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Chapter Text

It was early. Early enough that the stars still clung stubbornly to the inky sky and the frost had yet to surrender to the morning light. The world was a hush of blue and black. Winterfell sat silhouetted against the dawn, blanketed in a rare stillness, every stone sleeping. But not all of the inhabitants were at rest.

A sharp, whispered hiss came from beside the bed, “June. Junie, come on. You promised.”

Through the thick haze of sleep, Juniper Dravenhall stirred. Her curls were a dark, tangled mess - sticking to her cheek from a mix of sweat and drool. The arm that had been tucked beneath her bed furs lifted, covering her eyes and blocking out the waking world. The fire in her hearth had burned low over the night, and the cold had crept in like a thief.

“Seven hells, Arya,” she groaned, her voice half-muffled by the blankets. “Can we not pretend to be civil just this once?” Juniper protested, “Please?” The furs were tugged away from her face without ceremony, and she hissed through her teeth. Arya Stark, pink-faced from the cold, shook her head with mock severity. Her hair was slipping loose from yesterday’s braids, and her cloak was fastened crookedly at the neck.

“You promised.” The little girl insisted, “Last one before everything gets dumb.” Juniper stifled a sigh. Of course, she remembered making that promise - under the weirwood tree a few nights past. Arya had nearly pleaded, full of worry that she didn’t yet know how to name. One more morning of just them. No southern lords, no polished shoes or forced curtsies. No Sansa judging Arya’s manners. Or lack of. No Robb puffing out his chest, roleplaying that Lord he wasn’t quite yet. No Catelyn hovering like a storm cloud.

“It won’t be dumb. Just different.” Juniper assured, managing to prop herself up on her elbows, looking at Arya with a mockingly stern expression, “You’ll survive.”

Arya did not waver, “You promised.” She repeated.

“Fine,” Juniper whispered, finally pushing back the furs. “But if we get caught, you’re taking the blame. This is under duress.” The threat of a possible future lecture did little to dampen Arya’s grin.

Winterfell’s corridors were still but not silent. The old creaks of wood settling against stone, the drip of a leak, an occasional echo of a pan in the distant kitchens. They crept together like ghosts with the practiced ease of a familiar haunt. Juniper moved with instinct; she knew every stone and step within these walls, and had been sneaking through them since before the younger girl was even born. Arya followed like a reckless shadow. The echo of pans drew closer, until they were no longer echoes.

The kitchen staff hardly spared them a second glance, too busy with their work and the preparation of a welcome feast fit for a King - The King. They slipped out of the rear door and past a few sleeping hounds and their dozing guard.

The Godswoods were colder. The morning mists here were heavier, silver ribbons curled between the trees like half-formed apparitions. Juniper breathed it in as she always did - like she was a part of it. It smelled rich, rain-wet earth and pine.

They passed the Heart tree and climbed the low ridge just past the clearing. Juniper helped hoist Arya onto one of the lower branches, keeping her arm out as she scrambled up to a higher perch before following. She settled on a thick branch halfway up, pressing her back against the trunk of the old tree. She felt the bark scratch at her even through the sleeping gown and woolen cloak she wore, and it grounded her. The sky was bruised in deep purples and blues, but the sun hadn’t yet broken the horizon.

Juniper sat with a knee hugged to her chest and her eyes trained on the tree line in the distance, waiting for the first break of light. Arya sat on a branch just above, feet dangling and kicking slightly. She fidgeted with a broken twig, trying in vain to carve something into the bark.

And for a while they did not speak. The wind rattled the leaves. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a raven croaked just once. The air was damp and waiting, like a held breath.

“I hate this,” Arya muttered suddenly, not looking at her. “All of it. I hate the King, the Queen, Joffrey. Sansa being all... all dreamy-eyed and stupid. And you. You and Robb are acting all weird.”

“Weird?” Juniper repeated, “What does that mean?” The young girl shrugged, but didn’t look at her. Her jaw worked as she tried to find the right words, and Juniper had to stop herself from smirking. She looked like Jon when she did that.

“I don’t know,” Arya finally began, voice tight with frustration, “Just… weird. He’s trying to act like father, using big words to Theon, like they’re not both idiots. Looking at maps like they might kiss him back. And you. You’ve been staring at the fire too much. We haven't gone out riding in weeks.  Everything is changing.”

There was a chill in Juniper’s spine when she was called out that wasn’t from the cold. Her chin tilted and her eyes lifted as she looked at Arya. The girl was scowling down at the twig grasped too tightly in her hand as if it had personally offended her.

“Do you want me to lie?” June started slowly.

Arya looked down at her, finally, shaking her head defiantly, “No.”

“Then yeah,” She breathed after a beat, shaking her head. “I feel it too. The change. Like the tide pulling back before a storm.”

Arya looked away again, eyes flitting back to the horizon, and did not answer right away. The first blush of dawn kissing the tree line pulled Juniper’s attention back as well. The streaking mist began to catch the light, shimmering with rose and gold. The world began to set fire, spreading slowly like a quilt.

“Can’t it just stay like this?” Arya’s voice broke softly with the silence, “You and me. Jon and Robb and the rest - can’t we just stay?” Juniper breathed through her nose low and slow. She could lie; she should lie. The girl was only just past her eleventh nameday. She could stand to believe for a bit longer that it would all be the same forever. It would all be okay. Juniper reached up, her hand catching Arya’s wrist and giving a small squeeze.

“If I could, I’d lock the gates and throw the key down a well,” Juniper admitted quietly. It was a childish thought that had plagued her own mind for the weeks since Ned announced the imminent visit of the Royal court. The elephant in the room that everyone refused to address was all the consequences of this visit. The King did not ride North for no reason. He did not bring such a traveling party for a visit with an old friend.

“But, you know as well as I do, pup, that isn’t how this works. Winterfell doesn’t shut its gates. Not to me nor you, not even to little Southern princes. Your father will do what he always does - act with honor. And what will come, will come.” It was meant to comfort the girl, but it didn’t feel like comfort, even to her own ears.

Arya’s breath came out in shaky puffs for a moment, and Juniper didn’t point it out. She let her find her strength. “I don’t want things to change.”

The sun sat higher in the sky now, and Juniper had to avert her gaze from the light. “They already have,” she said, “But you’re Arya Stark of Winterfell. And no change - not by a king, nor queen, nor all seven gods themselves - could ever make you anything less.” The girl sniffled once before nodding and wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“Shut up,” She muttered before shifting and clambering down to the branch Juniper still sat on. They faced each other, not sisters by blood, but the closest that either of them had found within this family. Juniper brushed the girl's windswept hair from her forehead and smirked.

“Everything will be okay.”

“You can not know that.” Juniper smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She ruffled Arya’s hair before pulling her hand back. She was right, Juniper couldn’t know that. But she could hope the girl at least believed that she believed that even if she wasn’t so sure that she did.

By the time they had slipped back through the side gate, the sun had burned off the morning mist, and Winterfell was alive. 

The King’s procession had been sighted from a watch tower, still a few hours' journey at their size and pace, but approaching nonetheless. The yard was filling - guards and stablemen, servants rushing in and out of the great hall. Bran was already leaning dangerously far over the battlements, trying to catch the first glimpse of the royal party. Sansa’s ladies-in-waiting were fluttering about like pigeons. Robb’s voice rose above the droll, the barking of an order with more boast than real authority. But it was Catelyn’s voice cutting through it all that put Juniper on alert.

Arya stopped in her tracks, “Shit,”

“Language,” Juniper muttered, eyes darting around for an escape plan, then she winced, too late. Catelyn’s head turned. Her arms were already crossed, and a familiar but more intense than usual annoyance radiated from her. Her lips pressed into a line so tight it could cut glass. 

“I knew it,” Her lecture began, voice low and controlled, but sharp against the excited buzz of the main courtyard, “Gods help me, I knew you’d run off.” Both girls knew better than to speak now. Catelyn’s eyes went to her youngest daughter, “Your hair is unbrushed. Your cloak is wet, still in your boots. Your hands are- Are those pine needles?” 

Arya looked down at her hands, picking at the dirt beneath her nails as if it had just magically appeared there. 

“I told you both - no antics. Not today. We have the King of the Seven Kingdoms arriving, and you two are off running through the woods like wildlings on a hunt. It’s unacceptable.” Juniper knew she should keep her mouth shut, take the scolding, and hope Catelyn had enough other things to worry about that she’d forget by dinner. 

“We were back before the gates opened. They’re still a few hours out-” The woman’s eyes snapped to her in an instant.

“That is not the point.” Catelyn’s tone wasn’t angry so much as it was tight. As if it were testing her restraint not to snap. And Juniper knew it wasn’t just about looking presentable for the Drunken King. 

Arya tried for a charming smile, toothy and hopeful, “It was only the Godswoods. For sunrise, mother.” Catelyn’s look could have frozen summer. Her eyes softened, only slightly when they left Juniper and went back to her daughter, but her tone didn’t lighten. 

“Go. Now. Wash your face, comb your hair, and try - just try - not to track mud across my floors.” She ordered, finger pointing towards the entrance. Arya gave Juniper a sidelong glance that said, goodluck, before darting off towards the stairs and away from further reprimand. Juniper was left rooted to the spot. Catelyn didn’t move either. 

Juniper was all too familiar with her Aunt's wrath; she’d been receiving lectures since she learned to talk. Missing lessons, fighting with the boys - the time when she was not even age eight when she had been caught stealing a horse from the stables for a ride. Catelyn had shouted her head off that day. What were you thinking? You could get hurt, go missing - no one would know where you were! Juniper hadn’t told her she had been doing it for weeks before she'd finally been caught. 

When Catelyn finally spoke again, her voice had softened, but not in a way that brought comfort. It was wearier now. Resigned. 

“Juniper,” She said, “you’re not a child anymore.” Juniper looked at her but did not speak. “You are of noble blood, and you are seen as a reflection of this family. The court will be watching, the Queen will be watching. People will talk; they already do. Do you wish to make a fool of yourself?” Juniper chewed the inside of her lip. She let the silence stretch until it broke, Catelyn huffing in frustration. “Juniper,” Catelyn said finally, the edge dulling to something more like a plea.

“Okay,” she said.

“Please,” She gestured her hands vaguely over the girl, “I need you to start acting your age. You are a lady now.”

“I said okay,” Juniper nodded once, quickly. She didn’t say more, she didn’t trust herself to speak. Catelyn’s shoulders dropped slightly, a hair of the tension leaving them. Her eyes were still sharp with expectation, but they softened with something familiar. Then she said something that surprised Juniper. 

