mazzy🪐

The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.

Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.

Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.

At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.

You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror. 

But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.

You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.

As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.

He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.

You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.

The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.

You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.

It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.

You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.

“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.

Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.

Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side. 

One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.

Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.

But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.

He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.

His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.

And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.

Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. 

You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different. 

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him. 

For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.

You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.

The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.

You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.

Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.

You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.

It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.

“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”

Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.

You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.

Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.

Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.

“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.

You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.

Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.

The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.

Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”

Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.

Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.

When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.

Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold. 

You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants.  And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.

As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.

Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.

No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.

The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.

Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.

Steel striking wood.

You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.

There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.

The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.

“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.

“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”

Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”

Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”

Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten. 

“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.

He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.

“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”

That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.

“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”

“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”

Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”

You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”

Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.

You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”

When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”

You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”

Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.

“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness. 

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”

Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”

Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.

“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.

At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.

“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”

Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”

Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.

“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.

You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”

“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”

Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him. 

When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”

Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.

Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”

You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”

The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”

Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.

“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.

Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”

That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”

Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”

When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”

He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”

You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”

Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.

“Jon.”

Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”

You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”

Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”

He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”

With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.

Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.

He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.

Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”

Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”

Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”

Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”

Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”

Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.

“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”

Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”

Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”

Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.

Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”

That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”

Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes. 

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.

Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?

Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.

“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”

“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”

You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.

You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.

At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.

It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.

Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.

You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.

“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”

His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.

“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”

He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”

Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”

Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”

Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.

Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”

Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”

A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.

Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”

Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.

You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.

At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.

Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.

Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.

You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.

You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.

It was harsh—but it was honest.

And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.

When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.

“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.

“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.

You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”

“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”

You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”

The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.

A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.

“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”

“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”

You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”

The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.

“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”

“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.

Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”

You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”

“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.

Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him.  “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.

He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.

“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”

You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.

“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”

You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”

Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”

You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”

“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”

He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”

You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”

Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”

The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.

Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”

Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”

You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”

“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”

Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”

A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”

You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”

Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”

You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest. 

You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.

“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”

Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”

You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”

You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”

It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.

Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.

You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.

He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.

There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.

The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming. 

Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.

Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.

The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.

And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.

The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.

He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.

He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.

You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.

Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.

“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”

You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.

Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.

He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.

You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.

You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.

He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.

“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”

“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”

You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”

Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”

You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.

“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.

He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”

You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.

You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”

“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”

Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”

You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”

The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”

You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”

He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”

That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.

“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”

Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”

You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.

Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”

“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.

Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”

He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”

You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”

Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”

“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”

Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”

You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”

Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”

You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”

You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.

Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.

“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”

Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.

The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”

You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.

“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”

For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.

“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”

Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”

You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.

“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”

You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”

He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.

You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”

Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”

For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”

Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”

You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”

You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.

And then—

Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.

You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.

Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”

“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”

You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.

“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”

Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”

From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.

Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”

Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”

You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”

Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.

You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.

Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.

“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”

You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”

Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”

“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”

You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”

But he did.

The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.

“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”

That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”

Robb’s grin widened. “I’d expect nothing less, princess.”

In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.

Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.

You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.

For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.

Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.

At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.

Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.

“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”

The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.

She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”

Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”

Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”

But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”

Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”

“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.

“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”

Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”

You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”

His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”

You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”

He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”

“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”

Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”

And that was when his hand moved.

He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.

But Robb was faster.

He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.

“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”

Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”

Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”

The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.

Yet now there was no denying it.

Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.

The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.

“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.

You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.

He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.

He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.

The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.

Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.

The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.

“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.

You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”

The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.

“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”

You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”

Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”

Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.

“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”

You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”

Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”

You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.

The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.

A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”

Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”

You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”

Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.

As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.

He wanted you to stay.

Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.

And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.

The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.

Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.

Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.

Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.

And behind her, you stood.

Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark. 

Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”

Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”

Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.

His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.” 

Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.

He imagined a life without you.

You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.

The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.

You were duty, yes. But you were also more.

And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.

He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.

Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”

But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.

He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you. 

Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.

His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”

Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.

Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.

But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”

The hall went still.

Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”

Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”

All eyes turned to Robb.

The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.

It found you.

Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted. 

And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”

The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.

A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.

Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.

Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”

Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”

Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.

And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.

You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”

The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.

Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.

For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.

Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”

Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”

The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.

Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.

“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”

Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.

And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.

A strange, unexpected calm.

Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.

You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.

And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.

For the first time, it felt like choice.

ℬooks had always been your form of escapism. The fairytales kept the harsh reality off your mind even if for only a couple of hours. Your brothers never understood your love for it as they preferred to fly around on their dragons. Your mother found this passion of yours endearing and wasn't surprised to discover that you weren't as opposed to marriage as she had been when she was younger.

The tales in your books spoke of true love. Both passionate and gentle, which you couldn't help but crave to have one day. Although the couples that surrounded you weren't as sincere as you would have liked for yourself, you still held out some hope that you would find your own Prince Charming.

He came in the form of Lord Cregan Stark. A brooding, muscular man from the North who hadn't even given marriage a thought until his council forced it upon him. He needed heirs they had said and so with much protest, he began scouring for a wife that could take on the title 'Lady of Winterfell'. He had never dared to even consider you, who was the princess of the realm, believing that both your status and blood would not be fit for the brutal winters in the North.

Yet when he met you for the very first time at a tournament in King's Landing to celebrate the birth of Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena's second child, he couldn't imagine having anyone else as his wife. He could still vividly remember the way your pastel pink dress hugged your form as you sat beside your younger brothers, a book in your grasp as you entirely ignored the cries of a knight who had been decapitated. As much as he tried, he was unable to rip his eyes off you as a remote smile graced your lips at something that must have occurred in your book.

During the feast that followed you were seated at the extensive table in the front, between your uncle Aemond and brother Jacaerys as some form of barrier to separate the Greens from the Blacks. Music was played beautifully and people danced joyfully, yet you remained invested in the happenings of your book. Cregan cast a look at the Maester he had brought with him before moving to stand. The people around him watched on in curiosity, the Lord of Winterfell didn't exactly seem like the dancing type. He made his way towards your table, bowing his head at the King and Queen as well as to your mother, who was just as inquisitive as everyone else.

He shifted to stand in front of you, not that you noticed as you turned another page of your book. Cregan didn't mind your oblivion, waiting patiently for you to notice him which could have taken much longer if not for Prince Daemon who nudged you softly. You looked up at your step-father with questioning eyes before turning to face the Lord who your father motioned to. A blush spread across your face as you ultimately caught sight of the handsome man in front of you who watched on in amusement.

“I apologize for not noticing you earlier Lord Stark,” your voice was sweeter than any honey he had ever tasted, which made his heart throb beneath the layers of fur. “It is I who must apologize for distracting you, princess. I take it is an entertaining story you were reading?” the words caused Aemond to scoff as he quietly listened on but neither of you took notice of it.

Your eyes shone brightly at the mention of your book, exhilarated at the prospect of sharing something so dear to you, “it certainly is one of my preferred books. I could lend it to you if you wish?” Your offer entertained Cregan as he'd never even considered reading something that hadn't been for studies, but he nodded nonetheless.

“Perhaps you could tell me more about it whilst we share a dance,” his offer was sly, Rhaenyra had to give it to him, but she was pleased as long as her daughter was. Heat rose to your cheeks as you shyly nodded, not used to such kind Lords who were truly interested in you. You rose to your feet, placing your beloved book on your chair before stepping around the table. He offered his arm which you gratefully took only to be stunned by his muscles which were hidden underneath the layers of clothing. Cregan had quickly taken notice of your astonishment and felt a sense of satisfaction fill him as his lips scarcely tugged upwards.

