7pm

inspo/outline/headcanons

the snow before the storm (what started this all haha)

welcome to winterfell

fights and falls

into the wood

diplomatics and dramatics

escaping execution

in camp

released in the riverlands

moms and murder

wondering why

grandfather's girl

a stark story

the journey north

to find forever

family ties

safe again

breaking broken

becoming

forever found

another queen

one leg up

in part

a need to know

in your dreams

way down we go

reconnected

always more

optimism

revelations

battles and breakage

silver linings

of thunder and ice -

(mini one shots that are just sweet, missed moments in the series)

robb -

comfortable

jon -

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 The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.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.

Lo’ak, one of the new boys from the Omaticaya— and someone you consider a new friend, wipes his mouth with his five-fingered hand as he joins you sitting down. It’s not long before you find yourself laughing with him, much to a certain someone’s dismay.

Ao’nung was busy helping serve food to the rest of the Metkayina, his plan being to finish his duties early to be able to sit and join you… before Lo’ak got there first.

He heard it long before he looked. Your laugh. 

“You cannot simply pull their fins like that!” you scold the boy beside you between laughs, smacking his shoulder lightly. He was recounting a story in the reef about his little sister Tuk, a hunting net, and a very angry ilu. Your sides ache even before the end of the tale.

Ao’nung’s jaw clenches.

Not that he cares, obviously.

A few more moments with Lo’ak pass, the story having ended. You two sit in silence, watching the people around you. Children chase each other in the sand, the men and women of the clan engage in hearty conversations. It is the night of the Tide’s Blessing, a feast the Olo’eyktan holds every few moons to ensure a bountiful harvest. 

“It is good,” you say, “that we can still thoroughly enjoy the festival. Even with the…unrest, your family brought.” The words are teasing, though they are half jest and half truth.

Lo’ak simply lets out a chuckle, unbothered. “Unrest, huh?” He leans back on his palms, not before nudging your elbow. “Pretty sure someone’s going through that right now,” he says with a grin, nodding towards the side ever so slightly.

Your gaze flicks to the same direction, and in the darkness you can faintly make out Ao’nung’s hunched over position on the log along with a couple of elders no doubt telling a tale as old as time. He seems to be uselessly busy  with his spear, adjusting the grip, scraping off an edge that does not even require maintenance. 

You try not to smile.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on your childhood friend. “He’s not-”

“Jealous?” Lo’ak supplies, grin widening. He gives you a stupid smirk and raises his eyebrows suggestively, earning him an eyeroll and a shove which only makes him laugh harder.

The Omaticayan boy uses the loss of balance to push himself up, brushing sand from his knees in one fluid movement. The forest people are somehow nimble like that. “I think I’ll leave you to it. Don’t keep loverboy waiting too lo-”

“Lo’ak!” you hiss, half whisper, half warning. But he’s already stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. You grab a fistful of sand and fling it his way, and he dodges with a bark of laughter, now running away.

You exhale, trying not to smile as you shake your head. When you glance back toward the center of the gathering, Ao’nung is now standing in a different spot, talking to Rotxo. His arms are crossed, gaze fixed everywhere except you. 

His tail flicks against the sand, a tell-tale sign of annoyance. You feel amusement rise through your chest, pushing yourself up to start toward them. 

Rotxo notices you first, eyes darting between you and Ao’nung. Then that grin spreads across his face, the kind that says he knows exactly what’s about to happen.

“Hello, [Name]-” he starts, but you’re already grabbing a very-taken-aback Ao’nung by the wrist. “Borrowing him,” you say simply. Rotxo just watches with a smirk, no resistance on his part before he joins one of his other friends in conversation.

Ao’nung stumbles a step before you, frowning but not resisting as you pull him away from the noise towards a quieter stretch of sand near the edge of the gathering. The drumming fades behind you, replaced by the low hush of the tide and the occasional burst of laughter from the crowd.

“Something is wrong with you,” you say, more like a question than a statement.

Lately, you and Ao’nung have been dancing around each other. You’ve been friends since you two were nothing but babes with your tails tucked between your legs, but everyone is able to see that things have changed.

“Everything is fine. Why would something be wrong?” He doesn’t look at you properly. A glance there, then quickly to the sand behind you. 

“You have been glaring holes through Lo’ak recently,” your arms fold as you step closer, “more than usual. Should I tell him to watch out?” You tilt your head to catch his gaze, a smile on your features.

He scoffs, the quirk of a smile appearing as he finally angles his head down at you, taking you in. “Please. A warning would not help him, even if I did have something more against him,” he tries to play it off, but his tone betrays him. Just a bit too sharp, the usual arrogance in his tone the slightest bit heightened.

You laugh, soft and knowing. “Mhm. So that’s what this is about.”

Ao’nung glares back at you, half-hearted, but the tips of his ears flush blue as they press down. “What?”

You take a step closer, voice dipping lower. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not-”

“-jealous,” you finish for him, smiling now. “And stupid. Are you not aware he is crazy for your sister?”