“Ned will see you in his study.” Juniper blinked. Her Uncle hardly had time for anyone the last few weeks. Preparations for the King. It had frustrated Robb beyond belief. “Then straight to your room. Get ready.” Catelyn concluded with a tight nod. She turned back towards the great hall and disappeared into the chaos of preparation. 

Juniper stood there in the courtyard a moment longer. She felt the cold in her boots, her socks damp. Wet moss still clung to the hem of her cloak. But something heavy was settling in her chest like rainclouds before a storm. And it wasn’t Catelyn’s doing. Not entirely. Then suddenly she turned and made her way towards her Uncle’s old study, her stomach twisted with something she could not name. 

Today Winterfell became a stage.

And the whole Kingdom was watching.

Chapter Text

The large oak door would be imposing if anyone else sat hidden behind it. It was bordered in a wrought iron design, direwolves and ivy. Juniper's finger ran over one of the wolves before chipping away a few flakes of rust with her thumbnail. She took a steadying breath before tapping lightly on the carved wood with her knuckles. Her fingers curled around the metal handle, and the door groaned with protest as she pulled it ajar, peeking her head in. 

“Uncle?”

Eddard Stark looked up from a stack of letters he’d been flipping through and beckoned her in with a flick of two fingers. His study smelled like parchment and smoke and the faint iron tang that hung over the North and its people. The king of smell that soaked into stone and memory both. A lantern flickered low on the desk beside him despite the daylight pushing through the narrow windows. 

Juniper stepped into the room and let the door click shut behind her before leaning against it. Ned watched her with that steady, unreadable expression of his. She waited until his lips twitched into something close to amusement before letting out the breath she’d been holding. 

“I’ve already been alerted,” he warned, voice low and dry. “By your aunt. And by two of my guards, no less. It seems you and Arya were not in your beds this morning.” Juniper pushed herself off the door and stepped fully into the room. She clasped her hands behind her back, trying for a posture that didn’t scream guilty child. 

“We went to the godswood. To watch the sunrise, I thought we’d be back before anyone noticed.” She admitted. Ned hummed, shaking his head.

“Well, you were noticed,” he said. 

“We usually aren’t.” Juniper corrected as she slid into the chair across from her uncle's desk, before realizing what she’d inevitably admitted to. That pulled a soft and genuine chuckle from Ned. He leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth quirking as he looked at her. He had no doubt this hadn't been the first time. 

“You had your aunt in a panic.”

Juniper shrugged, “Sunrise is getting later,” her comment was not unmissed by the Lord, “We’ll be presentable, no muddy boots for the Queen.” Ned smiled again, just for a heartbeat, but it faded faster than Juniper had liked. A pause settled between them like dust. 

“Are you excited,” he asked, “For the royal party?” 

Juniper’s head tilted, “Are you?” That earned her a huff of a laugh. He shook his head slowly, rubbing a thoughtful hand through his beard. Juniper watched him. He looked tired. Older than a year ago.

“No,” he admitted, honestly. 

Juniper swallowed, leaning her elbow on the corner of his desk, chin resting in her palm. She tempered her curiosity as best she could, trying not to seem too keen. The morning light caught in her curls, her brow furrowed, and her lips pressed thin, and Ned’s chest tightened. Because for a moment it wasn’t Juniper sitting in that chair - it was her father. That expression. The feigned temperance. 

“Why do you think he’s coming?” Ned asked quietly. Her furrowed brow deepened as his question gave her mind purchase, something to chew on. His words were too quiet to be casual, the question carrying too much weight. She took a moment to find her answer.

“I mean,” she started slowly, “people are saying it’s to mourn Jon Arryn. To honor his memory. To see you - to mourn him together.”

“And is that what you believe?” He prompted her. 

“No,” She met his gaze with even eyes. Ned did not speak, only waited. And when Juniper spoke again, her voice was quieter, “He’s going to ask you to be his Hand.” It wasn’t a question; she wasn’t looking for confirmation. Ned studied her. His brows did not lift in surprise, only the usual stillness he possessed when thinking something through to the end. 

“You’re certain of that.”

“I can feel it,” Juniper nodded, “in my stomach. In the air," she smiled almost wryly. "King Robert would not ride North, not with his wife and half his court, to share stories by a Northern heath. It’s a hunt. And you’re what he’s after.” Ned listened. A small smile slowly ghosted across his face, not quite proud, not quite sad. 

“You have always had your father’s instincts. He always saw what others missed.” He said solemnly. 

“I don’t want to be right.” She protested, and he nodded once, looking at his hands. 

“I know.” 

Juniper sat a little straighter, looking her uncle in the eyes, “Are you going to say yes?” He didn’t answer right away. And that silence, that hesitation, chilled something in her more than any Northern wind. Ned Stark was never uncertain, not in Juniper's eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I gave Robert my word, once. In another war, in another world. But some promises…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head, like he was shaking away a memory. Juniper did not press. She sat with him in the quiet, the weight of the future settling between them. Despite his answer, she knew what the decision would be. And so did he. Even if neither of them wanted to say it. Ned looked up at her again, finally, and nodded towards the door. “Go,” he said gently, “Get ready. We’ll be on display today.” 

Juniper pushed off the table and stood, moving towards the door. But before she left, she paused, turning back to her uncle. The thing that had been nagging at her for weeks was pushing at the back of her teeth, no longer able to be tampered. 

“If you do go south,” she warned, voice even, “you may never return.” Ned’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer. 

“I know.”

She nodded once and slipped through the creaky door and into the corridor beyond. The hall outside was already abuzz with footsteps and voices, banners being unfurled and finery being unpacked from the cellar. But as Juniper stood there, chest heaving, she felt far away from it all. Like her body had returned to Winterfell’s walls, but some deeper part of her had been left out in the godswood. 

She knew he would say yes. 

She saw it in his eyes, in the tight set of his shoulders. She felt it in the quiet that had followed her question. He had already made up his mind and was already mourning the consequences yet to come. Eddard Stark was weighing honor against instinct again, and honor always won.

Duty.

It followed the Stark family like a curse carved into stone. It had shaped Ned, raised Robb, and haunted Jon. And it lived in Juniper, too. She didn’t rage. Or cry, or plead for him to change his mind. Because she didn't expect for a moment that it would change anything. So, she breathed in a sigh and moved, returning to her room to allow herself to be turned into something presentable. Because that was her duty. At least for today.

Juniper’s handmaiden, Maege, was a sweet but skittish woman. When Juniper arrived back in her chambers, she was already there waiting for her with a hot bath and trembling hands. The bath was welcomed - the hot water soothing the last of the morning chill from her joints. The oils weren’t overly offensive, sage and lavender, they didn’t give her a headache like the clove and citrus. 

After her bath, Juniper sat. She let her hair be brushed out into soft, wet coils and then twisted back with silver combs and pins. She let Maege dab rouge on her cheeks until she looked flushed with delight instead of the unease she truly felt. She didn’t protest when she saw the blue silk dress Catelyn had laid out for her. Stark blue, with bright grey threading that shimmered when the light caught it just right.

The fabric was soft as Maege laced her into the bodice. It was pretty, not something she would have ever selected, but not worth the protest. It would do. She smoothed out her skirt once Maege stepped away and was grateful it was long enough so she could likely get away with her usual boots. She thanked the other woman and accepted her cloak. 

Juniper found them at the mouth of the hall, just before it opened up into the main courtyard. Robb, Jon, and Theon stood half-assembled amid the noise. Stableboys ran with panicked urgency, ready to accommodate the King’s carriage horses; the guards were already in formation, standing in neat lines and bunches throughout the courtyard. Sansa was between a bored-looking Bran and Septa Mordane, beaming like she’d swallowed a ballad. Rickon was just beside them, but Ayra was nowhere in sight. 

Theon saw Juniper first. He let out a low, mocking whistle and leaned in towards Robb, elbowing him roughly, “Seven hells, Dravenhall. You almost look like a real woman.” His eyes gave away just what part of her he found womanly,

Juniper’s scowl was instant. “And you look like a pillock.” Jon snorted. Robb grinned. Theon clutched his chest, staggering back with dramatics.

“Wounded. Mortally, have you no appreciation for honest admiration?” She wedged her way into the group, eyes sweeping over the people gathered below them already. She arched her brow but didn’t bother looking in Theon’s direction.

“If I wanted honesty, I wouldn’t go looking for it from your mouth.” 

“Oh, my mouth’ll-” Whatever lude comment Theon had preloaded was cut off by the sound of a horn. One long, low note that rang out across the courtyard, bouncing off the stone and reverberating through their bones.

Winterfell rippled to attention. Guards stood straighter. Banners snapped in the wind. Ned and Catelyn were already walking to their places at the head of the line, Maester Luwin at their side as they conversed in low conversation. Juniper turned her gaze south through the gates. A golden glint of armor caught the light at the far end of the road, through the trees; she had to squint to see it. Then the party broke into view. 

They were here. 

The King. The Queen. And the change that would ripple across all their lives like the first stone cast into still water. Jon stepped half behind one of the stone columns, just out of view. His mouth was already set into a tight line. Juniper's eyes shifted to him as she caught the movement, but she didn’t comment. Robb glanced down the road and squared his shoulders slightly. Theon caught her eye from the other side of Robb and winked.

“Come on,” Robb nodded, like he was making the decision. Like Catelyn wouldn’t have had them all quarter if they weren’t there to receive the royal party. And Juniper followed. The weight of her dress felt like armor, her pulse beat a quiet thunder in her ear. But her chin was high, her eyes calm as she followed Robb through the crowd of waiting onlookers.

The horns began their second sound off just as they reached the remaining Starks. The courtyard fell into a ceremonial quiet, no more fluttering of servants, no more murmurs from guards. Even the wind seemed to still. 

They fell into formation. Lord Eddard Stark at the head. Catelyn just behind and beside him, her hands folded tightly at her waist. Robb stood tall and proud next to his father, every inch Ned’s heir in posture if not yet in action. Juniper stood on the other side of Robb, back straight, the weight of old rain and House Dravenhall in her bones and expression. To her right, Sansa stood poised, excitement just barely contained behind manners. Her eyes were fixed down the path as if this were a fairy tale written just for her.

To Sansa’s right a narrow gap yawned where Arya should have been.

“Arya-” Her sister hissed under her breath, but Juniper saw her first, barreling from the opposite arch. She ducked around a stunned stablehand, quick but clumsy. Her boots pounded against the stone, her skirts were hiked up to her knees, and gods, she had one of the guards’ helms perched crooked on her head, swallowing her whole. 