He led you towards the dance floor as people got out of your way, but your gaze remained on the man beside you. His dark eyes met your violet ones, which sent your heart racing as you offered him a nervous smile. You fell into the rhythm of the music, dancing with such a grace that left Cregan speechless, but he had to snap out of his daze if he wished to impress you.

“I like your accent,” the words escaped your lips so easily which startled him. His eyes dilated, his eyebrow raised as a rare grin rose on his handsome face. “Thank you, princess. I find yours entrancing as well,” his low voice sent flutters through your stomach as you smiled at him. “I must admit, I have never seen anyone so enraptured by a mere book.” The excitement rose in you once more at the turn in conversation, speaking with much vigor, which Cregan appreciated more than anything.

Your evening was spent with the Warden of the North, never straying too far from him as conversation flew between you, never faltering. Your family had witnessed this as well, deeming it unusual behavior from you but not unwelcome. After all, it had been time for you to get married, which Rhaenyra attempted to put off for as long as possible in the hopes that you would find a husband on your own.

“Is this Cregan Stark still available?” Your mother questioned as the King glanced at his wife with much excitement, which she didn't reciprocate.

“Yes, he has yet to marry. I heard he is in search of a wife,” Viserys expressed his elation effortlessly which made his eldest son envious of his niece as the King hadn't even been half as delighted during his marriage, not even for the birth of his grandchildren. The following day most Lords and Ladies began returning towards their own regions, which included Cregan Stark.

The man felt disappointment within him that he would be parting from you so soon, but you had promised him the evening before to come bid him farewell in the morning. A profound frown was etched upon his face, which perished at the sight of you approaching him in a simple yet exquisite red dress. The rather sad expression you wore tugged at his heartstrings as he took quick steps to reach you. His hands enveloped your soft ones, and he pressed a gentle kiss on them which made you smile bashfully.

“I shall miss our banter, Lord Stark,” you mumbled, heart heavy, but the man attempted to soothe you despite his own heartache. “There are no words to describe how much I will as well my princess.” A reassuring smile tugged at his lips, streaks of his hair flying around at a sudden soft breeze of wind. Your eyes softened, and you glanced around to make sure there were no eyes pointed towards you before quickly engulfing him in a hug that took him by surprise. While he knew it would be frowned upon, he couldn't resist wrapping his arms around you to relish in your touch.

You stayed like that for a couple more moments before you had to let go. However before you got another chance to say anything, a hand abruptly fell upon your shoulder. You jolted slightly, taken by surprise only to relax once you saw it was your father. Cregan narrowed his eyes at the sight of the Rogue Prince but respectfully bowed his head, which amused Daemon.

“The King has requested your presence,” his words were laced with what you could only call mirth as Cregan furrowed his brows in puzzlement but nodded nonetheless. The two men walked beside one another, their presence demanding respect, as you were left to follow them with a much softer grace.

The three of you entered the throne hall where your grandsire was seated, the Queen by his side whilst your mother stood on his left with a reassuring smile on her face. "Your Grace," Cregan bowed deeply, his form tense as he awaited what Viserys had wished to discuss.

"I propose a betrothal," the words were straightforward and surprised the both of you. Your fingers clenched behind your back as you remained impassive, keeping your shoulders wide and chin high, "my daughter has brought the notion to my attention to betroth you to my firstborn granddaughter, princess Y/n Velaryon as I heard you were in search for a wife." Your eyes widened and jaw slackened as you glanced between your family who were watching you with a keen eye. You then turned your gaze towards Cregan who met your eyes with much vigor. His eyes were questioning whether you wished for this as well and at the quirk of the corners of your mouth he smiled in return, relief falling upon him as he realised you would remain by his side.

"I heartily agree with this proposal," his voice was low yet clear, and it sent shivers down your spine as you watched your betrothed with adoration despite only knowing him for a day.

The king smiled widely, "This is absolutely wonderful news!" He cheered loudly. Alicent cast her gaze down, a trembling sigh leaving her lips as she thought about what this meant, "Though it does bring us to the complication of agreements." Cregan dutifully nodded his head as a thoughtful look appeared on his face while you watched on in worry that he might retract his previous statement due to you being Rhaenyra's heir.

"As Princess Y/n is Princess Rhaenyra's heir she shall inherit the throne one day, and you will have to become her King-consort," Cregan had realised this as well and nodded along, figuring it would be long from now that this would happen, and he would have an heir of his own to become Warden of the North, "Your firstborn child will be set to inherit the Iron Throne and your second-born will inherit Winterfell."

Your breath hitched as you awaited Cregan's reply, hoping he would agree, "I see no issue with this, your grace," a wide smile spread across your face. Your feet itched to move closer to your betrothed who couldn't stand to be away from you either, but he had a final proposition to make, "Though I have one request." Your mother raised her brow in anticipation, wondering what he might have to say, while your grandsire nodded.

"I wish for the wedding to take place in Winterfell, in the way of the Old Gods," Alicent was quick to protest but Viserys hushed her as he pondered about it. He cast a glance at his daughter who didn't seem to be against it, she knew her daughter wasn't exceptionally religious.

"Very well, you shall travel back to Winterfell and within six moons we will follow for the marriage," the King agreed. Cregan nodded, bowing a final time before turning to leave with a pleased expression on his face. On his way out, he intertwined his hand with yours which sent your heart fluttering as you followed him outside.

"I am sorry you didn't have a say in this-" but before Cregan could finish his sentence, you wrapped your arms around his neck, much more intimate than the modest hug that you had shared earlier. "Do not apologise. I could not have been happier with this betrothal," you mumbled into his ear, his face pressed into your neck as he smiled widely, which was so unlike his usual brooding expression.

The months passed by far too slowly in your opinion. Winter washed over, and your grandfather ensured that supplies were sent to Winterfell so they could survive this winter more easily. Some on the council had protested as they had never done such a thing before, but the King declared it final as Winterfell was about to become your home. Cregan was grateful for the supplies which greatly helped his people, but a lingering bitterness remained at the fact that so many lives could have been spared if the King had done this sooner.

The preparations for your wedding were larger than the one of your uncle and aunt, the entire realm was eager for the marriage of the woman that would become their Queen one day. The people in the North were delighted to be able to host such an extensive event, as it took their minds off the dreary weather. The wedding would take place in the middle of the summer during the warmest days of the North, but snow would still cover everything in sight.

You exchanged letters with Cregan through ravens, who was always delighted to receive them as you told him everything that had happened since your last letter. It took the young Lord a while to come up with his own anecdotes as he was a man of few words, but he made an effort for you as he knew how much joy the letters brought you. He had given you the charge of most things like flower arrangements, cake, and guests as he wished for you to have your dream wedding like within your stories while he handled the more tedious aspects.

When the week of the wedding finally approached you couldn't wipe the smile off your face, much to your family's pleasure. They listened on and on about your dear Cregan who had sent you new books. Your brothers had the tendency to whine about it, but your stepsisters quickly shut them up with a kick to the shin as they admired how you radiated contentment.

By the time you and your family would be departing from Dragonstone on dragon back, most of the Kingdom had already reached Winterfell. They stayed in the most luxurious inns the North had to offer, which wasn't quite a lot while suffering from the cold.