“What-” his back straightens, looking back at the gathering as if to hunt Lo’ak down with a look of his eyes.

But he’s immediately distracted by the firm touch of your hands on his shoulders as you look up at him. “You are stupid,” you say again. But there is nothing except softness in your voice.

His throat bobs as your thumbs rub slowly against the base of his neck. 

“All this time you spent sulking, glaring, pretending you don’t care,” you stop for a moment, “when we both know that you clearly do.”

His hands twitch. It’s clear he wants to do something- anything. You two are closer than you have ever been before, merely a foot’s distance between your chests.

His left hand finally raises, hovering over your waist to test the waters. He looks back at you, something charged behind the look. “And what would you have me do?” he murmurs. 

You tilt your head, your smile turning faintly mischievous. “You are supposed to be brave, Ao’nung. You are the mighty son of the olo’eyktan, remember? Yet you cannot even tell a girl how you feel?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, as if he’s fighting between pride and the urge to just say what’s in his chest.

“You are… awfully confident,” he mutters, searching in your eyes.

“Good.” You tilt your head up, eyes gleaming. “Then maybe you’ll finally do something about it.”

That earns the smallest smirk from him, fleeting but real, and something in his eyes finally gives. His hand finds its place at your waist, fingers brushing against the woven fabric of your top like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s too firm.

You don’t move away.

Instead, you tilt your chin up just slightly, the faintest hint of challenge in your voice. “So?”

That’s all it takes.

It feels like something snaps inside him; his hand tightens at your waist as he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours with a kind of hesitant gentleness that feels like he’s holding back more.

When you both pull away, relief bleeds into the air as he rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven. 

“Next time, please do not make me wait for you to finish talking to that skxawng.”

You laugh. 

october event masterlist | avatar masterlist

UGH it filled something so dear in my heart to be making more avatar content. i hope this fed you guys before the avatar fandom rises again because of the new movie of which i am SUPER stoked to see

TIDES BETWEEN @yoxiaogi

aonung takes intrest in quiet omatikaya girl

--- part ii

TIDES OF CHANGE [e2l,f] 5,6k @fluttervoid

Ao’nung made his hatred of your family clear from day one— you’re outsiders who brought war to his peaceful shores. But somewhere between the insults and the fighting, hate transforms into something neither of you saw coming.

A new beginning [acquaintances2lovers; f] 2,1k @aprilshowersbringmayflowerz

The aftermath of the last and final war (hopefully) your village was in shambles, your people decreased numerously, your once tranquil homeland was never going to be the same again. It hasn't been the same since the arrival of the first appearance of the sky people with the forest people which you have been slightly acquainted with. After all, you were one of the chosen by Ronal to study under her as her "tsakarem" (successor). To learn the ways of how to be a proper Tsahìk for the Metekayina people.

But that now seems more than difficult. She was gone, your friend Roxto as well and that leaves a large hole in the hearts of the clan. The loss of their Tsahìk, their sweet Ronal, seemed to affect her first born son the most. 

Now, it is up to the new generation to step up and create a new foundation for the future, stronger generation of the Metkayina clan.

Denial ༄.° [f] @snitchesgetnobitches

𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙖𝙡𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨 ༄.° [f] 1,3k @lorre-verie

you and Ao'nung are childhood friends but not really. his jealousy is most clear when you hangout with Lo'ak at the festival of the Tide's Blessing.

What courting? 7,2k @chromemolars

aonung has been courting you, but you’re a little oblivious to the fact.

— Fading Indifference [f] @rxsilabeth--er

"A metkayina girl somehow worms her way into Ao'nung's heart with simple tears and her jealousy breaks his heart all the same."

aonung being jealous of the forest boys because of you. [jealousy, a] @dejacatt

---part 2

i choose you [f2l; f] 1,2k @slvqtore

ao’nung, as the future olo’eyktan, is expected to choose a mate of his own. good thing he already has. now all he has to do was gather up the courage to ask you.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ hopelessly devoted ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹ [a, f] 2,5k @aominiii

you are lo’ak’s twin however the two of you are like yin and yang. while lo’ak’s wild personality causes him to catch the eye of a certain metkayina princess, your soothing and nurturing nature leads to a blossoming relationship with her brother.

Aonung x reader [f] 2,6k @itzj4ylene

Aonung slowly falls for a stubborn, quiet artisan who sees him clearly and challenges his pride, and their shared moments by the sea turn irritation into a soft, mutual love

Not Close Enough [slow burn, mutual pining] 2,5k @swimthroughstars

When Aonung and Y/N get trapped in a cave together, they are left with too little air, too much silence, and feelings that surface in the dark.

SOFT SPOT ⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ @nzteyam

That One's Mine [jealousy, violence f] 3,5k @tonowarii

Growing up with Ao'nung, his parents and yours had eventually promised you to each other. Now training under Ronal to become tsahik, unexpected events occur when the family of Toruk Makto arrive.