Juniper’s arm shot out across Sansa and caught Arya’s arm as she skidded into her stop, steadying her before she even threatened to fall. The horn sounded its final blast as Juniper pulled the helmet from Arya’s head.

“Fix your hair,” She warned as the girl did her best. 

“Juniper, she looks-” Sansa’s complaint started as a whine, and Juniper was quick to hush her. 

“Shh, enough.” She turned, shoving the helm into Robb’s unsuspecting arms with a sharp glare that said Get rid of this before your mother sees it. He got the message, trying not to laugh as he passed it off behind him to Theon like a hot coal. Theon accepted it with a smirk before shoving it into a random guard's hands.

And then, they were here. 

The King came first, looming atop a massive black stallion. His crown gleamed in the afternoon sun, and the years sat heavily on him. He was thick now, broader than he’d been in every story they’d grown up hearing, but still imposing. A bear of a man in royal textiles and draped in gold. His laugh lines were carved deep into his weathered face, his lips hidden behind a great black beard streaked with grey. 

He grinned like a man returning from war, letting out a deep bellow of a laugh. His eyes scanned the area, soaking in the sight of Winterfell with open, hungry nostalgia. Behind him rode the Kingsguard, white cloaks billowing, and beside them the Prince, golden and severe. His jaw was set in a practiced indifference, his hair was like spun gold, and his armor was polished to a blinding perfection. 

It made Juniper’s nose crinkle until she reminded herself of where she was and the eyes on them, and she schooled her expression.

Behind them was the carriage. Drawn by six matched horses and encrusted with Southern opulence. It creaked and gleamed like something out of one of Sansa’s fairytales. Inside, the Queen’s face was half-hidden by a gauzy curtain, her golden hair unmistakable even though the veil. The two youngest royal children, Myrcella and Tommen, if Juniper remembered correctly, peered out beside the Queen, blinking at the North with curiosity. 

Her throat went dry.

This wasn’t one of Sansa’s fairytales; it wasn’t one of her ancient tomes. This was the world outside of the stories she studied by firelight. This was real. This was power, glittering and golden and tangible… and utterly not the North. 

The hooves of the King’s horse struck the stones like thunder. As one, Winterfell bowed. Juniper lowered her head, curls curtaining her vision as she curtsied. The scent of pine smoke and frost, and the stench of travel rolled over them. Her heart thudded in her chest. Not from awe, not from fear. But something inevitable. Thunder crackled low and hungry in the distance. 

Juniper risked a peek, glancing up through her lashes, and the King dismounted his horse with a struggle. His round stomach and fat limbs make it cumbersome. Her eyes dropped again, before closing, and beneath it all something else settled over Juniper.

Disappointment.

Chapter Text

King Robert’s footsteps were heavy and uneven as he approached Ned. He stood above his lifelong friend, a man he used to call brother, and for a moment, the world held its breath. And then he laughed, loud and boisterous, and a fat hand clasped Ned on the shoulder, nearly unsettling him.

“Stand, you fool,” The King ordered. Ned obeyed, standing before his friend, allowing himself to be scrutinized, “You got old.” The King huffed. 

“And you got fat.” There was only a moment of tension before the King broke it, barking a laugh. The courtyard lifted from its bow, Winterfell breathed in again - stone and flesh rising with quiet discipline. Juniper rose with them, her eyes opening, sharp and hungry, scanning the foreign crowd like a hawk.

The King clasped Ned’s hand before pulling him into a deep embrace that echoed years of war and wear, of bloodshed and brotherhood. Ned Stark, solemn and steady. Robert Baratheon, loud and sprawling, taking up as much room as the world would allow him. But Juniper’s gaze was drifting away from the reunion, never quite content with just what she was meant to see. 

She found the prince. Joffrey had remained upon his horse. He sat there aloof and unsmiling, his chin tilted in some silent declaration of superiority. He hadn’t bothered to dismount, to greet his hosts for the coming weeks with his father. Even his horse even pranced as if it had been raised to believe it was better than the land it trod on. Juniper's nose twitched, threatening to crinkle in disgust. 

Juniper’s eyes floated to the Queen. No hand from her husband as she stepped down from the carriage, almost as if she were an afterthought. Cersei Lannister descended alone, flanked by her youngest children and wrapped in a gown the color of molten ivory, gems glistening, even in the Northern gloom. Her expression was barely concealing the discontent she was hiding beneath the surface. Juniper watched her closely, the way she walked, the way she looked at the people staring at her in awe - her subjects. But then a flicker. 

The movement caught Juniper’s attention, and her gaze snapped to a man astride a white horse, armored and sun-kissed. His armor shimmered like it had been polished for no other purpose than to be admired. Like a knight from a fable, Juniper allowed herself the girlish thought. It wasn’t like the Northern knights she'd met in Winterfell. Big, oafing men, with thick beards and gruff voices. It was fascinating. His eyes met hers, and she held his gaze a moment out of curiosity before leaning slightly into Robb. 

“Who is that?” she asked, keeping her voice low and uninterested as she whispered. Robb dropped his chin slightly, following her gaze through the crowd. His jaw stiffened. 

“Kingslayer,” he muttered, quiet but clipped, “Queen’s brother.” Juniper hummed, brow lifting. So that was Ser Jaime Lannister. The Lion in White as some called him - but not most. She couldn’t help but glance one more time. He was already looking at her when their eyes met.

Juniper was saved from the moment as the King bared down upon them. He turned to Catelyn first, after his pleasantries with her husband. He clasped her hands in his massive paws and kissed her cheek with a familiarity Catelyn didn’t outwardly share. 

“Gods,” he said, stepping back, “you haven’t aged a day.” She smiled politely and nodded, accepting his words as if they were a compliment, though Juniper wasn’t quite sure what they were.

He turned to Robb next, giving his shoulder a hearty clap that his knees nearly threatened to buckle under. “A fine young man,” Robert declared. “Just like his father.” He threw Ned a toothy grin, “Poor kid,” before cackling. 

When his attention moved down the line to her, Juniper kept her expressions poised, her chin lifted but not haughty. Composed. Polite. Indifferent. She repeated to herself. “And who is this?” He asked, already reaching for her hand. She extended it without hesitation, mustering the barest smile when she felt Catelyn’s gaze heavy on the side of her face. 

“Juniper Dravenhall, Your Grace.” That stopped the King for a moment. He looked at her, eyes squinting, and recognition dawned. 

“Of course you are,” he muttered. He’d loved Terren Dravenhall, like he loved Ned. Like a brother. “Those eyes,” he said quietly, like he was peering back through time, “like looking at your father all over again.” The King took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Juniper’s smile held, but something sharp twisted in her chest. 

The King moved his attention to Sansa who was beaming with flushed ears. “A beauty,” he greeted warmly, “just like her mother.” But Juniper didn’t hear the rest, tuning it out. He greeted Bran with a tousle of hair and Rickon with a laugh. Theon even got a detached nod. The King’s court continued to pour into the yard behind them. Knights, courters, pages, all draped in Southern silks and arrogance.

Juniper stood like stone. The cold was seeping through her cloak and into her bones. Her mind turned over and over again slowly, steadily. Through the hairpins and powdered cheeks, she felt it - the first drop of rain. Her eyes slid skyward, and another drop hit her forehead, rolling downwards. It was raining.

The King’s voice continued to roll over the courtyard, louder than the horns that had announced his arrival, and much louder than the murmurs now beginning the buzz through the assembled crowd. The Queen appeared behind her husband’s shoulder as he returned to Ned, a hand finding his shoulder. 

“Come, Ned,” Robert declared with a grin far too wide for the occasion, “take me to the crypt. I want to pay my respects.” There was a pause, a silence taught with tension before Cersei broke it. 

“Surely the dead can wait. Perhaps we should settle the children first, you should rest-” There was an icy threat beneath the thin veneer of sweetness. 

“Take me to the crypt,” Robert repeated, far less amused this time, without even glancing at his wife. His voice was firm and final. Cersei’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, and her smile froze, turning sour on her lips. Robert kept his attention on Ned with a grin that managed to feel weighty, “Come on then, Stark. Let’s take a walk.” And that was the end of it. The two men strode off, away from the warmth of welcome and courtly duties and towards the crypts below, the King’s cloak dragging behind him.

Cersei remained standing still for a breath too long, eyes cool and cast in the direction of her disappearing husband. Catelyn stepped forward, forcing a smile through her stern expression as if she just remembered she was to play host. 

“If you’ll allow me, Your Grace,” she said gently, “I’d be honored to show you and the children to your chambers.” Cersei didn’t so much nod as incline her head. A Queen’s gesture, detached and disdainful. She swept after Catelyn without another word, golden children trailing like well-dressed ducklings behind her. 

The moment the Queen was out of sight, the air seemed to crack and then release. Sansa was practically twirling where she stood, “Did you see the Prince?” she breathed dreamily, asking no one in particular, “He’s so gallant. Just like the songs. His armor…” Arya made a loud and deliberate gagging noise. 

“Gallant? He looks like he bathes in perfume and talks to his reflection-” That earned a bark of laughter from Robb. 

“You’re just jealous!” Sansa huffed, foot stomping in punctuation.

“Sansa..” Juniper placated, failing to hide a smirk behind her hand. “He’s very… shiny.” She assured, causing Arya to snicker at her sister’s offense.

Robb stepped in closer, putting on an exaggerated regal expression and puffing out his chest like a rooster, “Bow before me, for I am the Prince of Brattiness.” his tone lifted, high and mocking, forcing himself to sound nasally absurd, “My armor is made of mirrors so I can look at my reflection all day.” 

Juniper shook her head as Arya’s head fell back in laughter. Sansa huffed, stepping forward and shoving her brother in the chest, “Shut up! You’re not funny-”

“Enough!” Septa Mordane appeared from seemingly nowhere, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed with holy judgement. “I know you lot have plenty of things to be doing,” she barked, eyes sweeping from Arya’s grass-stained skirt to Robb’s barely-concealed smirk. “Sansa, you’ve a lesson with the Queen’s maids. Arya, gods help me, comb your hair. The rest of you - out of the courtyard. Now!” 

Though they grumbled, they scattered at once, not having to be told a second time. Juniper lingered just a moment, watching the crypt door close behind the King and her uncle. The feeling in her gut felt old, much older than herself. She didn’t believe in prophecy - despite the old wives' tales of her ancestry. But she couldn’t dismiss the feeling in her chest, because she had a feeling her fate, all of their fate, was currently being agreed upon in the sealed crypt. 

The air in the old crypt was thick with earth and memory. The torch in Ned’s hand cast flickering shadows along the ancient stone, dancing across the worn faces of the statues. Starks who had long come and gone. Old Kings of the North, stoic queens, those lost too soon and to time itself. They stopped only when they reached her. 