You climbed upon Vermithor, who seemed glad to see you, and you could only pray he wouldn't mind the cold too much. You and your family left Dragonstone together, everyone flying on their respective dragon, joyful to be spending time together before you would be separated from them. Your uncles and aunt had wished to travel by dragon as well, even willing to fly with your family, but their mother had refused, ordering them to ride in the carriage with her and their father.

It took you a couple of days to reach Winterfell and you had to admit it was colder than you had expected, but you didn't mind it as much as Lucerys who was shaking in his boots. You admired the white snow that covered every surface when people started shouting from beneath, announcing your presence. Cregan stood at the clearing they had prepared for the dragons with his half-sister somewhere behind him, watching on in amazement as the large creatures landed.

His eyes were filled with marvel as he saw the different sizes and colors of the dragons, recalling all the things you wrote about your beloved Vermithor. His gaze searched for you atop your dragon and once he finally found you his heart leaped in his throat, his hands itching to touch you after such a long time apart. Caraxes screeched loudly as people all flocked around, in an attempt to see their future Lady for the first time. Daemon was the first one to descend his dragon, followed by Rhaenyra and Rhaenys.

Lucerys all but clumsily fell off Arrax, his teeth chattering as Rhaena caught him with a hearty laugh after having climbed off Meleys. You chuckled at the sight, patting Vermithor as he attempted to acclimatize to the cold weather. He bowed down for you to descend him and Cregan's breath was caught in his throat as he all but wished to wrap you within his arms, but he knew better than to approach you with so many dragons around. Once you noticed your betrothed, a smile appeared on your face, and you dismissed the whispers around you as the people of Winterfell gawked at you.

Although everything within you screamed to jump into his arms as you had yearned to for months, you stepped closer to your family as it was your duty. "My princess," Cregan's eyes were filled with adoration, an uncommon sight for the people around him as Sara had to contain a very unladylike snort. Your eyes shimmered with what most people could only describe as tenderness as you gazed upon your betrothed. He greeted your family members respectfully and much to your delight they seemed to accept him quicker than you would have thought. It wasn't too far-fetched as they knew of how an honorable man he truly was and your continuous tales of how sweet he was certainly helped to get used to the thought of accepting him as your husband.

He stretched out his arm which you took happily, glad to hold him once more before he led you towards the hall where a feast would be held. Your grandfather and remaining family had shown up as well as the most notorious Lords such as Jason and Tyland Lannister and Otto Hightower. You took a seat at the head of the table, beside your betrothed with your cousin Baela on your other side as she squeezed your hand in support, a giddy smile on her face.

The meal was enjoyable as you conversed with Cregan and his half-sister, already quickly falling in place within the North. Your uncle Aegon had been drowning himself in his cups and once the time came for toasts you nervously fiddled with your rings. Cregan instantly took notice of this and encased them within his own calloused ones, you moved to sit closer to him, which he didn't oppose to. He gave you a loving smile that felt way more intimate than you had expected.

Viserys moved to stand, his cup raised as the table turned quiet, "A tribute to my dear granddaughter who is to be married to the honorable Cregan Stark. I wish your marriage good prosperity and demand that you visit your poor grandsire," he jested lightly, and a smile cracked on your face as you nodded at him, stroking your betrothed's hand underneath the table.

He placed a brisk kiss on your delicate hand before standing as well raising his glass, "Thank you, your Grace. I am incredibly honored to be the husband of my princess Y/n and shall vie to appease her every wish during our marriage. To my princess Y/n." Everyone at the table took a sip of their beverage, and you blushed under Cregan's gaze as a teasing grin tugged at his lips, his hand resting on your thigh.

"I wish to raise my cup to my cousin, princess Y/n," Baela declared. She glanced towards you, her eyes sparkling underneath the fires that illuminated the room before she spoke, "Although we haven't grown up together as children, I feel as though we are sisters. She has been the greatest comfort of mine when my late mother passed, and I believe there is not a finer woman in the Seven Kingdoms. To princess Y/n," you took a sip from your goblet, sending your cousin an appreciative look.

Sara hesitated for a second, as she technically wasn't supposed to be at the feast with her being commonly known as a bastard but upon seeing your reassuring smile she gathered the courage to stand, "I would like to toast to my half-brother, Lord Cregan," your betrothed seemed visibly surprised but remained quiet as he listened to what she had to say. "As many of you may know, he is an honorable man. Stern and oftentimes grim as he fulfills his duties to take care of his people. Though ever since he met princess Y/n all those moons ago, he has become more loving, and I have no doubt in mind that she has melted the cold ice that surrounded his heart, which I heartily thank her for."

You smiled widely at her words, turning to look at Cregan who was already watching you as if you had hung the stars in the sky. His face was free of any creases, an accomplishment in itself, and the warmth surrounding him seemed so inviting as you wished to be buried within his arms. At that moment, you conceded that you had truly found your own fairy tale. The feeling within you couldn't be described with mere words despite your wide vocabulary. The way that your beat for him was almost unorthodox, and you thought that if you could, you would truly have given the organ to him if he wished so.

"I raise my cup to my niece."

The words snapped you out of your daze as dread filled your senses. You quickly turned towards your uncle, Aegon who was shakily standing with the help of his mother after she had attempted to silence him. Your hand tightened around Cregan, the peaceful expression that graced his face long gone as he worried about you. He had heard rumors about your drunken uncle who bedded girls that weren't willing and ignored his poor sister-wife.

Rhaenyra let out a deep sigh, bringing a hand to rub her temple while Jace seethed from beside her. "I reminisce our years together with much fondness," he slurred, a hazy grin on his face as he gazed upon you. Cregan glared at him but remained silent, "I recall the day your mother had proposed our betrothal, and I was sad to learn that we would not be married. After all, I am sure that you will please your husband in various aspects though know that I am always ready to please you as well-" Alicent hissed at him, pulling him down while Viserys slammed his hand into the table angrily.

"Aegon!" You were absolutely mortified and Cregan had stood up, a vicious storm behind his eyes as he towered over the table. Your hand quickly reached for him, caressing his skin softly as you attempted to calm him with loving words. "It is alright, my love. Do not worry about me," you whispered to him, brushing his hair behind his ear. The remaining part of the meal went by smoothly though Cregan kept a close eye on your uncle and once the time came to return to your chambers he made sure no maids were anywhere near Aegon.

He walked you back to your chamber, placing a kiss on your cheek before you went to sleep. Come morn you awakened with much jitters, not having slept much as it was the morning of your wedding. Maids were rushing around you, opening the curtains to let the sun in, which, according to one of them was a sign of promising marriage. Your mother had entered your chamber not long after, expressing her wish to dress you herself, and you agreed with a smile.

You were sitting in a plush chair, already donning a deep red colored dress with black embroidered flowers. The sleeves dangled from your hands that rested upon the armrest while your mother stood behind you with her fingers in your hair, plaiting your silver hair delicately. You cast a glance towards the cloak that bore the Velaryon sigil, before returning your gaze to your reflection with a trembling sigh.

"Do not worry, sweet girl," your mother sent you a warm smile which always managed to soothe you whenever you were anxious. Her fingers skillfully braided the last loose strands, revealing an intricate Targaryen hairstyle that would represent your heritage partly. "Though I'm delighted to be marrying Cregan, I am sad that I will not see you as much mother," the words tumbled from your lips, so quiet that Rhaenyra had barely heard them. She let go of your hair, moving to stand in front of you before placing a warm hand on your cheek. Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she straightened your brows gently.