Boyfriend Ao'nung [f] @neteyamslovrr

headcanons of ao'nung being a cutie patootie bf!!

Aonung x reader 2,8k @/itzj4ylene

while you’re still learning how to belong in the reef, aonung drags you to a hidden coral spot and accidentally catches feelings.

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 ─ ʚଓ 0,3k @osamuslvt

Should’ve Saved Me Sooner [f, slight angst] 1,7k @nyctophicbtch

Request: Do you take requests? If so can you please do a Aonung x metkayina reader. The reader does something dangerous/gets attacked and nearly gets hurt/worse but he saves her?

Heartfelt [f; slight angst] 2,6k @nyctophicbtch

Request: COULD YOU DO AONUNG X SULLY! READER?? Maybe she’s a Lo’ak’s twin or something and somehow Aonung starts to really like her and he shows it by not letting the metkayina tease her, or treating her siblings with respect when she’s close

Listen [f, some angst] @ohdeersthings

Ao'nung has loved you since childhood.

pain [f] @bonnibuckets

just some hc of what its like to be with ao’nung

I see you. [bullying, arguing] 1,3k @aoyum

you overhear aonung and his friends picking on the sully kid, and give them a taste of their own medicine

A Necklace [f] 1,2k @neteyamslovrr

Y/N is not a well-known member of the Metkayina, yet she yearns for the Olo’eyktan’s son Ao’nung, so she makes him a gift to show her affection towards the boy

— CONFESSIONS .@livelaughloak

scxawng [f2l] 1,7k @reesereadsalot

You have tried and tried and tried to get Ao’nung to see that you like him and he doesn’t get the message, you are fed up.

Or the 4 times you tried to convey your feelings for Ao’nung and the 1 time it worked.

TRACES OF JAELOUSY @yoxiaogi

aonung isnt very happy with the attention you give to sully boys

"LIKE HE DOESN'T CARE AT ALL" [friends to something more; jealousy, teasing] 2,5k @itzj4ylene

Ao’nung swears he doesn’t care who trains with you. He really does. Or at least that’s what he tells himself while he avoids you, answers in short words, and sulks like it isn’t painfully obvious. Watching someone else stand where he’s always stood messes with him more than he wants to admit.

north. [series masterlist; e2l] 31,9k @drewdaist

"WHERE THE TIDE KEEPS US" [forced proximity] 2,5k @/itzj4ylene

When the RDA destroys your home, you are sent to the Metkayina for protection. As the Tsakarem of the Ta’unui, you are placed under Tonowari and Ronal’s care to continue your training. Ao’nung is assigned to help you adapt. He tells himself it’s just duty. Just proximity. But grief has a way of binding people together, and the ocean keeps you closer than either of you expected.

kuru’s aren’t toys 2,7k @/chromemolars

intertwined @crzbss

aonung and you have spent years pretending, all you needed was a push from tsireya to confess. 

stupid fish boy. @m6cabre

Where the Tide Leads 0,9k @andy-15-07

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 [f] @maaeveeee

lo'ak cant believe you're mated to ao'nung...of all na'vi @vampsywrites

my soul, you really took my soul @vampsywrites

moments where fishlips is soft for you <3

Unashamed [secrecy; f] 1,4k @/swimthroughstars

Y/N doesn't want her relationship to be a secret anymore, but how will Aonung react to this?

─── ⋆ LIFE WORTH MISSING [hurt to comfort] 1,3k @spiderfunkz

ao'nung should've known better, now he must apologize the best to his abilities

˙⋆✮HE’S WHIPPED. [suggestive; f] 1,2k @imeow33

who knew that you — the shyest girl in the clan, could bring the future olo’eyktan to his knees?

Uh-oh! I think you're holding the heart of mine! [mean aonung, angst to comfort] 2,6k @avatarkv

You should have known better than to love someone so cruel.

---part 2 (My heart is,) squeeze it apart, it’s fine.  @avatarkv

The clan could sense Ao’nung’s brooding figure from a mile away, more hostile than ever. What more could he handle once he figures out you’re already spoken for?

give me a chance [oblivious! reader; head over heels aonung] 3,8k @dasvidny4

aonung has been very obvious about his crush on you, going over the top on complimenting you in very unique ways, but you just always laugh it off like he’s joking.

─── ⋆ LETTER HOME [f2l; f] 1,1k @spiderfunkz

you're the only girl ao'nung has ever wanted, and he makes sure everyone knows

Sweet Boy [f] @biolumilunareclipse

after years of teasing you, ao’nung has started being kinder. you think it’s because he finally outgrew his troublesome teenage boy phase. despite your wariness, you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and discover the sweetheart he grew up to be.

─── ⋆ TRUE LOVE WAITS [f] 1,2k @spiderfunkz

when a ta'unui girl came needing help and refuge, ao'nung was quick to fall for her, especially since she's the same girl he's been seeing in his dreams

Whispers followed. Curious looks. Tsireya’s knowing smiles. Aonung never reacted to any of it. If he sensed eyes on him, he didn’t flinch only glanced at you, as if checking whether you were still comfortable.