Lyanna.

Stone. Silent, still, and beautiful in the way only statues are. Robert stared up at her. He looked like he was trying to conjure flesh from cold rock. “You should be queen,” he whispered to her, not for the first time. His voice was low, heavy with the ache of old dreams. “I loved her,” Robert continued, “More than life. More than this damned crown. They stole her from me, Ned. From you. Took her south, killed her, and burned the world down around us.”

“She’s at peace,” Ned said softly. 

“To hell with that!” Robert barked, “Peace? There is no peace. You think your sister knew peace?” Ned didn’t reply; he never did. Robert turned from the statue of Lyanna toward Ned, eyes serious in a way his longtime friend hadn’t seen in nearly two decades. 

“You’ve already gotten your revenge,” Ned said, “You have the Kingdom.”

“You think that means I’ve won?” Robert scoffed, “The Kingdom. When was the last time you were in Kings Landing? My coronation day, I suppose. It’s all whispers and knives, Stark. Smiles with poisoned teeth.” Robert’s eyes were sharp now, cutting through the smoke of the torch. “I can’t trust them. Not the council. Not the Lannisters, especially not my wife. They want me dead. Or worse, irrelevant.” 

Ned’s jaw tightened. He knew this was coming, but dreaded it all the same. “But you?” Robert stepped forward, placing a heavy hand on Ned’s shoulder. It felt like an executioner's sword. “I can trust you, old friend.”

“Robert-”

“No. You listen.” His voice was firm now, a King’s orders. “You will come south with me. Be my Hand. Gods know if I listen to anyone - it’ll be you. I need one I can trust. You’re the only man for the job.” Ned couldn’t bear to look at him, so he didn’t. His own eyes found Lyanna’s statue. Her stone eyes cast down in silent judgment, and Ned swallowed the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth. 

“I have a duty here,” he shook his head, “My family. Robb is nearly a man, but not yet-”

“He’ll do fine,” Robert cut in. “We were sending men to die in battle at his age.” He paused, his next words measured and pointed. “I meant it when I said you’re old.” Ned’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. “We won’t be around forever, you and me. And those summer children we reared-” He gestured up towards the ceiling and beyond, “are going to inherit this damned Kingdom. Whether we like it or not.”

“What are you implying?” Ned asked.

“We’ll do what should’ve happened, all those years ago. Unite us. Unite them. Stark, Baratheon, Dravenhall.” Ned’s mouth opened, but words didn’t come out; he found his friend's eyes with his own. From the moment he got the letter, he knew his old friend was coming to ask him to ride south, to be his hand. And he knew this had been a possibility; it had been nearly all Sansa could think of, according to his wife. But that didn’t stop the trepidation that flooded his chest. 

“Robert-” The other man cut him off. 

“You’ll bring Sansa south, let her wed Joffrey. Make her a Queen. Stark and Baratheon for generations to come.” Ned’s face fell, and if Robert saw it, he didn’t comment. “Robb will step into his role of Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. And we’ll honor Terren with his daughter’s marriage to your boy.” Ned opened his mouth, a quiet protest forming, but Robert shook his head.

“Robert…” Ned sighed, weary. “They’re just children.”

“I’m not asking you to send them to slaughter,” Robert snapped, “I’m not asking you anything. I’m your King, don’t forget that. It’s time we knit our houses tighter. It’s time we push out the snakes and bring the kingdoms back under bloodlines we can trust.” The silence after stretched long. Only the torch crackled in its bracket, sputtering low on fuel. Ned looked again at Lyanna, but her ghost held no answers. 

He had never been keen on politics - that was always Terren. He didn’t trust the South. Didn’t trust Joffrey. He feared what it would mean to uproot his family, to leave Winterfell, to serve a king who barely heard counsel unless it was shouted over wine. 

This was Robert. The boy he rode beside, the man who held his brother’s sword in battle, who carried Ned’s promises in bones. He stood before him now. Older, yes. Tired. And desperate in ways he wouldn’t say aloud. And honor…

Honor didn’t leave room for comfort. 

“I will serve,” Ned said finally. “If it must be me, it will be me.” Robert’s grin was wide and thunderous; the idealism was nearly foolish. But it was the kind of grin that made Ned forget he was a king and remember the boy beneath the crown. 

“Good man,” he said, and they clasped hands like they had on muddy battlefields long ago. “We’ll set the realm right. You’ll see.” Ned nodded. But in his chest, the old chill of the crypt crept deeper. 

He would leave Winterfell. His family would fracture. 

For the good of the realm - he told himself.

Chapter Text

By late afternoon, the courtyard had returned to something resembling normal. Though Winterfell's normal was a far cry from peace and quiet, the hold was still alive with activity. The King’s banners fluttered past the walls, servants buzzed like hornets in a hive, and tension rode the air like a second wind. Despite it all, in one corner, something familiar was unfolding.

The sound of dull steel rang out as Jon and Theon circled each other in the dirt, training blades raised and ready. Robb stood just off to the side, arms crossed, watching with the attentiveness of a boy trying very hard to look like a man. Juniper, cursed and bound in silk like an offering, leaned against a fence post just beyond them, bored but present. A breeze caught the hem of her skirts, and she kicked at it absentmindedly, briefly considering the look on Catelyn’s face if she was caught sparring today. Not worth it. 

"Come on, Snow," she called lazily. “You’ve got plenty of angst. Use some of it.” Theon snorted. 

“Don’t encourage him. He broods enough without you stoking the flames.”

“Keep talking,” Jon muttered, circling him again. “See what it gets you.” Juniper snickered and couldn’t help but stoke the fire.

“You girls planning to fight,” she called, “or just flirt with insults until supper?” That did it. Theon lunged forward with an arrogant smirk, but rather than a clean strike, he feinted left, then brought the hilt hard into Jon’s ribs - a cheap move at best. Jon stumbled back a few strides, breath knocked clean out of him, then came back swinging. Their dull blades locked, too close now. Theon shoved Jon once roughly, training sword forgotten in his hand. Then shoved him again. 

“What?” Theon taunted him, and Jon surged forward, his own sword dropping with a clatter, and shoved the smaller man in return, making him stumble, “You’re such a bitch, can’t even lose like a man-” Theon provoked.

“And you feel good about winning with no honor, I’m sure.” Jon’s hand found Theon’s collar of his tunic. Juniper stood up a little straighter, watching the display, but made no move to intervene. Theon was born with a gift for being a petulant ass and deserved each shove Jon landed. 

“Enough,” Robb barked finally, stepping between them. “Both of you.” Jon’s jaw locked, his breath coming through his nose. Theon only grinned wider, sweat slick on his brow, sword dangling from loose fingers. He looked a little too pleased with himself for getting a rise out of Jon.

Juniper’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the archways of the yard, scanning for movement - Catelyn, a septa, anyone who might go tattling about the display. She leaned back against the fence rail, posture lazy, but her gaze sharp.

“Men truly fighting for their lives don’t care much about honor.” The voice sliced across the tension like a blade of its own, silken and condescending. The group turned.

Ser Jaime Lanniseter stood a few passes away, his golden armor gleaming, one hand lazily resting on the pommel of his sword, the other on his hip. He looked a mix of bored and amused. Like he’d been looking for something to entertain himself with, and had found it in this moment.

“They care about who survives,” Jaime said, strolling a few paces closer, his eyes dancing with something spiteful. “But of course, what would any of you know about that?” His gaze skimmed lazily across Jon and Theon, no more than a glance, really, like a man surveying dogs at market. Then it lingered on Robb. Just a beat too long, an unspoken challenge.

“And you,” he added softly, almost indulgent, “you’ve got the stance of a boy who’s been told all his life that his name is enough to keep him alive. Let’s hope no one ever tests it.” The color rose in Robb’s face. He took an involuntary half-step forward, fist clenching tighter, but Jaime’s gaze was already drifting. 

Until it caught Juniper, she hadn’t yet moved from the fence post. Her brows were raised, eyes already on him like she’d been waiting to see when he’d notice her. When he did, she didn’t bother to straighten. Her arms were still folded, eyes steady, unimpressed. The wind tugged loose strands of her dark hair across her face, and she didn’t bother to move them.

He’d be amiss if he said it wasn’t an interesting sight, though he shouldn’t have been surprised to learn the Starks raised a girl who favored the training yard over needlework. 

She didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

“Not joining them, my lady?” Jaime said at last, voice silk over steel. “Or do you prefer to let the pups tire themselves out before you bite?” 

Juniper tilted her head, eyes narrowing, “You talk a great deal for a man without a sword in his hand,” she said evenly.

A flicker of amusement flashed through his eyes. “Wit can be as dangerous as steel, if you know how to use it.”

“Then we’re safe enough,” she replied, voice light but her gaze unflinching.

“Save the wisdom, Kingslayer,” Robb cut in coldly, finally finding his voice. “We don’t need lessons from a man who stabs kings in the back.” Jaime turned his head toward him, expression tightening a degree.

“Stabbed one king,” He held up a finger, wagging it condescendingly, “And if you’d seen the things I did, boy, you’d have sharpened the knife.”

 The tension sparked, for just a heartbeat. Robb stood straighter, eyes flickering with a boyish and reckless confidence. Jaime’s eyes flicked over him, taking in his stance, his grip flexing on the spare training sword, the way he shifted from one foot to the other. He’d done what he’d come to do. See just how long it took to rile the wolf pup up. 

Then, as if bored with the confrontation he’d created, Jaime gave an exaggerated bow, “Enjoy your games, little lords. Pray the real thing’s half as kind.” Robb bristled, and Jon shifted. Jaime turned once more towards Juniper, bowing his head, “My lady.” And with a lazy spin of his heel, he sauntered off across the yard, his white cloak trailing behind him like a lion’s tail. Juniper’s eyes followed him until he disappeared into the keep.

“Seven hells,” Theon muttered finally, blowing out a breath. “Arrogant prick,” Jon’s jaw clenched in agreement, but he said nothing. The grip on his sword turned his knuckles white.

Robb’s gaze stayed fixed on the keep doors, shoulders drawn tight. “Let him laugh,” he said finally. “He’ll learn soon enough what honor’s worth.”

Theon’s head turned. “He’s not wrong,” he shrugged as if it were obvious. “About fighting to survive.” They’d been training since they were boys, but that didn’t mean they knew what it felt like to fight for their lives. To be desperate enough to cast honor to the side. 

Robb shot him a look. “Yes, he is. You can fight with honor and still win.” His voice carried the conviction of youth and the shadow of his father’s lessons.