"We will visit as shall you," she promised, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead as you closed your eyes. A knock echoed across the room, and you called for them to enter, only to reveal Jace, who would be the one to give you away. Since your father was dead, that duty passed onto him. "It is time," he declared, closing the door behind him as he decided to wait aside with a nod from Rhaenyra.

She offered you another motherly smile that you shakily returned before pulling yourself from the comfortable chair. The sleeves of your dress slipped into place as you smoothed the gown of any creases. You straightened as you noticed your mother holding the cloak you were to wear during the ceremony. She gently placed it upon your shoulders as its warmth engulfed you.

“You look beautiful,” the words lingered in your mind, and you gave your reflection one last glance before gradually turning to walk towards Jace. Your brother smiled at you, and you reciprocated the sentiment, wrapping your arm around his as he escorted you outside. The streets were barren as everyone had assembled by the Weirwood tree where the ceremony would take place. Your steps synchronized with your brother's while your mother had gone ahead.

“How are you feeling?” The inquiry made you look up from your feet, opening your mouth, yet no words came out, “Do not attempt to fool me, sister,” he grinned which loosened you up a bit. “I am happy, truly. I am a bit nervous, but I suppose anyone would be,” she hummed.

“Do you have any regrets about this union? If so, I will not hesitate to take you back to Dragonstone,” the statement brought a laugh out of you as you glanced at your brother. “I appreciate the offer but no, thank you.”

The walk had come to an end as you saw the mass of people awaiting your arrival. The two of you halted to let you ready yourself as Jace placed a kiss on the crown of your head. With a nod, you resumed the trek and people quieted down once they caught sight of you.

Cregan felt as though he might cry as he looked upon you.

You looked utterly heavenly. He could stare at you for hours on end without tiring of the sight, and suddenly the amount of people didn't matter anymore. The agonizing months he waited for you were all worth it. The unhurried steps you took towards him couldn't be any slower as he longed to hold you once more, to protect you from any harm that the world had to offer.

Your hand tightened around Jace's arm as you gazed at Cregan and you knew that you would never regret being with him. His dark hair was in his usual manner, but it fit him perfectly, and you longed to touch it. Once you reached the heart tree, you could only look at Cregan fearing that if you'd tear your eyes off him, you'll perish into a heap of nothingness.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Cregan had chosen his closest friend Lord Cerwyn as the officiator since he didn't have any male family left. “Y/n, of the House Velaryon and Targaryen, princess of the realm and heir to the Iron Throne, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, true-born and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” Jace spoke the words he had been rehearsing the entire week faultlessly, which made a sense of pride fill you. Cregan stepped forward, his shoulders broad as he looked down at you, eyes filled with adoration, “Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Who gives her?”

If Daemon were to be truly honest he found the ceremony a bit bizarre but kept his mouth shut as he shot a glance at his wife who was watching on with watery eyes. “Jacaerys, of the House Velaryon and Targaryen, who is her brother.”

“Princess Y/n, do you take this man?” Your eyes spoke for themselves, and you didn't hesitate to speak the following words, “I take this man.” Cregan repressed the wide smile from spreading across his face, but you could simply tell how joyful he was by the shimmering in his darkened eyes. You gently unwind your arm from your brother's as you take a step forward, joining hands with Cregan who softly caressed your skin.

You two turn towards the Weirwood tree before kneeling. Your knee dug into the cold snow, and your skin lit on fire as you truly realised you were to be with your beloved Cregan for the rest of your days. You bowed your head as a token of submission, you think of a prayer but decided to keep it simple since you were still affiliated with the Valyrian believe. Prayers about the safety of your family were the first ones that came to mind, which were followed by prayers of a good marriage with healthy children. When time came you rose, not bothering to wipe the snow off your knees as you turned to face Cregan.

His hands move towards your shoulder, removing the cloak that held the Velaryon sigil before handing it to your brother who stood not too far from you. A shiver ran through your body at the loss of warmth, but it was quickly quelled by the fur coat that bore the sigil of House Stark. A deep breath escaped your tinted lips which caught Cregan's attention. His fingers rested under your chin as he tilted your face up gently before leaning down to capture your lips, sealing your life together.

Your fingers were nimbly holding his cloak, attempting to keep it as modest as possible. His lips were dry but soft, he breathed life into you as his nose pressed into your cheek. You wished to remain like this until your last days but retracted once you heard cheers from the crowd. When you separated, you could only describe yourself as breathless despite it being a timid kiss. The corners of Cregan's lips, which you had just kissed, tilted upwards at the sight of your mild pants. He glanced up at the abundance of people before returning his gaze to you with a teasing glint in his eyes. You furrowed your brows, a question hanging on the tip of your tongue, but before you ever got to ask anything he leaned down to carry you.

Your eyes widened as you hung in his arms, your knees dangling from his arm while his other one supported your back. Your arms had automatically wrapped around his neck, which moved your faces closer. His eyes held a warmth that never ceased around you as he looked up at you. “Have I told you yet how beautiful you look?” His brow raised as a teasing smirk graced his pretty features.

You wordlessly shook your head, still in some after-shock which only made him chuckle, “We are surrounded by so much beauty but nothing could ever compare to you.” The words made you giggle softly, hiding your face in the furs of his cloak in an attempt to hide your growing blush. Cregan couldn't express the pure love he held for you in that simple moment, so he resorted to placing a soft kiss to the side of your face.

“Are you two going to stay here forever?” Baela teased after most guests had moved towards the hall where a feast would be held. Lucerys was one of the first people to leave, nearly running to escape the harsh wind outside. Your husband nodded before carefully carrying you back towards your home.

The feast was a joyous event, spent by your family's side and opening gifts. You let out a gasp at the sight of a stack of books that were presented by Lady Arryn. “I do hope you enjoy these books that we had shipped from Dorne. They differ from ours greatly, so I reckoned that you have yet to read tales like these,” you thanked the woman earnestly, already reaching for one to show to your husband who nodded along, listening with much pleasure to the sound of your voice.

“I have a gift for you as well, my love,” he announced which made you perk up in your seat beside him. Sara quickly nodded, hurrying off to fetch your supposed gift as you questioned Cregan insistently which made him chuckle while caressing your hair gently. Your sister-in-law returned not long after, and the sight had you jumping out of your seat to meet her halfway. Your husband quickly followed, keeping a hand on the small of your back as he eyed your reaction carefully.

A tiny direwolf was placed into your arms that made you coo softly. You looked up at Cregan, your eyes sparkling with gratitude, before you leaned up to place a kiss on his lips. “Cregan, thank you so much. I wish I could give you a dragon in return, but unfortunately…" you trailed off with a sheepish smile which made him chuckle, moving to wrap his arms around your waist and rest his chin on your shoulder while looking down at the white wolf in your arms. The animal had quickly settled in your arms, content with the warmth you provided.

“Have you decided on its name yet?” He inquired as his breath tickled your skin in a delightful manner. You pondered for a moment, “Perhaps I should call him Laenor.” Cregan offered you a soft smile, kissing your cheek as a form of comfort.