“I don’t actually need this anymore,” you said one afternoon, resting in the shallows while your ilu drifted lazily nearby. Your breathing was steady now. The water no longer felt like something you had to fight.

Aonung circled once, then stopped in front of you. “You’re assuming I agree.”

You lifted a brow. “I’ve done the turn three times without drifting.”

“Four,” he corrected, his familiar smile appearing.

You crossed your arms in the water, watching him, a smile dancing on your mouth. “You’re looking for excuses.”

“Maybe,” he said calmly, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Or maybe I enjoy watching you prove me wrong.”

You met his gaze. He smiled at you like he clearly enjoyed this.

“You’ve learned quickly,” he added after a moment. “Too quickly.” He mumbled the last part, quietly annoyed.

You laughed at that.

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It is,” he replied, watching your smile with amusement in his eyes. Then, quieter: “And a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t need me anymore,” he said, “I won’t have a reason to keep stealing you away from everyone else.” He smiled wide, swimming closer to you.

Something warm flickered low in your chest. You didn’t answer immediately just watched the way the light fractured across the water between you.

“You’re a dummy.”

He laughed, his eyes watching you warmly.

Your evenings became inevitable.

At sunset, when the heat bled out of the air and the reef glowed faintly beneath the surface, you found each other by the same stretch of shore. Some nights you sat on warm rock, others with your feet trailing in the water, tails brushing occasionally. Never acknowledged, never pulled away.

You spoke of small things. Of currents and stars and the way the ocean changed color depending on the light. Sometimes he asked about the forest with genuine interest.

There were pauses between conversations stretches where neither of you felt the need to fill the space. You leaned closer without acknowledging it. Your shoulders touched more often. His hand rested behind you on the rock, close enough to feel, never quite claiming.

The tension built quietly.

It lived in the way his eyes lingered when you laughed softly at something he said. In how he watched your mouth when you spoke. In the care he took not to touch you unless you moved first.

You looked at him as he quietly watched the ocean line. He looked so calm. You studied him. The way the last light caught along his cheekbones.

“You’re quiet,” you observed.

He immediately looked at you, tilting his head slightly with a smile.

“Is it bothering you?”

“Kinda. I’m used to you talking,” you said.

He chuckled softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I don’t want to ruin things,” he said after a moment, voice low and even.

“Ruin what?” you asked.

He looked back out at the horizon, where the sun was slipping beneath the water, slow and inevitable. “This,” he replied. “You.”

You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move away.

“You wouldn’t.”

Aonung nodded, like that confirmed something he’d already suspected. “Good to know.”

The water below reflected copper and violet, breaking into ripples each time your feet moved. The air was cooler now, carrying salt and something faintly floral from the reef.

“You’re different from before,” you said after a while.

He glanced at you. “Before when?”

“When you first met me,” you replied. “You were louder.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I was trying to get a reaction.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need one,” he said. “I know where I stand.”

You felt that settle somewhere deep in your chest.

His hand shifted behind you, fingers brushing the stone near your hip, close enough that you noticed, careful enough that it still felt like a question. You leaned back just slightly, letting your weight rest nearer to him.

He inhaled, slow.

“I think,” he said, measured, “that if I touched you the way I want to, you’d leave.”

You turned your head toward him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t like being pushed,” he answered honestly. “You like choosing.”

The quiet stretched again.

You reached back without looking, your fingers grazing his knuckles.

“Then let me choose,” you said.

His hand closed around yours. Just enough to let you feel the warmth of him, the steadiness. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t speak.

He just stayed.

And somehow, that did more than anything else he could have said.

Torches lined the platforms, their reflections shivering across the water. Drums echoed low and steady, vibrating through the planks beneath your feet, through bone and breath. The Metkayina gathered in layered blues and greens, voices rising and falling in ritual cadence. It was beautiful.

You stood slightly apart, as you often did, watching rather than participating.

Aonung was among the young hunters at the center. He didn’t look nervous but you knew him well enough now to recognize the tension beneath his stillness. The way his hands flexed once at his sides. The way his jaw set when the elders began to chant.

When the marking began, the village quieted.

Ink was pressed into skin with practiced care, each line deliberate, permanent. You watched the slow reveal of the pattern across his face the curve of it, sharp and proud. It suited him in a way that felt almost inevitable, as if it had always been waiting there.

He didn’t look out at the crowd when it was done.

He looked for you.

The moment his gaze found yours, something in his expression shifted. Pride softened into something more personal. More intent.

You smiled at him, and he smiled back.

As the ceremony continued around you, you left your place and went to the shore to breathe fresh air, the songs still echoing in the background.

Soon the ceremony ended and the voices shifted into celebration, you heard footsteps behind you. You immediately knew who it was.

“I knew you’d be here,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the waves.