Juniper’s gaze lingered on the archway, the last place Jaime had stood, head tilted in quiet contemplation. “Tell that to the ones buried for it.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Robb turned toward her, brow furrowed with defensiveness. She finally pushed off the fence, brushing her palms against her skirt. She held Robb’s gaze with a pointed one of her own. 

“Just that some lessons cost more than others,” she said quietly. “Perhaps he’s already paid for this one. Honor doesn’t keep men alive. It only tells stories about him once he’s gone.”

Robb’s expression hardened. “You don’t believe that.” Theon seemed more interested in the dirt than the conversation tightening around him. For a beat, neither of them looked away. Then she reached for the practice sword in his grip, fingers brushing his knuckles as she took it, a silent truce. 

“Try again tomorrow, boys,” She dropped the blade into the training bin, “you both need to learn to lose before you learn to win.” Her tone was easy, but her mind was already moving elsewhere. She walked off before Robb could argue. All she knew was that honor, for all its shine, didn’t always mean survival. To die an honorable death was still to die. 

The corridor was unusually quiet. Juniper wandered with no real destination in mind, just a moment of breath between the storm clouds. Her skirts brushed the stone floor, her shoes padding a quiet rhythm into the stone. Her fingers trailed the wall like she could feel the heartbeat of the keep itself. The peace didn’t last long. 

“Juniper,” came a clipped voice from around the corner. Her steps halted, and she turned, watching as Catelyn Stark emerged behind her in the corridor. Her arms were full of linens and scrolls; she was just a hair short of breathless.

“Aunt,” Juniper greeted, straightening slightly, as if she’d been caught doing something more sinister than wandering corridors. Catelyn’s hair was pulled too tight, her expression even tighter.

“Good. There you are. Collect Sansa and Arya. I still need to get these to Marsha, then back to the kitchens - Have you seen Ser Rodrik? It doesn’t matter, I don’t have the time.” Catelyn was too caught up in the panic of preparation to interrogate Juniper on where she’d spent all afternoon, if not with Sansa and Arya in lessons. “They’ll need to be bathed, dressed, and the whole ordeal. And for gods’ sake, make sure Arya doesn’t disappear again.”

Juniper stifled a sigh and nodded, “Yes, my lady.” Catelyn offered the briefest flicker of gratitude, a half smile, if that, before she turned down the next hall, already calling for Maester Luwin about the seating chart. Juniper rolled her eyes but trudged onward, now with a destination. 

Juniper found them still with Septa Mordane and one of the Lannister’s maids. Seated with a few other girls, stiff-backed with embroidery in their laps, and with expressions of varied degrees of enthusiasm. Arya looked like she was at risk of stabbing someone with her needle before she finished her piece. Sansa looked as though she might float away entirely. 

Juniper’s knuckles wrapped against the doorframe as she leaned her head through the opening. Arya’s head snapped up in an instant, all too eager for a distraction from her current fate. Her eyes lit up when she saw who it was, “Juniper.” She winked at the girl.

“Septa,” Juniper greeted, “I’m stealing your students. Feast duty.”

 Septa Mordane sighed in relief as though she'd been granted a divine pardon from having to argue with Arya one more time. “Praise be. Take them, Lady Juniper.” Arya hopped up immediately, legs tangled in her skirts, and her project discarded unceremoniously. Sansa folded her embroidery with the care of a girl who knew that silk roses meant more to Southern eyes than real ones.

They walked down the hall in a cluster, weaving around people as they went. Maids carrying bolts of fabric, guards polishing armor - pretending to look busy. Their caravan stopped at the door to Arya’s chambers.

“Go on,” Juniper said, pulling the handle and giving the girl a light shove, “Let the maid do her work. No games. No hiding in the laundry-”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Arya grumbled as she stepped over the threshold. Juniper caught her as she passed, bowing her head enough to force her gaze.

“Thank you,” She said, low and earnest. Arya gave her eyes a dramatic roll, but couldn’t hide the small smile that followed and disappeared inside. Juniper turned away, continuing down the corridor with Sansa in silence, but it didn’t last long. 

“Isn’t he lovely?” The question burst from the pink-cheeked girl, no longer able to contain it. “Didn’t you see him? He looks so… noble! And his armor - that’s real gold. Like something from a dream.”

Juniper gave a soft, strained laugh, her eyes forward. Noble hasn’t been the first descriptor to come to her mind, “Yes, Sansa. I saw - He shines like a summer melon.” If Sansa picked up on the sarcasm, she didn’t show it.

“He’s perfect. He’s tall and handsome and looks just like the knights in the songs,” The girl prattled, and Juniper bit down on the inside of her cheek, “If I’m lucky, I’ll be his Queen, give him princes, and-” 

“Sansa,” Juniper started.

“I love him,” Sansa sighed with the finality of girlhood. 

“Sansa.” Juniper started again, firmer, casting the girl a glance. 

“I do!”

“You haven’t spoken to him.”

“I will love him, then,” Sansa corrected, undeterred, eyes alight. Juniper swallowed her comment that any marriage with a man like that would leave very little room for things like love. Juniper felt Sansa gaze on the side of her face and turned to catch her eye, raising a brow. “Don’t you want to get married? A husband? You’re past the age-”

Juniper’s steps faltered as they stopped in front of Sansa’s chamber door. There it was, the thing that had been creeping toward in the corners of rooms, in the glances of lord, in the not-so-subtle whispers at court. A duty she’d been allowed to outrun, for a time. She smiled, soft and vague, shaking her head, “Princes are just men, Sansa.” She warned softly, “Flesh and flaw, the same as the rest. No crown changes that.” 

“Well,” Sansa frowned, stepping inside, “I don’t care. I want to be Queen.” 

Juniper nodded slowly, “And someday, maybe you will.”  The door clicked shut, but her own thoughts were far behind them now, trailing through the years. She’d been given grace, too much, perhaps, in some people’s opinion. 

Catelyn had brought up a cousin in the Veil a few years ago, and then the brother of an Uncle in the Riverlands a year after that. Lords she’d never met in lands she’d never traveled to. But Ned had never rushed her, never forced. Not when lords sent letters, not when they came asking for her at feasts. He’d held them at bay with the quiet force only he could manage.

But grace did not last forever, not even her uncle’s. Not when there were alliances to make. Not when duty knocked at the door as surely as a storm at sea. Eventually, all things yielded. Even stone.

The bath was hot enough to steam the mirrors, and smelled of rose hips, Northern pine, and something sweet from the Reach Juniper couldn’t place. Maege hummed as she poured another pitcher of water over Juniper’s dark curls, careful not to disturb the delicate pins already set at the crown. 

Juniper allowed it. She let herself be soaked, scrubbed, and softened like silk hung to dry. She didn’t protest when her hair was twisted and tugged into intricate braids, pinned with tiny silver leaves. She didn’t flinch when her cheeks were dusted with powder and her lips stained a muted rose. She even stood, straight and still, while Maege laced her into a deep sage gown, like forrest moss - trimmed in smoky gold embroidery. 

By the time she sat before the mirror, the reflection that looked back at her was every bit the lady she was meant to be. 

And she hated how it suited her. 

A soft knock, and then the door opened without waiting for permission. Only one person ever did that. Catelyn Stark entered, her steps brisk but careful, like she was already struggling between command and decorum, and the conversation hadn’t even begun yet. Juniper met her eyes in the mirror, but didn’t turn.

“You look beautiful,” Catelyn said, stepping behind her and lifting a final braid that had slipped loose from its pin. She looked at Juniper through the mirror's reflection, but couldn’t meet her eyes, not even through the glass.

“Thank you,” Juniper offered a tight smile. Her aunt, though, the title didn’t come as naturally as the one for Ned, reached for a brush. Juniper held still as the woman began to twist the braid with deft, practiced fingers. She thought of all the times Catelyn had done this for her when she was a little girl. Before Sansa’s birth. Before Juniper grew older and stopped wanting combs and bows - and started wanting books and swords.

There was a silence between them that felt weighted, thicker than usual. Then Catelyn spoke, quieter, “I’m going to need your help.”

“Mine?” Juniper blinked at her own reflection. 

“With our guests, the Queen, the court, her children. There will be certain expectations. I will be pulled in every direction.” Her skin prickled as Catelyn paused to secure the braid, voice turning a hair firmer, “I need you to take on more. Represent this household where I cannot. Especially where Sansa cannot.”

Juniper turned in her chair, “Why can’t Rob-?”

Catelyn’s eyes met hers, and there it was. The truth dropped like a stone. “Sooner than not, you will leave, you will be the lady of your own household.” Juniper’s fate hit her like a slap, “That is your duty.” Juniper swallowed, her nod curt in response, but she didn’t speak. Catelyn watched her for a moment, a young woman she had never understood, couldn’t. “Robb will need to step up in his own right,” She added, edges softened faintly, “Your uncle has agreed to leave with the King.” 

Juniper froze. For a moment she hoped she’d misheard. But Catelyn’s face held no jest, only quiet resignation. 

 “He’s going,” Juniper said slowly, less for confirmation and more to solidify the decision she knew had been inevitable. Catelyn nodded. She swallowed hard, eyes flickering to the mirror again, “When?”

“Soon.” The word echoed. Juniper didn’t speak; she simply sat. Hands clenched lightly in the fabric of her gown, face set blank, but a vein in her neck twitched with her rapid pulse. The cloth felt tighter now, suffocating. The braids and pins felt like a crown of thorns.

“He needs you to be strong, “Catelyn said, her hand brushing her shoulder, “And I need you to be dutiful.” Juniper nodded again, just once. 

She could feel the storm winds shifting, and she would meet it dressed in silk. She’d make it feel like armor.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell had been transformed into something closer to a Southern court than any of them were used to. Banners fluttered, golden light from a hundred candles danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows. The music was lively and lifting as it wove through the clatter of goblets, laughter, and song. Women moved between tables carrying flagons of sweet wine and ale.

The King was already drunk, his voice booming louder than the musicians, demanding another leg of boar - laughing at his own jokes with the wild glee of a man who thought the world was still his to command.

At the high table, Robert Baratheon lounged like a great bear, golden crown slightly askew. Beside him, Queen Cersei sat stiff and resplendent, her smile carved in frost as she filled her goblet with more wine. On her other side, Ned Stark bore the look of a man holding up the sky. Catelyn sat beside him, calm but alert, her gaze drifting often towards her children at the lower table.