“I see you have completely integrated already, dear cousin,” Rhaena jested, glancing at the direwolf curiously, which made you giggle. “I think it is time we retreat to our chamber, do you not Lady-wife?” Cregan's voice was low as he whispered the words into your ear, eager to get away from everyone to be with you in solitude. You blinked owlishly, nodding slowly before glancing back at your parents, who were already watching you with tender smiles. You returned the gesture, waving as best as you could with your direwolf in your arms before moving to leave with your husband.

The halls were mainly empty sans for the maids and guards, but you didn't pay them any mind as Cregan led you towards your shared chambers. Once you entered the large room you noticed that the fireplace had been lit in advance, but you didn't get the chance to explore your new apartments as Cregan tugged you towards the bed. You quickly paused to gently place Laenor on the rug that was placed in front of the hearth before returning to your husband's side. He was sitting on the side of the extensive bed that was piled with furs and covers which you already knew would feel heavenly.

You stood in front of your husband as he placed his hands on your waist before he lifted you to sit on his lap with your legs thrown on either side of him. “I could get used to this sight,” he chuckled, his hands moving across your back as you leaned down with a grin, “could you now, Lord-husband?”

He hummed, nose pressed against your neck as he placed kisses anywhere he could reach. A deep sigh left your nose as you closed your eyes, leaning your head back to give him more space to work with, which made him chuckle. Your fingers tangled between his hair as you had wished to do all day. Suddenly, you felt him scrape his teeth against the sensitive skin of your neck which nearly made you moan.

Your grip on his hair tightened, a resonant groan escaping his lips before he gently twisted for you to lay on the bed with him hovering above you. He gazed intensely into your eyes before leaning up to get rid of the clothing that was donned upon his upper body. Your fingers traced the muscles on his stomach softly before you leaned up to place kisses against his chest. “I cannot take this torture any longer, my love. I must know whether you want this as much as I do?” He gripped your head firmly, resting his forehead on yours while his nose bumped into yours.

“I do Cregan,” you swore, he let go of any restraint that he had left in him and passionately pressed his lips against yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth as you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. A low moan escaped his lips, right into your mouth as you accidentally pressed your knee against his bulge that had formed beneath the layer of clothing.

And that night you discovered that there was no sound on earth that you loved more than his.

Years had flown by, and you remained with your husband, the love you two shared for one another never diminished. While you enjoyed your life greatly, you couldn't say that it was all easy. The winters were harsh, and you missed your family incredibly as you only managed to visit one another a handful of times.

The thing that was bothering you the most though was the fact that you still hadn't become pregnant. It certainly wasn't for lack of trying, as you couldn't remember a time when you hadn't been bedded for more than three days. Cregan wasn't too bothered by it, but you could tell that it was something that some people gossiped about. After all, you had to have at the very least two children, one for you as heir and one for Cregan. Your husband insisted that it didn't matter and that he was happy with you either way, but you couldn't stop the doubt from seeping in, especially not with the council hovering around you every second of the day.

“Perhaps she is infertile,” the Maester had suggested, which sent them into an uproar, asking what of the heir that was needed. Cregan quickly silenced them by slamming his fists into the table, a seething expression on his face as he defended his wife. “You shall not discuss this matter as if it involves any of you. You asked me to marry three years ago, and I did now stay out of my marriage.” This quickly shut their mouths, but it didn't manage to stop the whispers from spreading. While most didn't mean any harm, it didn't help with you to quell your worries as you sat in the bath motionlessly.

“My love?” Cregan called from the entrance, entering upon hearing your hum. His expression softened at the sight of your discouraged form, ridding himself of his clothes to join you. You moved forward so he could settle behind you before leaning back into his firm chest. He wrapped one of his arms around your waist whilst the other played with your silver hair lovingly. You simply chose to relish in the affections he provided you with.

“Do not worry, my love,” he mumbled, his words echoing in the empty room as you mindlessly nodded with your head resting on his shoulder. “I promise you I will put a child into you if that is what you truly wish for,” he swore, willing to do anything to please you, which made you smile gently. Your eyes sparkled with the pure adoration you held for your husband.

“I love you Cregan,” the usually solemn man softened, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek before returning the sentiment, “I love you as well, princess.” Your eyes flickered to meet his before you moved to sit in his lap, turning to face him while he watched with a raised brow.

As he had promised that night, you were pregnant, much to your elation.

The first thing you did when you found out was rush towards the dining hall where Cregan was eating, Laenor following you swiftly. Your husband looked up at the sound of your pants and fastened footsteps, putting his fork down as he slid his chair back. You all but leaped into his arms, a wide smile gracing your features as he watched on in disarray, but before he got the chance to question your odd behavior you cut him off.

“I am with child,” the words made him widen his eyes as he was truly shocked for once in his life, before a giant smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling from joy as he threw his arms around you. He got up from his chair, holding you up with ease as he kissed you with much vigor. You smiled into the kiss, tears of bliss slid down your cheeks that transferred onto his face, not that he minded.

Cregan gently placed you back down to your feet, his hand immediately reaching for your stomach, even though there wasn't anything visible yet. “Aye, I promised you didn't I,” he grinned which made you roll your eyes before you leaned up to place another kiss on his lips.

That evening you wrote to your family, joyful to announce the news of your pregnancy, while Cregan spread the word to his council and friends. You truly couldn't be happier at that moment. Once news of your pregnancy reached both King's Landing and Dragonstone your mother insisted on coming, wishing to be there for the birth of her first grandchild. You and Cregan were glad to welcome her back, along with Jacaerys and Baela who had wanted to come as well. Daemon had expressed his wish to be there with you, but someone had to stay back on Dragonstone. Lucerys had preferred to stay home as well as he couldn't stand the cold and Rhaena chose to remain by her betrothed's side, but they made you promise to visit with your child as soon as you recovered.

At first, the pregnancy went by fine, you had expected the morning sickness as your mother had described. It was only after the first three months that your bump finally began to show, much to Cregan's delight. He had often found his place directly behind you with his hands resting on your stomach, to protect you and your unborn child from any harm.

Though after the first trimester had passed, had you begun to feel worse. You were frequently challenged by abdominal pains and high temperatures which baffled your mother as she had never gotten such symptoms so early on which in turn sent Cregan spiraling up to the point that you were appointed to bed six months into your pregnancy. The Maester had claimed that everything was fine, that you were simply having slightly different symptoms than most women, but it didn't quell your family's concerns.

It was around the seventh month that Rhaenyra, Baela, and Jacaerys remained permanently glued to your side as you suffered the painful aches. They wished to assist you ease the pain in any way they could but once you passed the safe amount of Milk of the Poppy, you couldn't take any other medicine if you did not want to harm your child. Jacaerys had pressed on, stating that it was better that you took the medicine, but you refused which frustrated Cregan. Your husband had desired to be by your side as much as your family members, but he still had to rule over Winterfell.

Your water broke a month too early. You had been lying in front of the hearth on the sofa with Laenor resting his head on your legs when the contractions started. A cry left your lips, quickly alerting your mother who was sitting not too far from you while embroidering a blanket for her future grandchild. She shot up, her eyes furrowed as she lifted your dress only to see dried blood coating it.

Her eyes widened in terror, glancing over to Baela and Jace, “Call for the midwives and Cregan! Y/n has started her labors!” She then shooed your direwolf away, which made him scowl, but he listened when you softly ordered him to make place for your mother. Jace nodded, his eyes broad in panic before rushing outside while Baela hurried to Rhaenyra's side as they attempted to help you sit up properly. “How can this be? She is supposed to give birth in one moon!” Rhaenyra couldn't find a reply as she attempted to hush your worries.