You turned to him. Your gaze traced the markings slowly. When you finally lifted your eyes to his, they were already on you.

“What do you think?” he asked, proud, showing off.

“I like it. It fits you,” you said.

A corner of his mouth curved.

“Good,” he replied. “Because I didn’t care what anyone else thought.”

He hesitated then before stepping closer, lowering his voice further. “I wanted you to see it first. Properly.”

He took your wrist, lifting your hand and resting it above his eye, where the tattoo sat. His eyes never broke from yours. Your breath hitched at the action, but you didn’t move your hand away. Your fingers brushed his skin lightly, tracing the edge of the fresh lines. His breath stuttered.

The world around you seemed to fall away—the songs dulling into nothing more than distant sound.

“You’ve been very patient,” you said.

He let out a quiet breath. “You make patience feel like a test.”

You leaned in slowly, giving him every chance to pull back.

He leaned in closing the distance.

The kiss was unhurried, grounded settling into something certain and warm. His hand came to your waist, firm but respectful, anchoring you as if the ground beneath you might give way. Your hand rested at his cheek, feeling the steady strength beneath your palm.

When you pulled back, the celebration surged around you again but it felt changed somehow. Like the world had shifted a degree to the left.

Aonung rested his forehead briefly against yours.

“I wasn’t going to rush this,” he said quietly.

You met his gaze, calm and deliberate as ever.

“Sure you weren’t,” you replied.

He smiled at your words.

"I see you." You said softly waiting for your reaction.

He put his hand on your cheek. "And i see you."

He had the kind of presence that demanded attention whether you wanted to give it or not. Broad shoulders, easy confidence, movements sharp and sure like he belonged to the water itself. Where others flowed, he cut. Where others laughed, he barked.

And his eyes sharp, assessing kept finding you.

“Does she ever speak or she's always like that?” he asked one afternoon, voice carrying easily across the shallows.

You stood knee-deep in the water, fingers curled around the smooth tether of an ilu. The creature shifted beneath you, sensing your tension. Tsireya was nearby, demonstrating breathing techniques with gentle patience. Kiri listened intently. Neteyam shot Aonung a warning look. Lo’ak splashed water deliberately too loud.

You did not look at Aonung.

“Like what?” Lo’ak asked with heat.

“Like she’s somewhere else,” Aonung said. “Like she’s deciding whether this is worth her time.”

Something hot flared in your chest.

You focused on steadying your breathing instead.

“Mind your business.” Neteyam said quietly, stepping closer to you.

Aonung’s mouth curved, not apologetic in the slightest. “Just curious.”

You hated the way his gaze lingered like he was waiting for something. A reaction or a crack.

You did not look at him.

That, more than anything, irritated him.

The first days in Awa’atlu felt like standing in someone else’s dream. Everything too bright, too open, too loud. The reef shimmered endlessly beneath the surface, colors bleeding into one another, while the village floated above it like something alive. Wind pulled at your braids constantly. Salt clung to your skin.

There was nowhere to hide.

You missed the trees most at night, when the stars stretched too wide across the sky and there was nothing enclosing you. No branches overhead, no roots beneath your feet. Just open water and the sound of waves breathing against the platforms.

The Metkayina way was hard on you not because you were incapable, but because it demanded patience in a way that felt foreign. The forest had always risen to meet you. Roots curved under your feet, branches caught you when you fell. The ocean did not care if you sank.

You struggled with breath holds at first. With the way water pressed against your ears, loud and endless.

And Aonung watched.

Every misstep. Every mistake.

“Again,” he said when you surfaced too soon, dragging air into your lungs with a sharp gasp. “You tense up. You’re wasting breath.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, not saying a word.

He tilted his head, circling slowly like a predator that already knew the outcome. “Your shoulders are tight. Your kick’s uneven. You fight the current instead of letting it carry you.”

You finally looked at him then.

Really looked.

His eyes were bright, almost amused but there was something else there too. Focus. Expectation.

“I don’t need you to explain water to me like I’m stupid.” You said.

The surrounding teens went silent. Even the waves seemed to pause.

Aonung blinked, clearly not expecting your voice low edged like flint.

“Oh,” he said, a slow grin spreading. “She does talk.”

You turned away from him.

Behind you, Neteyam exhaled slowly. Tsireya shot Aonung a look.

From that moment on, Aonung targeted you relentlessly.

You despised him.

Despised the way he corrected you more harshly than the others. The way his comments always skirted the line between instruction and mockery. The way he laughed when you stumbled. Not cruelly, but pointedly, like he wanted you to feel it.

“Forest girl’s afraid of the water.”

“You move like you’re waiting for the ground to catch you.”

“Careful you might actually have to trust something other than trees.”

You hated him.

Hated the way his voice always seemed to find you in the crowd. Hated that he watched you more than anyone else. Hated that he seemed to enjoy provoking you.

And you hated most of all was that some small, traitorous part of you listened.

Because sometimes, buried beneath the teasing, he was right.