Below them, at the long table reserved for the noble children and their companions, the energy was its own storm of chaos. Juniper sat with practiced ease, her goblet poised in her hand as if it belonged there, elegance cut with a hint of wariness. She was playing a part tonight, and she would play it well. The firelight caught the smoky golden embroidery on her gown when she moved. Her hair, threaded with tiny copper leaves, crowned her like some old forest spirit forced to play court. 

Robb Stark noticed. He couldn’t not notice.

He’d grown up with Juniper, sword-trained with her, studied and plotted and hunted beside her. But tonight she didn’t look like his confidant, racing him down the riverbank. She looked like a lady, and something twisted in his chest in a way he didn’t fully understand. Or didn’t want to.

She didn’t laugh like his sister Sansa did, giddy and bright and girlish, but when she smiled, it was slow and sharp. That smile was familiar to Robb; he’d been getting that smile since they were Bran’s age. As if she knew more than anyone else in the room and was deciding whether or not to let you in on the secret.

Sansa and Jeyne Poole were whispering behind their hands further down the table, casting glances toward the Prince, who sat at the far end, brooding and bored with his fork untouched and judgment in his eyes. Like sitting and mingling with the Stark children in of itself was an insult.

“He’s so handsome,” Jeyne said a touch too loudly behind a barely concealed giggle.

“And noble,” Sansa added breathlessly, “Like something from The Tales of Serwyn.” Juniper rolled her eyes and took another sip of sweet wine. She was beginning to believe perhaps Sansa didn’t know the definition of the word noble. 

Beside her, Arya was sneaking bits of roast to Nymeria beneath the table, while Bran and Rickon had taken to stacking bread into little towers. Only to immediately destroy them with bits of mash catapulted from spoons. Juniper smothered a small smile into her cup. 

Across from her, Theon leaned in, grinning in that way that meant nothing good. His eyes flickered over Juniper’s dress, purposefully lingering a hair too long at the neckline. 

“Well, don’t you clean up nice,” He smirked, “Guess even a wolf’s bitch can play at being a lady.” Juniper’s head tilted, but her expression remained unchanged as she took a slow sip.

“Careful, Greyjoy,” Her gaze slid to him, tone mild but laced with something slightly colder, “You forget what happens to curs who bare their teeth at wolves.” Robb watched the exchange with an increasing tightness in his jaw. He set down his own cup with a clank. 

“Watch your mouth,” he said to Theon, tone low and sharp. Theon’s smirk faltered, though he masked it with a shrug,

“Gods, relax, it's just talk.” 

“Then find better words next time,” Robb said. Juniper glanced sideways towards him, a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. It wasn’t like him to come to her aid with Theon; he usually let their back and forth go unchecked, if not instigated. He didn’t look at her in return. Instead, he picked up his cup again and drank, eyes flickering over the room like he was waiting for something.

Above them, the King let out another roar of laughter and banged his cutlery against the wooden high table. Juniper leaned back, just enough to force Robb’s gaze to catch her own. 

“Alright?”

“Fine,” He assured, a little too quickly. She didn’t push, just raised her goblet in a silent toast and took another sip as the feast raged on around them. 

The hall gleamed. The music swelled. But under the gold and silk and wine, the air crackled with something else. The kind of stillness that comes just before the first thunder. And yet the hall spun on, golden and alive.

As the evening wore on, the music shifted into a more playful rhythm. The flagons were refilled again and again, and cheeks were flushed with wine and warmth. For a while, Juniper allowed herself to soak it all in, to enjoy it. Or at least pretend that she could. The food was rich, the people were joyous, and for a few hours, the weight of oaths and alliances fell to the edges.

Robb and Juniper sat at the table, heads ducked close as they talked, voices carrying just under the clamor. He watched Sansa for a beat over her shoulder before shaking his head.

“Gods, she’s mad.” He huffed between a laugh and a scoff, “The prince this, the prince that. If she’s not mad, I will be soon.”

Juniper smirked, shaking her head, “She’s a noble little girl, he’s a prince,” She reminded him, “Of course she is.” 

“You aren’t,” Robb corrected, “And you wouldn’t have been, not even at her age.” Juniper raised an amused brow at the comparison. Of course, she wasn’t gushing over the boy-prince. 

“I’d make an awful princess,” Juniper teased in response, and Robb chuckled, a low, quiet sound. He looked at her for a moment longer than usual, like he was seeing something he hadn’t seen before. And for a moment, Juniper let it linger. 

But then, her eyes flickered over his shoulder, scanning the hall with that watchful, practiced gaze. Not aimless, never aimless. They passed over the bannermen. Over the Queen’s ladies. Over the Prince, still sullen in his seat. Then, just for a beat, her gaze landed on Ser Jaime, standing near the dais. He was laughing with a goblet in one hand and his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword, like that was the only place it felt natural. Their eyes didn’t meet this time, and she looked away. 

“Have you seen Jon?” She asked suddenly, turning back to Robb. The question stumbled out, like it had been waiting in the back of her throat all evening. 

Robb’s expression shifted. A flicker in his gaze, something caught between guilt and hesitation, “No.” He said. She studied him for a second longer than was polite. But then she nodded, brushing it off easily as the moment passed, for now. 

The great doors opened, letting in a gust of cool Northern wind that cut through the warmth of the hall and ruffled cloaks and candles. A figure stepped in, tall and dust-covered, his cloak marked with the black of the Night’s Watch. 

Uncle Benjen.

Robb’s face lit up, breaking into a wide grin, his drink and conversation with Juniper quickly forgotten, “Uncle!” He stood quickly, making his way through the crowd to greet him. Arya and Bran were close behind, already racing across the floor to throw themselves at Benjen’s legs.

Juniper smiled faintly at the sight. She remained seated only a beat longer before rising, careful and composed. She set her half-finished goblet down on the table. Her exit was quiet and unnoticed in the revelry. 

She slipped through a side passage toward the shadows of the inner keep, her shoes nearly silent against the stone. She didn’t know exactly where Jon was, but she knew why he was not celebrating with the rest of them. And that was enough. 

The side courtyard was hushed, a stark contrast to the roar of the great hall behind her. The clatter of laughter and goblets all softened to a distant echo as Juniper stepped out into the night, the stone underfoot slick with early dew. She moved quietly, almost out of habit, her soft-soled shoes made little noise as she rounded a corner near the kennels, half-hoping to catch the dark flash of Jon’s hair in the shadows. The stone walls grew colder the deeper she went, the hallways darker, the music of the feast fading into nothing. And then she found him.

Jon Snow sat beneath one of the narrow, arrow-slit windows in a corridor seldom used, the moonlight painting pale silver streaks across the stone floor. He was hunched slightly forward, shoulders slouched, and arms resting on his knees. Ghost was curled, silent, and watchful at his feet. Ghost lifted his head first, nostril flaring as he sniffed until he recognized their intruder. Jon looked up next, brows knit and brooding.

Juniper stopped, leaning against the wall across from him, arms folded. Her brow raised, soft but pointed, “There you are.” Jon didn’t answer, eyes focused on the stone floor between them. She sighed, “You know, there’s a feast tonight?” She gestured vaguely behind her, “Drinking, dancing, dare I say fun?”

Jon offered a small shrug, “I needed air.” 

“You were never there.” She said. He met her gaze then, flat but fond around the edges. 

“Looking for me?” She rolled her eyes, pushing off the wall then. 

“Sure,” She teased, “You left me at Theon and Robb’s mercy. It’s tedious.” That got a small smile from him, the corners of his lips turning just slightly. Juniper took the last few steps towards Jon, perching on the windowsill beside him.

“You don’t have to sit here and sulk, you know,” She offered, “If it’s Catelyn you’re worried about, don’t bother-” Jon cut her placating off with a look that said; Don’t start. 

“June,”

“She’s already worried sick over six other things tonight. You are the least of her concerns,” Jon huffed, almost a bitter noise, and Juniper winced, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” 

“She won’t-” Juniper tried to start again, but Jon’s look stopped her this time, something almost desperate. 

“She does not want me there; it’s easier for all if I’m absent.” Juniper smiled, tight-lipped, and nodded, eyes dropping to the hands clasped in her lap.

"Of course," She wished to snap him out of it, the sulking, thinking it mattered whether Catelyn wanted him there or not, whether she considered him. Other people there considered him. But it was a conversation said before, and tonight was no longer the night for rehashing old tales. 

Jon sighed, a hand rubbing over his face as he stared hard at the moonbeams, “I need to tell you something,” He finally spoke, turning his head to look at her.

She could see it in his eyes, and her stomach turned. A quiet, slow twist like the build of storm clouds over Greywash. She felt it before he said it, like some part of her had already known.

“I’m joining the Night’s Watch.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t dramatic. They were flat and final. Juniper allowed the confession to settle between them. Gave it time to root in her chest like cold water.

He’d spoken of the Night’s Watch in abstract since childhood. Read books, and asked his Uncle Benjyn for stories on his visits home. They’d sit in the godswood, late at night when the night was still warm, and he’d tell her his plans. He’d join, he’d do something honorable, he’d be a ranger and protect the realm. And she’d listen to the boy and think how such idealism was admirable. 

But the Jon sitting beside her wasn’t that boy anymore. Ned would leave, and with that, his tether to Winterfell. He’d have no land of his own, just Robb’s shadow for the rest of his life. Juniper swallowed, looking him straight in the eyes. 

“Are there any words I could say that would change your mind?”

Jon did not hesitate; he shook his head once, “No.” And she knew he meant it. No amount of pleas could pull him back from a decision already carved in to him, but a small selfish part of her still wanted to try. She let out a sigh, half laugh, half resignation. 

She tilted her head, letting it land on his shoulder. The leather was rough, but his warmth was a comfort. 

“I’ll miss you,” She said into his shoulder, quiet but sure. Jon stiffened in surprise, but only for a heartbeat. He relaxed, relieved, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He turned his head, pressing his forehead to the top of hers, buried in her hair, and closed his eyes. And let it solace him, even for a moment.

“I’ll come visit,” He promised, voice slightly muffled, “Like Uncle Benjyn, I swear it.” Juniper pulled back with a small laugh. 

“You best,” She said. Their eyes met again, hers wet but tears unbroken, his earnest and unguarded. For a moment, neither moved. Then she pulled back fully, exhaling slowly as she stood from their perch. 

“I suppose I’ll have to pretend to be surprised when you tell the others,” She said, trying for lightness. 

Jon offered a small, wry smile, “You’re good at pretending.” Juniper smiled at the jest, but her chest ached. The feast continued somewhere forgotten behind them, but here, a quiet goodbye had already begun. 

She stepped towards the exit, pausing briefly beneath the arch, “You should come. Even for a bit.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Jon said. 