“It seems that she has started her early labor,” the older woman muttered, caressing your cheek comfortingly as sweat started to form on your forehead. “Where the fuck is Jace?” Baela hissed, already sitting beside you to hold you tightly.

The prince was running around, much to the confusion of the people around him, but he couldn't register anything as he searched for your husband. He had already called for a maid to get the midwives before starting his search for the Lord of Winterfell. Eventually, he managed to find the solemn man outside, training knights in the courtyard with his sword. “Lord Stark!” Jace's shouts startled the surrounding men, but he set his sights on your husband, who watched on in confusion as your brother rushed towards him.

“Prince Jacaerys what-” “Y/n has started her labors!” Cregan's eyes widened as his breath hitched. He didn't waste a second as he pushed past his brother-in-law, running quickly to reach your side faster. When he burst into the room, he noticed that you had been moved towards your shared bed while midwives were scurrying around. Your mother was seated by your side, attempting to calm you while Baela was arguing with the Maester for some Gods-forsaken reason.

Cregan discarded his cloak and sword on the rug, kneeling by your bedside, while you looked up at him with a fatigued smile. “You came,” the words came out more hoarse than you had wanted, but your husband simply brushed some straying hairs from your sticky forehead, placing a quick kiss on the side of your head. “Of course I came,” his eyes were drowning in concern as he looked around, trying to find an answer as to why you were forced to give birth so early on.

He clasped his hand around yours, squeezing it tightly to give you some form of comfort. Jace had returned as well by now and decided to join the argument between Baela and the Maester despite not having a clue what it was about. A chuckle left you at the sight before a pained whine escaped your lips. Cregan grabbed a piece of cloth, moistening it before gently dabbing it on your face, only hoping that it relieved you in some kind of way.

Hours were spent that way and no one had wanted to leave your side, refusing when the Maester had said it could take a couple of hours, even days at most. Cregan had simply snapped at him, ignoring the ache in his knees as he remained seated by your side. During those hours, you had changed positions numerous times, but eventually, you returned to rest on your back once the substantial pain had started.

Your breathe fastened even more than it already had, and your grip on Cregan tightened. Your eyes turned towards your mother as you opened your mouth to speak for the first time in a while, “I need to push.” The words sent the room into a frenzy as midwives positioned themselves between your legs.

“You have to hold back, Princess!” One of them called, to which you let out a loud groan. “Everything will be fine, my love. You can do this,” your husband mumbled. Tears left your eyes as you prayed for this pain to end already. “Have you thought of names yet?” Baela questioned in an attempt to distract you for a while longer. You glanced at your husband, and he nodded reassuringly before you turned back to face your cousin with a wavering smile, “Rhaenor for a boy and Daenara for a girl.”

“A Targaryen name?” Rhaenyra smiled warmly as Cregan nodded, “We thought it would only be appropriate for the future heir.” Your family sat around you which warmed your heart, but the feeling quickly vanished at a particularly agonizing contraction.

“Push!” The midwife called, your hand tightened around Cregan's as you screamed out. It seemed like there would never be an end to it as the cries ripped from your throat. “You are doing incredible, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra tried, but you completely ignored her as you sobbed. “Get it out! Fuck!” Your nails sunk into Cregan's hand, but he remained steady as he whispered sweet words into your ear. You would have thought that after almost an hour of endless screaming your voice would have become hoarse, but it seemed like it only turned louder.

“I can see the head!” Baela was assisting the midwife as you wailed. “Just get it fucking out of me!” You shouted angrily and with one last push, the baby fell into your cousin's awaiting arms. “You did. You've done so well, my love,” Cregan placed kisses upon your sweaty forehead as you let a weak smile appear on your face. Leaning into your husband's arms while Baela helped the midwives clean your baby.

“I am so proud of you, sweet girl,” your mother grasped your hand softly, and you nodded thankfully at her, choosing to remain in Cregan's muscular arms. “It is a boy, sister,” Jace announced with much excitement, as a wide smile appeared on your face. Cregan couldn't contain his delight as he pressed yet another kiss against your lips. “Rhaenor,” you mumbled already wishing to hold your son when a familiar pain abruptly hit you again.

You threw your head back against your husband's chest as a cry left your lips. Rhaenyra immediately jumped up while the midwife attempted to reassure you all by clarifying that it was most likely the placenta, but you shook your head. “I feel like I must push again,” you managed to get out before another scream ripped from your throat. Your husband watched on in disarray but refused to even step away from you as he hugged you closer, your arms wrapped around his as you tried to stabilise yourself.

A gasp made you look up with worry only to find Baela smiling, “Another babe.” Cregan's eyes widened while you smiled feebly, genuinely ecstatic that you would have twins. Your mother returned to your side, holding your hand as you sobbed into your husband's chest.

Fortunately, this time it went by a lot quicker and not long after you were already pushing out another baby. Your cousin was once more ready to catch your second child whilst Jace held Rhaenor in his arms, attempting to soothe his nephew lovingly. As you made the final push a sigh of relief left your lips before looking over at Baela, eyes curious to see your second child.

“Another boy,” you pressed a kiss to Cregan's throat, melting into his hold as you attempted to stay awake to see your sons. “What will you name him?” Jace questioned, an expression of pure joy spread across his face whilst you pondered for a second. You glanced up at your husband who was staring lovingly at you before you decided, “Ned.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow as well as Cregan. “Ned you say?” Her mother tried out the name which made you giggle quietly, “Short for Eddard.” Your husband tilted your face to look up at him, and you grinned at his astonished expression, kissing his cheek sweetly while he caressed your face, “A Northern name? I quite like it,” Jace grinned, glancing over at Ned in Baela's arms whilst he held Rhaenor, waiting for you to properly unwind. “Thank you, my love,” Cregan's reply to it all made you laugh softly, but you kissed him nonetheless mumbling something against his lips, only for his ears to hear.

The midwife smiled at the cheerful family and moved your dress to prepare you for the placenta that was yet to come when a frown appeared on her face. “What is it?” Rhaenyra inquired as she noticed the worrisome expression that the woman wore. She ushered your mother towards her quietly but Cregan had caught sight of yet another issue. Rhaenyra approached, fear settling in her gut as she could only pray nothing was wrong with you.

“Why is there so much blood?” She whispered, her eyes wide at the gruesome sight in front of her. “I believe she suffers a hemorrhage,” the words sent fear spiking into Rhaenyra as she could only remember her own mother before she turned to the midwife, a frantic look in her eyes. “Will- will she survive?” The words were barely able to leave her lips when yet another whine escaped your lips.

Cregan looked around with wide eyes, wondering what was transpiring around him as he tried to soothe you while glancing at your mother. She panicked and looked back under your dress along with the midwife who gasped loudly which caught the attention of everyone else. “What now?” An angry groan made its way out of you as your fingers clenched around your husband's hand that held you tightly. “I believe you are to have a third child!”

Your eyes widened, and your mouth fell slack at the news, rapidly looking up at Cregan who was just as dumbfounded, but he attempted to pull himself together for your sake, “It is alright, my love. You can do this.” Baela and Jace helplessly stood beside the bed, holding your children while you screamed relentlessly, pushing a third child out.