The breaking point came fast.

A careless comment. He’d made a joke about forest people. Lo’ak surged forward. Neteyam stepped between them.

You walked away.

Your feet hit the platform harder than necessary as you moved toward the far edge of the village, where the sound of voices faded into wind and water.

“Hey,” Aonung called, following. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Somewhere you’re not.” You replied.

That made him laugh. “You’re always this pleasant?”

You stopped.

Turned.

“I don’t like you,” you said simply.

The humor in his expression faltered—not vanished, just… recalibrated.

His grin faltered not gone, but altered.

“Good,” he replied. “Feeling’s mutual.”

But his eyes lingered on your face longer than necessary.

After that, things shifted.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But subtly.

His words lost their bite. Still teasing but lower, closer, meant for you alone.

“Careful,” he murmured one day as he swam past you, shoulder brushing yours. The contact was brief. “You almost looked graceful.”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t push it.”

His grin widened but his eyes flicked to your face. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You noticed how he matched your pace when you swam. How he hovered nearby without crowding you. How he stopped correcting you unless you asked.

And he noticed things too.

The way your gaze drifted to the horizon when the lessons ended.

How your expression softened around your siblings.

How you listened more than you spoke and remembered everything.

The first time you smiled at him, it caught you both off guard.

You’d just finished a clean run with your ilu–fast and smooth. When you surfaced, water streaming down your arms, Aonung was waiting.

“Well,” he said, arms crossed, eyes bright. “Took you long enough.”

“Don’t ruin it,” you said.

He laughed, real laughter and something in your chest loosened.

Your smile slipped out before you could stop it.

Aonung went still.

Like he’d been struck.

“…There,” he said quietly. “That.”

You turned away quickly. “Don’t read into it.”

“Oh, I am absolutely reading into it,” he said, drifting closer. “I worked hard for that.”

You hated how warm your face felt.

From then on, he tried.

Not loudly. Not showily.

He brought you extra shells after long lessons. Waited for you before heading back to the village. Stopped making jokes at your expense in front of others.

Instead, he aimed them only at you low-voiced, private.

“Careful,” he’d say, leaning just close enough for you to feel his warmth. “If you keep smiling at me like that, people will talk.”

“Talk about what? That you like me?” you replied lightly.

His breath caught.

And Aonung. Confident, infuriating Aonung looked at you like he was losing ground.

The air between you felt different after that.

He didn’t crowd you, didn’t touch you– not really but he stayed close enough that you were always aware of him. A presence at your shoulder. A warmth just within reach. When you spoke, his attention sharpened; when you fell silent, he didn’t rush to fill it anymore.

One evening, long after the others had gone, you sat at the edge of the platform alone. The sea below was darkening, the reef lights beginning to glow faintly beneath the surface. You watched the horizon, hands folded loosely in your lap.

You sensed him before you heard him.

Aonung stopped beside you, close but not intrusive, his shadow stretching across the planks. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there for a moment, as if weighing something.

“You know,” he said finally, voice lower than usual, stripped of its usual edge, “you never look at anyone unless you mean to.”

You glanced up at him then.

His expression was serious. No smirk. No teasing curve to his mouth. His eyes held yours steadily, like he wasn’t planning to look away first.

“I notice things,” he continued. “You think people don’t see you because you’re quiet. But you’re wrong.” A pause. “I see you.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching just slightly, heart almost exploding.

He shifted, sitting beside you at last, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed. “You don’t try to impress anyone. You don’t explain yourself. You don’t soften things so people are comfortable.” His jaw flexed. “That’s… rare.”

You studied the water below, fingers curling slowly against your palm. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It is.”

Silence settled again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The waves lapped softly against the platform beneath your feet.

“I’m not good at this,” Aonung added after a moment. “Saying things.” He huffed a quiet breath. “But I don’t tease you because I don’t respect you. And I don’t stay near you because I’m bored.”

You turned toward him then.

He met your gaze immediately.

“I’m interested,” he said plainly. “In you. In how you think. In the way you move like you’re always choosing where to stand.” His voice dropped. “And I don’t say that lightly.”

Your heart thudded once, hard.

You didn’t look away.

Your gaze softened and he knew what your answer was.

His hand rested beside yours on the wood, close enough that your fingers could brush if either of you moved. Neither of you did.

The tension stayed.

“Again.” Tsireya’s voice was patient, kind even, but you could see the concern in her eyes. You’d been at this for hours and you still couldn’t hold your breath for more than a minute. Beside you, Kiri seemed to be managing, and even Tuk was doing better than you. Lo’ak was showing off as usual, probably trying to impress Tsireya with how quickly he was picking things up.

“I need a break,” you said, hating how defeated you sounded. You were a skilled hunter back home, and here you were, struggling with something children could do.

“That is fine,” Tsireya said. “We can continue later.”

You pulled yourself onto the nearest platform, water streaming off your body. Your lungs felt tight, your throat raw from salt water. This was humiliating.