“Liar,” Juniper looked at him for another silent beat before nodding slightly to herself. “Goodnight, Jon.” She didn’t wait for a reply before turning down the corridor. He watched her go. 

Juniper’s walk back to the feast felt shorter than it had on the way out, though her legs moved slower and heavier. Her thoughts folded in on themselves - The Night’s Watch, the Wall, the oaths he would take, and the man he was to never break them. 

She reached the courtyard and paused just inside, the torchlight from the hall throwing long, shifting shadows across the stone. A lone figure stood, leaning against a pillar, the moonlight catching on the gilded edge of his shoulder pauldron. His golden hair gleamed like polished coin, too bright for this North-bound darkness.

Jaime Lannister. He hadn’t heard her yet. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?” Her voice cut through the silence like an arrow, suspicion and curiosity twined in equal measure. Jaime turned sharply, his hand twitching at his hilt. A beat of silence stretched between them, the sounds of laughter and music from the hall behind her a distant hum. Juniper's eyes flicked to the sword, a slow, deliberate movement.

Jaime’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “You should not sneak up on people, my lady,” He warned with a short, amused breath, “Lest those holding swords.” He watched her eyes, how they tracked his hand, and added condescendingly, "You need not worry, my lady," 

"I’m not worried," Juniper assuredly plainly. Her shoulders straightened a fraction. "You don’t frighten me.”

That earned her a real smirk. He pushed off the pillar, lazy in his grace, stepping a few paces closer, not enough to crowd her, but enough to make it clear he wasn’t ignoring a challenge.

“I should,” He said, gesturing to himself, “Kingslayer, after all.”

She stayed where she was, steady as stone, meeting his gaze without flinching. Juniper’s lips twitched, “If I were a King, perhaps I’d be concerned.” Her words pulled a flicker of something across Jaime's face. His eyes flickered over her, offering a shrug.

“You are not what I expected of a daughter of the North,” Jaime observed lightly, his words meant to slip harmlessly, but his tone sharp enough to prick. “You look like one, I’ll grant you that. Pale as snow and twice as cold.”

Juniper gave a small tilt of her head, a glint in her hazel eyes. “Cold keeps you alive up here. I hear pride does the same in the South.” 

Jaime studied her in that drawn-out, almost lazy way of his, but there was thoughtfulness underneath it. He was weighing her, measuring something beyond the rich fabric of her dress or the set of her jaw. After a beat, he looked away first, his gaze flickering to the darkness pooling around the courtyard stones.

“I never enjoy my trips to the North,” he said lightly, but the words were tinged with something more pungent. “The cold, the people, the air.” Juniper made a small sound in her throat, something close to a hum, arms folding loosely across her chest. Not defensive, simply sure of herself.

“And I’m certain the North is just as thrilled to have your company.” She assured. 

That earned a low laugh from Jaime, but it was devoid of true humor. “Of course. My reputation precedes me here.”

Juniper tilted her head slightly, offering a half-smirk, “I think it precedes you everywhere, Ser.” A momentary silence stretched, not tense but taut, two players idly studying the other’s first move. Juniper broke it with a slight shake of her head, almost amused.

“Kingslayer,” She huffed, letting the infamous title hang there between them. Jaime tensed, jaw twitching momentarily, before his lips twitched into the suggestion of a smirk.  

“It suits me, doesn’t it?” Juniper shrugged, an effortless motion.

"Rather on the nose.” She said, “and a bit disingenuous."

One of his brows lifted, intrigued despite himself. “Disingenuous?” He repeated. Her gaze sharpened just slightly, not unkind, but dissecting.

“Men lined up by the thousands to send their boys to die to end that King,” She started, matter-of-fact, “Yet, somehow, the man who actually killed the monster they all prayed would die is the one reviled for it.” The words settled between them like a thin sheet of ice - fragile, cold, true.

For a moment, Jaime only stared at her. Something unreadable flickered behind his easy smirk, but the humor in his eyes, real or faked, didn’t reach the cold steel hidden just beneath. He tipped his head, just slightly, almost like a man acknowledging a worthy move on a board not yet fully set.

“Careful,” he said softly, the warmth gone from his tone. “You start talking like that, and someone might think you pity me.”

“I don’t,” Juniper said simply. “Though the irony isn’t lost to me.”

“You think you see more than you do,” he said, voice quieter now, but with a new taut edge. He took a slow step forward, not quite threatening. Usually, his mere presence was enough to unsteady noble lords and seasoned warriors - if his surname didn’t first. But the young Northern lady before him didn’t cower or shrink, “You think you understand how the world works, clever girl?”

“I understand it doesn’t,” she said. It wasn't the answer he was expecting, and it gave the Lannister a second of pause. 

“I made an oath to protect that King,” He said curtly. "The world doesn’t work like that," he said, voice losing any lazy warmth it once had. “Duty. Honor. Oaths,” he murmured. “Pretty words. They shatter quickly enough when truly tested.” He let it land like a blow, sharp and deliberate, “You can’t begin to know-”

“I know plenty,” She cut him off, quiet but firm. 

Jaime let out a low breath, almost a scoff. "Certainly, my lady," he said, a thread of something sardonic winding through the words. "I’m sure you do. No doubt you’ve had that Stark sense of right and wrong beaten into your skull since you could toddle. Everything is black and white. Wrong and right, such simple rhetoric. It works too, if you never have to face the real world.” Juniper tilted her head at him, a slow, measuring motion.

Jaime was unprepared for how deeply her gaze cut. Not hostile, but unblinking. Watching him. He shifted under it, a small, involuntary thing. Like maybe, for the briefest moment, he was the one being judged.

"I’m not a Stark," Juniper said plainly. "I’ve been lectured, I’ve read, I’ve felt." Her voice barely rose, but it carried, certain. "I’m more than capable of my own understanding." She stepped past him, cool and controlled, making for the courtyard’s open arch. Jaime didn’t move to stop her; he only turned slightly to track her with his eyes, brow knitting.

"I know what duty means," she said. "What it means to take an oath."

She was nearly swallowed by the dark when his voice called after her — low, almost teasing, but threaded with something more brittle underneath.

"So," Jaime drawled, "have you broken an oath then, Lady Juniper?" She stopped at the edge of the shadows, half turning back. Their eyes locked. A lion watching as a storm gathered at sea. 

Juniper’s lips quirked, not quite a smile.

"No," she said, her voice carrying easily across the cool night air. "But I also haven’t had to watch a city burn alive." For a moment, neither of them moved. The torchlight flickered between them, casting long, warring shadows across the stones.

And with that, she was gone. Her cloak followed as she turned and disappeared through the stone archway. Back towards the swell of light and music, leaving only the he and wind behind.

Jaime lingered there alone, the cold creeping in against his skin. His hand flexed once against the hilt of his sword. Not because he needed the reassurance, but because her words had carved out something old and sore in him. Something even he didn’t like to name.

He tilted his head back against the stone wall, staring at the stars overhead - and thought, with a strange sort of humorless wonder, about broken oaths... and Northern girls with far too much storm behind their eyes.

Juniper walked towards the warmth of the hall, but Jaime’s words followed her like a shadow. You think you know how the world works. That ancient feeling in her gut, that tingle at the back of her neck, roared alive. It felt like she was reading a novel that was already written, long ago. But she pushed it down, buried it beneath instinct and purpose.

Chapter Text

Gradually, layer by layer, the laughter and music returned, as if she were rising from beneath the water. The warmth and noise of the hall rushed to meet her; the smell of roasted meat, spilled ale, and wet wool folded over her like a cloak. 

And before Juniper could brace herself, she was back, sliding into her seat at the long table like she’d never left.

The King was deep into his cups now, beady eyes glassy, face red, laughter booming and unrestrained as he slurred a tale about hunting boars and bedding half the Stormlands. Crude words spilled from his mouth like wine from an overfull goblet. Cersei sat beside him, posture carved of ice, her hand gripping the stem of her cup so tightly Juniper thought it might snap. Her face was a perfect mask. Beautiful, expressionless, and dangerous in its restraint.

Juniper blinked a few times, reorienting, her mind still left halfway in the shadows. She placed her hand on the table and let the smooth grain of the aged wood ground her to the moment. Robb’s face suddenly bled into her line of sight as he leaned forward, brows drawn in concern. “Where have you been?” He asked, voice pitched lower beneath the noise.

“Didn’t feel well,” she offered a practiced half smile, “needed some air.” Robb studied her face for a moment longer than necessary, blue eyes searching hers for the truth he already suspected she wouldn’t give. His mouth tightened a little, but he let it go.

“You’re alright?” He confirmed, and Juniper nodded with a dismissive roll of her eyes.

“I’ll survive,” She assured, aiming for deadpan, but the corners of her lips twitched as she reached for the water carafe.

“Good,” he said, sitting back, eyes crinkling with something dangerously bordering on fondness. “I was ready to send a search party.”

Juniper’s smile sharpened. “And ruin a perfectly good feast? I’d hate to deprive the King of another tale about his valor.”

Robb snorted, trying and failing to disguise it as a cough. 

“I fear that might’ve been treason, my lady,” Robb mockingly chastised, keeping his voice low. Juniper’s eyes flickered to the monarch in question, then back to Robb.

“Shall we hold a trial?” She asked, leaning in with a hand pressed to her chest, “You can-” A sudden shriek shattered the moment. Everyone turned. 

Sansa sat frozen in horror, a lump of mashed potato sliding down her cheek and onto the bodice of her pretty dress. Her eyes were wide and glassy, reflecting her own mortification as if she could somehow undo it through sheer force of dignity. 

Arya, mid-laugh, was already ducking under the table, a second spoon clutched in one hand like a weapon, already loaded for an additional assault.

The chaos hit the hall like a sudden gust. Startled gasps, muffled snickers, the scrape of chairs. The King’s booming laugh rose above it all for a moment, shouting something about ‘good aim’. 

Juniper felt her own amusement bubbling up, unbidden and dangerous. But she felt it before she saw it, a familiar prickle down the back of her neck, like a physical strike. Her head turned towards her Aunt. That single glance could have felled a man at twenty paces. It cut clean through the laughter like a thrown blade, pinning Juniper where she sat. Her laugh died in her throat, her lips pressing together as she aimed for contrite. 

She turned away from Catelyn, swallowing the last ghost of her amusement. With the calm, doomed composure of a woman walking to the gallows, she stood and set her napkin aside like a soldier laying down arms. Her chair scraped faintly against the floor, a small sound swallowed by the hall’s nervous laughter, but it reverberated through Juniper’s skull.

Theon offered little help. Doubled over across the table, wine sloshing perilously close to the rim of his cup, laughter echoing loud enough to draw every disapproving eye in the room.