“What is wrong with you? Putting three fucking children into me at once!” You angrily yelled at your husband who only chuckled, nodding along while remaining oblivious to what was happening. “What will this mean for her?” Rhaenyra hissed, continuously glancing up to check on you while the midwife shook her head. “We cannot know but at this moment anything is a high risk.”

“Can we stop this birth then? Will it benefit her?” Your mother was desperate now, willing to do anything to keep you as the older woman beside her shook her head. “There is nothing we can do now.” The words absolutely mortified Rhaenyra and when your third child finally left your body she had quickly handed it to another maid before rushing to your side.

“Mother-?” The woman quickly shushed you, caressing your soaked hair with trembling hands as tears gathered in her eyes. You turned fearful at her odd behavior and Cregan tightened his hold on you. “What is it?” He hissed, your cousin and brother approaching with confusion lacing their expressions, but Rhaenyra disregarded them all as she kept her grasp on you, “You have done so well. I love you, sweet girl.” You glanced down, eyes wide in horror as you finally noticed the amount of blood. Cregan held in his tears as a lump rose in his throat, his hold only tightening around you as he attempted to convince himself that if he held you, you wouldn't be able to leave him. “What is the meaning of this?” Jace furiously asked while keeping his hold on his nephew gentle.

“Princess, you must push one last time. To get the placenta out. It is necessary,” you nodded shakily, closing your eyes as you collected all your strength to push yet again. Sobs raked your body violently until suddenly you felt dizzy, the world around you turning dark while sounds faded. A loud sob came from Rhaenyra as she hugged your body, praying for anyone to save her precious daughter, but it seemed like no God was interested in keeping you alive.

Cregan stared on in shock, his quivering hand moving to your neck only not to feel a pulse. He took your face into his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks as he shook your head. “Y/n? Wake up,” his voice cracked. Jace’s knees buckled as he fell onto the floor, his eyes bright red while he buried Rhaenor in his arms. His betrothed gasped, tears falling as she loudly cried at the sight of your limp, bloodied body that was held by your mother and husband.

The midwife felt her eyes brim with tears, but she swiftly turned to inform the Maester of the news. She opened the door and the old man looked on questioningly as he heard loud sobs emit from the room. “What is the matter?” He questioned as she closed the door behind her to let the family grieve the loss of the princess. “Princess Y/n has passed,” the words startled the man as he furrowed his brows, bowing his head in respect. “What of the child?” The question hung in the air for a while before the woman replied sorrowfully.

“Princess Y/n has given birth to two sons and a daughter,” the man's eyes widened, triplets were extremely rare and mothers barely ever made it out alive during those labors. He nodded absentmindedly, processing the news, “I shall inform the council.”

Letters were quickly written to spread the news across the realm before they announced the passing of their Princess to the residents of Winterfell with much despair and regret. The people cried out for their Lady, participating in their Lord's mourning, and made offerings to your dragon Vermithor who had been restless. The ravens reached their destinations swiftly and left an impact on the Lords and Ladies of the realm who had remembered you as a lively soul.

“An urgent letter has arrived from Winterfell, your grace,” Ser Erryk declared, as the King nodded motioning for him to read it out loud while he continued eating. He had been one of the people most overjoyed of the news of your pregnancy and couldn't wait to meet his great-grandchild. Alicent placed her utensils down, glancing at her father and children before turning to her husband, “It must be from Princess Y/n.”

“Is she not due for another month?” Otto wondered out loud which caught the attention of his grandchildren as they all watched on in wonder.

“With much pride we can announce that Princess Y/n has given birth to triplets,” Aegon choked on his wine while Aemond simply raised a brow. “That certainly explains the early labour,” Otto mumbled.

“Her firstborn is a son named Rhaenor Stark, her second born is yet another son named Eddard Stark and her third born is a daughter named Daenara Stark. Unfortunately, we must announce that our dear Princess Y/n has passed during her labours.” Ser Erryk's eyes widened at the last part but remained quiet as the news settled within the royal family.

Colour drained from the King's face as he abruptly stood up, his eyes moist with tears as he lost yet another woman in his life due to childbirth and stormed out of the dining hall. Alicent let out a shaky breath, quickly praying for her step-granddaughter while her father sighed deeply not heartless enough not to pity the poor girl. Helaena cried loudly before she too rushed out of the room to find comfort with her own children.

Aegon rubbed a hand over his face, as he recalled the last time he saw you. He grabbed the wine pitcher, not glancing back as he left to drown himself in his drinks with you in his memory. The younger prince watched on with furrowed brows, he wasn't fond of you, and yet, he felt a tug at his heartstrings at the thought of you. Perhaps somewhere deep down within him, he did care for you, the early days of your childhood you spent together instead of with your brothers who enjoyed teasing you for the lack of dragons.

The castle was glum that day, both the Royals and commoners mourning the loss of their dear princess.

The funeral preparations started early on with Daemon insisting that you should be buried like a Targaryen, while Cregan fought back, wishing for your body to remain in Winterfell.

“She is a Targaryen!” Daemon roared, his hair sticking to the back of his neck as he fought with the other men while Lucerys was weeping in his mother's arms. “She is my wife! I do not see the point of arguing over this with you,” Cregan seethed, his hair had grown out longer than he'd like, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. “She is also a Velaryon!” Corlys butted in, which made the two angrily turn to him. Viserys pinched his brows together, his head aching from all this screaming and arguing, “I have had enough of this! She shall have a Targaryen funeral in Winterfell.”

Daemon seemed pleased with this while Cregan clenched his fists together as he had wanted to bury you. He wished to have the ability for your children to visit your grave when they were older, but now they didn't even have that privilege. “Now, I want to see my great-grandchildren,” the King sighed, as the Northman hadn't shown anyone his children.

“Yes, I would like to see them as well,” Daemon agreed, moving to stand closer with his family which consisted of Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke, Baela and Rhaena. Cregan reluctantly nodded, his face unmoving as it had been for weeks before he departed the room to get his children, knowing his wife would have wanted for her family to meet them. As he entered their chamber, he let out a shaky breath, placing his hands on the back of a chair in support as he tried to keep his tears at bay. When knocks echoed through the room he quickly straightened and turned his face solemn only to see Jace. “I thought I could help carry them.”

Cregan simply nodded, walking over to the cradles where his three children laid. His eyes softened at the sight of them before reaching down to take Rhaenor into his arms. He was gentle with them which was so unlike him ever since you passed. Jace handed him his daughter into his free arm before reaching to hold Ned carefully. The babies gurgled, pulling at their father and uncle's hair as they sauntered back in silence.

The Targaryen and Velaryon family turned towards them as they entered the room, the King immediately reached for Rhaenor with a warm smile. “Who might this be?” He questioned, caressing the boy's cheek with his finger carefully while Alicent looked over his shoulder. She quickly took notice of his silver hair that resembled yours but raised her brow at his grey eyes which he got from his father along with all his other features. “That is Rhaenor,” Cregan reluctantly handed his daughter over to Daemon who had moved to grab her and chuckled at Daenara, placing a kiss on her chubby cheeks as she giggled. She had been born with your violet eyes and her father's dark hair.

“This must be little Ned,” Corlys grinned, as his wife held the baby. He was an odd case in their opinion, he ended up with violet eyes, but his hair was dark brown with streaks of silver hair. Cregan kept a close eye on all of them, making sure nothing happened to the babies, who were the only things left of you. “We must place dragon eggs in their cradles!” Viserys exclaimed, his eyes turning towards his daughter and cousin who both nodded.

