months more, if it means sparing two innocent lives?

He did not tell me of Cersei’s letter. Likely he thought it would spare me from foolish sacrifice, from a choice like this. But I am not a child to be shielded anymore. If he once kept that mercy for me, then I can return it now — to him, to Catelyn, to her daughters. They have given me more than anyone else ever has. And what have I given back? Nothing but blood, grief, and worry.

I cannot fight Tywin. I cannot command armies. But I can do this. I am not only a pawn if I choose the board I am played on. A queen in the North, a hostage in King’s Landing. A cruel joke, perhaps. But it would mean something — something that might actually save lives.

And for the first time since the night the tents burned, that thought felt heavier than grief. 

I steadied my voice, though my heart was still pounding.

I drew a sharp breath. “Did you tell him? Did you tell Lord Baelish that Jaime is here in Riverrun?”

Catelyn blinked, caught off guard. “What? No… no, not in so many words. But it is obvious enough. Where else would he be?”

“You could have said otherwise,” I pressed. “That Robb took him west, that he isn’t here.”

Her mouth tightened. “And why in the gods’ name would I tell him that?”

“Because Baelish is leaving today,” I said, my voice low, urgent. “And if he goes back expecting an exchange, let him carry me instead. Say Jaime is gone, out of his reach, and offer me in his place. It spares Robb his leverage and still gives the crown something they want.”

The words tasted like iron, but I knew them for truth. Releasing Jaime was out of the question. 

But if it meant bringing Sansa and Arya home without risking Robb’s war, then I would do what I could. I would go in Jaime’s stead. Better me than the blade Tywin needed most.

Catelyn’s eyes widened, sharp as a blade. “Lyanna, do you even realize what you’re saying? What will Robb do when he learns you went there of your own will? He will see it as betrayal — betrayal of him, of the North. And worse, he will see me as part of it. His own mother. He loves you, girl. To him it would be nothing but treachery.”

Her voice broke on the last word, trembling under the weight of it.

I met her gaze, steady despite the storm in my chest. “Then there is no need to tell him. As you said yourself, he marches west. He will not return here soon. By the time he does, his sisters will already be at your side — safe.”

I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “The only risk is Baelish. That he keeps his word, that he truly brings Sansa and Arya home alive. Lady Catelyn…” My throat tightened, but I forced the words out. “Do you truly trust that man?”

Her face softened, a shadow of old grief in her eyes. “I do. We were children together in these very halls. He was like a brother to me once. For all his slyness, I know he would not bring harm to me — nor to my daughters.”

I exhaled, the decision settling cold in my bones. “Then summon him again. Tell him your conditions.”

Catelyn’s lips pressed thin, torn between fury and fear. She looked at me for a long moment — as though she might forbid me, as though she might still order guards to lock me in my chamber. But at last, she only whispered, “So be it.”

Her hand trembled as she reached for the bell on her table. Its chime was soft, but the sound seemed to crack the air. A servant slipped in almost at once.

“Fetch Lord Baelish,” Catelyn said, her tone clipped, iron in its steadiness. “Tell him Lady Stark requires his presence again. At once.”

The servant bowed and vanished.

I stood rooted, my pulse hammering in my throat. Minutes stretched like hours, and then the door opened once more. Petyr Baelish entered, surprise flickering across his fox-like features. He masked it quickly, bowing with his usual polished grace.

“Lady Stark. Princess,” he said smoothly, his eyes glinting as they shifted between us. “I confess I did not expect to be summoned again so soon. Have you come to a decision?”

Catelyn did not sit. Her voice was cool, measured, though I could hear the strain beneath it. “The crown’s first demand for exchange was not Jaime Lannister. It was Lyanna. Does that offer still stand?”

For the briefest moment, Baelish faltered. His eyes widened a fraction before his mask slid neatly back into place. “Certainly,” he said, with a shrug too casual to be honest. “I believe it does. But our discussion was on Ser Jaime.”

I stepped forward before Catelyn could speak. “Jaime Lannister isn’t here.”

Baelish’s gaze flicked to me, sharp and calculating. I could feel the disbelief radiating from him, though he was too smooth to say it outright. Instead he inclined his head, lips curving in that sly little smile.

“Then the matter is simple. Arya and Sansa in exchange for Princess Lyanna.” He folded his hands before him. “I think the crown will accept those terms.”

I held his eyes, refusing to blink. “You think,” I said, my voice cutting, “or you are sure?”

Baelish dipped a mock-courtesy into his tone. “Princess—”

I cut him off. “If I go to King’s Landing,” I said, my voice sharp as a blade, “will Sansa and Arya be returned here, safe and sound?”

His smile flickered — for a breath he looked taken aback by the bluntness of the question — then slid back into place. Courtesy was the last thing on my mind; I was bargaining away my freedom and had no use for ceremony.

He smirked, those small, practiced motions of his. “I give you my word,” he said, smooth as polished coin. “The moment you are in the Red Keep, Lady Sansa and Lady Arya will be escorted to Riverrun under guard.”

Hope flared across Catelyn’s face like a lantern blown into life. For one terrible, shining second I wanted to believe with her. I felt the muscles in my jaw tighten; I pressed my lips together until they hurt.

The thought of going willingly to the Red Keep filled me with dread. To stand beneath Cersei’s roof, to breathe the same air as Joffrey, to meet their eyes every day — I was not ready. But the image of those two girls safe at Catelyn’s side — that was a weight I could balance against my fear. My helplessness had been eating me raw. If this could end it, even at the price of my liberty, then I would pay.

I glanced at Catelyn. Hope flickered in her eyes, but so too did uncertainty — as if she weighed the cost even now. Yet I could see which way the scales tilted. No matter that I was her son’s wife, no matter the title of queen; Sansa and Arya were her blood.