Robb, for his part, had tried valiantly to maintain composure. But when he saw Theon choking on his own mirth, he cracked. His shoulders shook, a smothered laugh escaping before his mother’s gaze found him, too, dripping with disappointment. 

He cleared it loudly, sitting straighter, forcing a somber expression that fooled no one. Then he was up too, following after Juniper like he hadn’t just been enjoying the show. 

“Gods,” He muttered under his breath as he reached Juniper’s side, “You’d think someone got stabbed.” Juniper gave him a look, her amusement poorly concealed, but didn’t reply. She motioned silently to Arya, whose head had poked up from beneath the table with a victorious grin and no remorse whatsoever. 

“Out,” Juniper said firmly, hand finding her arm. 

Arya grumbled, “It was a joke!”

“You’re lucky the Queen didn’t see.” Robb attempted to chastise, guiding Arya through the hall on her other side.

“Oh, she saw,” Juniper muttered as they reached the exit, “Moreso, your mother saw.” For the second time that evening, the feast’s roar disappeared like a yawn behind her. She tried. She kept her face stern, brows arched, and lips pressed, the same look she’d gotten countless times as a child. But Arya’s wide-eyed, unapologetic grin was just too much. 

Juniper let out a laugh through her nose, soft and unshakable. “Gods, you’re untamable. You’re lucky Sansa hasn’t learned she can hit back.” 

“She deserved it,” the girl grinned, entirely unrepentant. Juniper gave her a look, trying to summon the grave seriousness she should have wielded. But the corners of her mouth continued to betray her.

“Come on, pup,” She said, nudging Arya forward, “Off to bed. Party is over for you.” Robb had followed them as far as the corridor outside the hall, hands behind his back, smirk playing at his lips. 

“I’ll walk you both,” He offered, already falling into step beside them. She gave him a sidelong glance but made no comment. When they reached Arya’s door, Juniper paused as the girl padded inside, Nymeria already curled up at the foot of her bed.

“No more food fights,” Juniper said, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched. The candlelight threw a warm halo across her face, softening what little authority she pretended to have.

Arya flopped back onto the mattress in defiance, limbs everywhere. “Only if Sansa stops talking about him,” Juniper smirked. Of course, this was about the Prince.

Robb lingered in the doorway behind her, shoulder braced against the frame, half-amused, half-exhausted. He didn’t say anything as Juniper moved deeper into the room — just watched the way she moved, quiet but assured, like someone used to commanding chaos rather than comforting it.

Juniper sat at the edge of the bed, brushing a stray lock of hair from Arya’s forehead. The girl squirmed but didn’t pull away. Juniper pulled the blanket up, tucking it neatly under Arya’s chin, fingers lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Try to be good,” she bargained, voice soft but firm.

“She’s annoying!” Arya protested immediately, sitting up, wild-eyed and indignant.

Juniper hushed her with a roll of her eyes, tugging the furs tighter around her shoulders. “So don’t listen,” she said dryly, giving the girl a pointed look, “you’re good at that.”

“Hey!”

“Sleep, little pup,” Juniper said, flicking Arya’s nose before standing. “It’s been a long day.”

Arya huffed as though grievously wronged but smiled despite herself, eyes already drooping. “Goodnight,” she murmured into the pillow. Juniper stood for a moment longer, watching the slow, even rise of her chest. Something was grounding in that sight, the quiet proof of innocence still unbroken by what waited beyond Winterfell’s walls. 

When she closed the door behind her, the sound was soft, and it settled in her chest like a punctuation to something she couldn’t quite name.

Her footsteps echoed faintly as she and Robb made their way down the corridor. The torches along the wall hissed faintly, their light stretching long and thin across the floor. Somewhere down the hall, a servant’s laughter echoed, distant and warm.

Neither spoke at first. The quiet between them lingered. It was late enough that neither were expected to return to the dying feast below. Juniper didn’t ask him why he wasn’t off to find Jon or Theon, or back to his own chambers. And Robb offered no comment as to why tonight he felt compelled to see her to her room. 

“It’s odd,” Robb finally said quietly. 

“Hm?”

“Watching you scold, rather than be scolded,” His words were quiet and teasing. Juniper hummed, trying to smile, but the gesture didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Things are changing,” She joked, but the truth beside it was clear in the silence.

He glanced at her sidelong. “I almost miss the version of you who’d have joined in.” Juniper’s chest tightened; the warmth of the party felt a world away now, golden and loud, like a story happening to someone else.

“She’s still in there,” Juniper said, her smirk faint but tired. “Just… learning to pick her battles.” Robb smiled at that, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes either.

They walked a little farther in silence. The weight of the castle pressed around them. The stones, the history, the expectation of all that was coming. Juniper could feel it, the invisible shift in the air. She was no longer the girl who could vanish into the training yard or lose herself in laughter. There were eyes on her now. Roles waiting. Futures taking shape without her permission.

“Goodnight, Robb.” 

“Goodnight, Juniper.” The door clicked shut. She slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind her. Her chamber was dim, the fire low, the air faintly chilled. 

She unlaced her bodice slowly, fingers tracing the silks absently, her thoughts far away. The stillness pressed close around her, heavy but not unwelcome. And when she lay down, staring at the ceiling with her hair still pinned and her stomach twisted tight, she finally let herself feel the weight of Jon’s choice. Of Ned’s.

Of her own, sure to come.

And sleep, when it finally came, felt like falling through mist.

The morning came cloaked in a dense haze, the kind that curled low over the fields and valleys. It clung to Winterfell like a second skin, soft and heavy, muffling the world into something distant and slow.

Juniper moved through the mist without hurry, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, her breath trailing in front of her like smoke. The warmth of the great hall was a jarring contrast when she stepped inside - too bright, too awake. Though the air, despite the hearths, was cold in its company. 

Polite contempt. She could feel it the moment she entered. The Queen sat at the table's head, as poised and perfect as ever, flanked by her golden children. Tommen squirmed, Myrcella sat like a doll, and Joffrey, the charming little prince, sat and picked at his food as if it offended him.

Before Juniper could think to turn and save herself, Catelyn greeted her with a small nod. Her aunt’s face was already drawn tight with the effort of balancing grace in the presence of royalty. Bran and Rickon were on either side of her, Bran dutifully eating his bread, Rickon chewing, quite determinedly, on the side of his wooden plate. 

Juniper swept into the room, offering a small, polite smile, one that cost her effort to muster. She took the chair on the other side of Rickon, gently pulling the plate from his mouth, “Not food,” She murmured, trading it with a sliver of fruit, “Food.” 

Rickon blinked at her, considering the swap, before deciding it would do. Catelyn’s glance was brief, but grateful.

Juniper didn’t need to look further down the table to know she was being watched. The Queen’s gaze was sharp and precise, like the edge of a jeweler’s knife. 

“Quite the young lady,” Cersei said at last, her voice smooth as cream, but it was curdled beneath the surface. “You’ll make a lovely mother someday soon.” Juniper didn’t flinch. She took a biscuit, spreading jam over it, slow and composed. 

“Gods willing, Your Grace,” she answered evenly, meeting the Queen’s eyes. Cersei smiled. It held no warmth. 

“And a face they write sonnets for,” the Queen added. She hid a sneer behind her goblet, which Juniper suspected held wine even now at this hour, “You’ll keep some little lord very happy.”

Juniper tilted her head, parsing the game beneath the words, “Happiness seems a rare thing among lords,” she said lightly. “But if I’m to be the exception, I suppose I’ll count myself fortunate.” She’d grown up reading men’s strategies, but women like Cersei played a different kind of war, one you didn’t learn from books or anecdotes. 

“How very modest of you,” Cersei’s expression twitched but didn’t slip, “The King wanted to consider you, you know,” She said, almost absently. 

Juniper’s hand froze, just slightly, over her plate. “For Prince Joffrey?” Her eyes flickered briefly to the boy in question, a pit of dread dropping in her gut like a stone. He sat, lips cracking into something that could be mistaken as a smile, but dripped with poison.

Cersei hummed as if it were nothing of consequence, but her eyes were daggers holding Juniper to her seat, “To be his Queen.”

“What an honor to be considered.” Juniper's smile was sweet even as restraint tugged at the edges of her tone. But she continued to hold the Queen’s gaze across the table. 

“Quite,” Cersei agreed, “A daughter to House Dravenhall, raised by wolves. How quaint.” Catelyn stiffened beside her, coiled so suddenly Juniper felt it. Her eyes flickered to her aunt, her brow twitching. Cersei didn’t miss the beat of confusion from Juniper, or the hostile dread radiating from Catelyn. She sank her teeth in.

“Thankfully, my husband saw reason.” Her eyes flickered over Juniper, narrow and scrutinizing. “Sansa was the natural choice. Delicate. Graceful. Obedient.” The silence that followed that word was intentional. Juniper’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

“Sansa?” The question fell from Juniper’s lips, her head turning to look at her aunt, who was focused on her plate before her. This wasn’t the first time Catelyn had heard this news. 

Of course, it was a possibility. Even a hope of the sweet young girl from the moment their royal visit was set. But Cersei spoke as if it were already set in stone. Juniper continued to look at her Aunt in an almost desperate wish for confirmation that it wasn’t. 

“Of course,” Joffrey was the one to reply, like he knew he was rubbing salt in the wound, and relishing every moment. His eyes flitted between Juniper and Catelyn, unable to land on just a single target, “What? You truly thought the orphan of a coward would be Queen of the Realm? My bride will be worthy of a crown, not some wild Northern stray-”

“Joffrey.” Cersei cut off his insult. Too late to undo it, just in time to make it seem like she meant to. 

Juniper’s expression flickered, just enough to be felt. It wasn’t the insult, not really. She knew her father was no such coward. And unlike Sansa, she would have rather eaten her riding leathers than marry that little brat. It was the look Cersei gave her after. The glint of someone who knew a piece of the gameboard no one else did. Like she was waiting for Juniper to react, to rise, to fall for the bait.

So Juniper didn’t. She offered a polite smile. Dipped her head, as if the barbs had been missed.

“Of course,” She said. 

“Your Grace,” The little prince pressed pompously. 

“Of course, your Grace.” She smiled once more, taking a bite of her food, though it tasted like sand in her mouth. Inside her chest, the rain had begun again. Slow, unrelenting. 

Catelyn seemed to relax a breath, her shoulders straight as she brushed crumbs from Bran’s tunic, excusing him from the table. She made no effort to come to Juniper’s defense, nor to console. And in her silence, she found confirmation; Sansa would get her wish. She’d marry the Prince; the decision was made.