“Pathetic.”

The word cut through the air and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Ao’nung had made his opinion of your family clear from the moment you’d arrived. Freaks, he’d called you. Demon-blooded. Not true Na’vi.

“Got something to say?” you asked, finally looking at him. He stood with his arms crossed, that same condescending smirk on his face that made you want to punch him. He was tall, muscular in the way reef people were, built for swimming and diving. Objectively, you could admit he was attractive. Subjectively, he was the most infuriating person you’d ever met.

“I am saying it. You cannot even manage a basic breath-hold. What will you do when you need to hunt? Starve?” His eyes raked over you dismissively. “Perhaps you should have stayed in your forest.”

Your jaw clenched. “We didn’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice. You chose to bring your war here. To put my people in danger.” He stepped closer and you stood, refusing to let him tower over you even though he had a good six inches on you. “Tell me, forest girl, what happens when the sky people follow you here? When our children die because you were too coward to face your own problems?”

“That’s enough.” Jake’s voice rang out across the platform. Your father looked exhausted, the kind of tired that went bone-deep. “We’re grateful for your father’s hospitality. We’re learning your ways. That’s all we can do.”

Ao’nung’s expression flickered with something that might have been respect for your father, but when his eyes landed back on you, there was nothing but contempt. “Learn faster,” he said, then dove into the water with barely a splash, disappearing into the depths.

You stood there, dripping and furious, your hands balled into fists.

“Ignore him,” Lo’ak said, hauling himself onto the platform. “He’s just an asshole.”

“He’s not wrong though,” you muttered. “We did bring our problems here.”

“Hey.” Lo’ak grabbed your shoulder, forcing you to look at him. “Dad made the call he thought was right. We’re here now. We’ll figure it out.”

You wished you had his confidence.

The days blurred together. Wake up, struggle through lessons, endure Ao’nung’s comments, go to sleep sore and frustrated. Your siblings were adapting faster than you. Even Lo’ak, who’d always been reckless and unfocused back home, seemed to be thriving here. You watched him joke with Tsireya, saw the way she laughed at his stupid comments, and something bitter twisted in your chest.

You’d always been the steady one. The reliable one. The one who kept Lo’ak out of trouble and helped Kiri when her head got too lost in the clouds. Now you were the one holding everyone back.

“Your breathing is wrong.” Ronal’s voice was sharp as she observed the lesson. The Tsahik scared you more than you wanted to admit. She’d made her opposition to your family’s presence clear, and unlike her son’s teenage posturing, her disapproval carried actual weight.

“I’m trying,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Trying is not enough. You must slow your heartbeat. Breathe from here.” She pressed a hand to your stomach, hard enough that you gasped. “From your center. You breathe like prey, quick and panicked. You must breathe like a hunter.”

You wanted to snap that you were a hunter, that you’d made your first kill at fourteen and had brought down a thanator at seventeen. But that didn’t matter here. Here you were useless.

Ronal studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she said something that surprised you. “You are afraid.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. I see it. Fear makes the body tight, makes the breath shallow.” Her voice was still stern but something in her eyes had shifted, just slightly. “What are you afraid of?”

The honest answer sat in your throat. I’m afraid of being useless. I’m afraid we made a mistake coming here. I’m afraid the sky people will find us and it will be my fault when people die.

“Nothing,” you lied.

Ronal made a dismissive sound. “Then you will continue to fail. Fear must be acknowledged before it can be released.” She turned away, already moving to correct Tuk’s form. “Again,” she called over her shoulder.

You dove under, forcing your eyes open against the salt sting. The reef was beautiful, you could admit that. Colors that didn’t exist in the forest, fish that moved in shimmering schools, coral formations that looked like art. You could see why the Metkayina loved this place.

Your lungs started to burn. You pushed yourself, counting the seconds. Sixty. Seventy. Your chest was tight. Eighty. Ninety. Your vision was starting to blur at the edges. One hundred. One ten. One—

Your body made the decision for you, forcing you to the surface. You broke through gasping, immediately angry at yourself.

“Ninety seconds.” Ao’nung’s voice came from behind you. You spun to find him floating there, barely treading water. Showing off how easy this was for him. “Better than yesterday.”

You waited for the insult, the mocking comment. But he just watched you with those sharp eyes, expression neutral.

“What do you want?” you asked.

“To tell you that you are breathing wrong. You are trying to fight the water. You cannot fight the water. You must move with it.”

“I’m not asking for your help.”

“I am not offering it. I am stating a fact.” He dove under, and you watched his form cut through the water with effortless grace. When he surfaced again, he was twenty feet away. “Slow your heart. The body follows the mind. Or continue to struggle. I do not care either way.”

He disappeared again, leaving you treading water and confused. Was that… advice? From Ao’nung? The same guy who’d been making your life hell for weeks?

“Don’t think about it too hard,” Tsireya said, swimming up beside you. “My brother is complicated.”

“Your brother is an asshole.”