I kept my tone flat, indifferent, though dread churned hot beneath my ribs.

“Alright. We leave within the hour. The sooner we reach King’s Landing, the sooner Arya and Sansa are delivered here.”

Baelish bowed low, lips curled in a faint, knowing smile.

“As you say, Princess. I will send a raven, so the crown is informed. A wise decision… indeed.”

I gave him nothing in return. Courtesy felt hollow.

“Take your preparations,” Baelish went on smoothly. “If the weather holds and the roads stay clear, we may reach King’s Landing in ten days. Twelve at the most.”

His words hung between us like iron bars — the measure of my freedom left.

Soon I left Catelyn’s chamber, leaving her with Baelish.

I made my way back to my rooms. Outside, the sky had darkened fully; the river was a ribbon of black beneath the moon. I would leave in secrecy, under night’s shadow, without unnecessary eyes to watch. I did not know how Catelyn would keep word of my departure from reaching Robb, but it would not be difficult. He was far away, chasing war in the west.

Robb’s doublet lay on the back of a carved chair, and my hand reached for it before I realized what I meant to do. I lifted it slowly, the cloth rough with travel, and pressed it to my face. I drew in a breath — deep, aching — and there it was: faint, familiar, the scent that clung to him even in absence. I hadn’t known until that moment how much I missed him. It felt as though I had been breathing half-air for weeks, and now the lack struck me sharp. Our morning sparrings, riding beyond the castle, midnight talks and morning kisses — all of it seemed a lifetime ago. All I wanted now was crude, simple, undeniable: to see him, to take his hand, to hear his voice. The ache in my chest made it hard to breathe.

But I knew I was doing the right thing. He would come for me. He would come for justice. I told myself he would understand why I had chosen this path. It was a blessing and a curse that he was not here; had he been, I would never have left. The last time I had seen him was before I rode for Stormlands. The next… I could not even imagine when it would be. A single tear slipped down my cheek, falling onto his doublet. I set the doublet aside carefully, as though it were sacred, and dressed myself in clothes fit for travel. A cloak with a deep hood, plain boots, a belt drawn tight. On the table lay Renly’s dagger, left by the maids. Without hesitation I buckled it at my waist, hiding the weight beneath the folds of the cloak.

The door opened, and Catelyn entered. She stopped at the sight of me.

“Lyanna…” Her voice was low, uncertain. “What you are doing—it’s…”

“It’s necessary,” I cut in, steady though my heart thundered. “I am not turning against Robb. I am giving him time. And I am ensuring your daughters’ safety. King’s Landing is dangerous for them. Far more dangerous than for me.”

Her eyes searched mine, raw and unreadable. “Are you so sure you will be safe there, until Robb comes?”

I stepped closer and took her hand, squeezing it. “I am. I lived there for sixteen years.”

Her mouth tightened. “While your father was alive.”

“My uncle Tyrion is there,” I said, almost too quickly. “And he is Hand of the King.”

Catelyn studied me, sorrow and steel warring in her face. At last she spoke, her voice rough. “I see you will not change your mind. I do not even know what drives you — love, guilt, pride, all of them at once. But you are resolved.”

Catelyn said no more. She only turned and took up a torch, its flame guttering low as she led me down a narrow stair. The stones sweated damp; the air grew colder as we descended. The tunnel stretched before us, long and low, its walls close enough to scrape a shoulder if I faltered. The only light was the torch in her hand, casting our shadows long and thin against the curved stone.

I remembered Lord Edmure once boasting of secret ways beneath Riverrun, built as safeguards for the Tullys alone — passages meant for flight or return in the direst of times, known only to the family when things turned rough. If so, it had the feel of it — ancient, secret, meant for desperate nights when lords fled and returned unseen.

Neither of us spoke. Our steps echoed in the silence, the sound of two women walking a road neither wished for. My heart beat in my throat, and I thought that if I tried to speak, the sound would break me.

At last a pale shimmer of air touched my face. The tunnel opened, the earth sloping up until we emerged into the night. The sky was deep with stars, the moon half-veiled by cloud. The fresh air stung after the damp of the tunnel.

Baelish was waiting. He stood beside a carriage with dark-painted boards, his men around him with cloaks pulled tight. Torches burned low in iron sconces, their flames crouched against the wind.

I turned to Catelyn. My voice caught, but I forced the words out.

“I hope we will soon meet again. Robb, Sansa, Arya… and you. Stay strong, Lady Catelyn. Your daughters will be with you soon.”

Her hand trembled as she touched my arm. “May the gods watch you, child,” she said, her voice thick. “And make your words come true.”

I inclined my head. It was all I had strength for. Then I turned and walked toward the carriage.

Baelish and Catelyn exchanged words I could not hear — the wind tore them away, carrying them out into the dark. Soon his soft steps fell beside mine. He looked at me with that ever-slippery smile, as though nothing in this world could unsettle him.

My eyes flicked toward the carriage, its door open like a waiting mouth. I had not ridden in such since Winterfell, when life had been another thing altogether. I must have lingered too long, because Baelish’s smirk deepened.

“Privacy and secrecy will favour us, princess,” he said smoothly, offering his hand.

I ignored the title, but placed my fingers in his palm long enough to climb inside. The carriage smelled of leather, the cushions creaking beneath me as I sat.

Baelish shut the door himself, then swung into his saddle with practiced ease. A command snapped from his lips, and the carriage jolted forward, the wheels groaning as the escort fell into step.

I gripped the edge of the seat. A knot of dread tightened in me, pulling until I thought my chest might split. Every part of me screamed not to leave, not to go back to that place, not to give myself into their hands.

But the wheels turned, and Riverrun fell behind, stone by stone swallowed by the night. The carriage carried me south, toward King’s Landing.