“Luke, Rhaena would you like to pick them out?” Rhaenys questioned as Rhaenyra was quietly staring at her grandchildren with a heartbroken expression. The two nodded before hurrying off as Daemon glanced around, deciding whether to enrage the Northman or not. “Lord Stark does not know how to take care of a dragon. Especially not three. I suggest they come live with us for the time being,” Rhaenyra was silent as she reached to hold Daenara, holding her close as her eyes watered while Cregan glared harshly at the prince.

“No.”

Alicent pondered over it for a while before she piped up as well, “Think about it, Lord Stark. You had only been prepared to take care of one babe, but now you have three. You have no previous experience, and you do not have your wife to assist you. Then there is the matter of the three dragons as well do you truly think it would be best for them to stay here? Perhaps they could stay with us for some time, one in Driftmark, one in King's Landing and one on Dragonstone?” Cregan wouldn't hear of it, shaking his head furiously and Rhaenys could truly sympathize with him, but it was clear that he would need assistance.

“My children will stay with me, in Winterfell. I will take care of them and if you worry so much about the dragons, then you may come and help with them. But that is final, they are staying here,” it was clear that there was no room for any discussion so they decided to indulge themselves in the babes for a while before Cregan would take them back.

The funeral took place two days later, near the snow covered forest. Cregan had hardened his face, holding Ned in his arms, while Daenara was with Rhaenyra and Rhaenor in Jace's arms. He wore black furs and numbly stared at your body that was placed further away. Vermithor roared loudly, distressed with yet another rider of his dying, but the Northman paid no mind to him. It had been decided that the bronze fury would remain in Winterfell, in case that one of your children's eggs wouldn't hatch they could try to claim Vermithor.

Jace cleared his throat, as he had been the one that was appointed to lead the ceremony. He took a final breath before saying the dreaded words, “Dracarys.”

Vermithor roared once more, hesitating for a moment before flames engulfed your body. Cregan closed his eyes, his heart aching at the sight and pulled his son closer to him. He promised you that he would take good care of your children so you could be proud of them.

Years blurred into one another and while it was hard for Cregan, he always tried for his children who loved him relentlessly. The four Starks often visited the crypts where Cregan had a statue build for you and even whenever Rhaenyra and her family visited they would always stop by the statue with sorrowful expressions.

Throughout the years Jace had been named heir which retracted Rhaenor's claim which meant that he would be Lord of Winterfell one day. The eldest boy didn't mind it, preferring to stay with his father as he was clearly a Northern by heart. His egg had hatched first revealing a surprisingly calm swarthy blue dragon. Daenara's egg came out as well but was slightly harder to control as it was a rather energetic white dragon. The only egg that hadn't come out was Ned's but once he was old enough he had managed to claim Vermithor.

The council had suggested numerous times that he remarry but they couldn't use the excuse of heirs anymore as he had plenty of them. Cregan adamantly refused, he didn't care for it and stated that he would remain faithful to his first and only wife and so he did, eventually passing with his children by his side and a lasting ache etched into his heart.

Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”

Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.

Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.

Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.

Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.

“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”

The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.

The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”

That silenced some.

But not Joffrey.

“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”

Sandor’s eye narrowed.

“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”

The word hung there. Grotesque.

No one defended him.

Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.

He was alone in it—as he always had been.

A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.

Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”

Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”

Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”

The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.

And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.

His boots struck stone, hard and fast.

But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.

With rage.

He had endured worse. He would endure more.

But tonight, something inside him cracked.

And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.

The night stank.

Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.

No. That was a lie.

He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.

Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.

And not a single one would touch him.

He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”

That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.

He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.

A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.

She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”

Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.

He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—

“Marry me.”

The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.

Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”

He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”

She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”

Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”

“Proposing?”

“Talking.”

She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”

“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”

Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”

“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”

“And if I say no?”

He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”

He did.

Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You may have my hand.”

Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.

She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”

He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.

Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”

He blinked again. “A lady.”

“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”

He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”

She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.

And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.

Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.

He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.

But she said yes.

And that was enough—for now.

It had been thirty agonizing minutes.

The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He had never felt smaller.

The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.

“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.

“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.

Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”

“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”

A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.

Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”

“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”

Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.

Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”

“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”

Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.

The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.

He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?

Then—

The great doors creaked open.

Every head turned.

Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.

A herald’s voice rang out:

“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”

There was a pause. Audible surprise.

The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.

Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.

“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”

No one answered. No one could.

Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.

Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.

And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.

The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.

But she commanded their silence all the same.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.

No one spoke.

Then she turned toward the shadows.

Toward him.

Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.

Instead, she smiled.

Soft, amused. Real.

She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.

When she reached him, she looked up.

And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”

The court gasped.

She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.

“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”

He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.

And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.

A laugh.

Rough and brief—but real.

He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.

“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”

The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”

Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.

But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.

“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”

He froze.

Gasps again. Whispers.

Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.

“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”

The room went dead still.

Cersei looked mildly intrigued.

Tyrion groaned under his breath.

But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

Gasps erupted.

Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”

But she wasn’t done.

“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”

The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.

But Sandor?

He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.

And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.

The chambers were smaller than hers at home.

That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.

She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.

At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.

Sandor.

His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.

“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.

“I prefer it,” she replied.

There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.

“You’re a stupid girl.”

She turned now.

He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”

She stepped toward him.

Elegant. Calm.

“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.

He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”

“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”

His lips parted.

His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.

When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Not softly.

She yanked him to her.

And he broke.

Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

But she didn’t.

She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.

They stood there, breathless.

He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.

“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”

She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.

And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.

He didn’t say good night.

But he watched the whole time.

And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.

The bell only rang once.

Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.

Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.

The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.

His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.

He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.

What he did not expect was honor.

The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.

At their head walked her father.

Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.

When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.

Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.

“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”

Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.

A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”

And then she arrived.

The entire Sept seemed to still.

She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.

Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.

She did not stop at Joffrey.

She did not bow.

Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.

He couldn’t breathe.

She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.

“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”

He felt the words in his bones.

The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.

“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”

But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.

“I do,” she said clearly.

Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”

Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.

It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.

“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.

Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”

They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.

But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.

The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.

He didn’t look at her

Not at first.

His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.

He didn’t want her to see.

When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.

He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.

“Stop.” Her voice was stern.

Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.

He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t there.

Only stillness. Power. Patience.

And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.

“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”

Something in him unraveled then.

Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.

She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”

She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.

He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”

Her smile curled into his mouth.

“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”

“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”

He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.

“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”

And he lost himself.

He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.

She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”

He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.

The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.

Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”

A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.

“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”

Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”

“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.

The room went still.

He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”

Silence.

Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.

Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.

Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.

The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.

The doors creaked open.

She walked in alone.

No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.

Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.

She was far too calm.

Far too lovely.

Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.

“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”

Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”

“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”

She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”

He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”

“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”

The throne room froze.

Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.

Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.

Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”

But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.

“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”

Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”

The words hung, suspended.

“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.

And they turned to leave.

Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.

Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.

The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.

The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.

His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.

“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”

Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.

She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.

She turned slowly.

The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”

“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”

Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.

Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.

Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.

Her eyes dropped to it.

“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”

His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.

“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.

Her chest ached.

She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.

Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.

She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.

“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.

“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”

His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely

She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.

“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”

He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.

Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Say it again,” he rasped.