She laughed at that, bright and genuine. “Yes. But he is not wrong about the breathing. You are trying too hard, using too much energy. Here.” She placed a hand on your chest, over your heart. “Feel how fast this beats? You must calm it. Think of something peaceful. Something that makes you feel safe.”

You closed your eyes, trying to think of something, anything that felt peaceful. The memories that came were all from the forest. Climbing through the canopy with your siblings. The smell of your mother’s cooking. The sound of your grandmother’s songs.

Your heart slowed.

“Good,” Tsireya said softly. “Now breathe. Slow and deep.”

You did. And when you dove under again, you managed two minutes.

Three weeks in and you were starting to get the hang of it. Not proficient by any means, but improving. You could hold your breath for nearly four minutes now, could swim without feeling like you were fighting the tide, could even dive deep enough to touch some of the coral formations.

Lo’ak was spending every free moment with Tsireya. Young love, your mother called it with an indulgent smile. It was cute, you guessed, watching your brother actually apply himself to something for once because he wanted to impress a girl.

Ao’nung had mostly left you alone lately. He still made comments, still radiated disapproval whenever your family was around, but he’d stopped directing his worst venom at you specifically. You didn’t know what had changed and you weren’t about to ask.

You were helping repair fishing nets when you overheard it. A group of younger reef boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen, talking in low voices that still carried across the water.

“—demon blood,” one was saying. “My father says they will bring destruction to our village.”

“The Tsahik agrees. I heard her talking to the elders. She wants them gone.”

“Ao’nung’s father is too soft. Giving them shelter, teaching them our ways. For what? So they can bring war to our home?”

Your hands stilled on the net. You should walk away, should ignore this. But your feet wouldn’t move.

“I say we make them want to leave on their own,” another voice said. “They do not belong here. The sooner they realize it, the better.”

You should have walked away. Instead, you stood, the net falling from your hands. “Say that to my face.”

The boys turned, startled. When they saw you, their expressions shifted from surprise to something uglier. The oldest one, the one who’d been talking about making you leave, sneered. “Gladly. You do not belong here, forest girl. You and your freak family should go back to where you came from.”

“We were invited. By your Olo’eyktan. Who you seem to think you have authority to question.” You stepped closer, using every inch of height you had even though these boys were bigger than you. “You want us gone? Take it up with Tonowari.”

“Or maybe we take it up with you.” The boy stepped forward too, aggressive, posturing. His friends flanked him. You were suddenly very aware that you were alone and outnumbered.

But you’d faced sky people. You’d faced worse than some bigoted teenagers.

“Try it,” you said.

What happened next happened fast. The boy reached for you, probably just meant to push you, to intimidate you. But you’d been training as a warrior since you were twelve. Your body reacted on instinct. You caught his wrist, twisted, used his momentum against him. He went down hard on the platform.

His friends rushed you. You got one in the stomach with your elbow, heard the air whoosh out of him. But then there were hands grabbing you, pulling you toward the edge of the platform, toward the water. You fought, but there were too many of them.

You went into the water hard, disoriented. Hands pushed you down, holding you under. Your lungs burned. You thrashed, trying to break free, but they were stronger here, in their element.

This is it, you thought distantly. This is how it ends. Drowned by a bunch of kids who think they’re protecting their home.

Then suddenly the hands were gone. You shot to the surface, gasping and coughing. When your vision cleared, you saw Ao’nung holding two of the boys by their necks, his face twisted in fury.

“What do you think you are doing?” His voice was low, dangerous. You’d heard him angry before but this was different. This was the voice of a future leader, someone who expected immediate obedience.

“We were just—” one of the boys started.

“You were attempting to drown her.” Ao’nung’s grip tightened and the boy gasped. “Do you know what the punishment is for attempting to kill someone under my father’s protection?”

The boys had gone pale.

“I should let you find out. I should drag you before the Olo’eyktan and let him decide your fate.” He shoved them away, disgust clear on his face. “Get out of my sight. If I hear of you going near any of the Sullys again, we will finish this conversation.”

The boys fled. You stayed in the water, still catching your breath, trying to process what just happened.

Ao’nung turned to you. His expression was hard to read. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. They had you under for nearly a minute.” He pulled himself onto the platform and then, to your surprise, offered you a hand.

You stared at it for a moment before accepting. His grip was strong, pulling you up easily.

“Why did you help me?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied you with those sharp, assessing eyes. Finally, he said, “Because you are under my father’s protection. An attack on you is an attack on his authority.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“What other reason would there be?” But he looked away as he said it, and you got the sense he was lying.

“I had it handled,” you said.

“You were drowning.”

“I got jumped. Four on one. It happens.”

“It should not happen. Not here. Not to someone my father has offered sanctuary to.” He seemed genuinely angry about it, which was confusing coming from someone who’d spent the last month making it clear he didn’t want you here.

“Well. Thanks. I guess.” It felt awkward, thanking someone who’d been your main antagonist since arrival.

Ao’nung nodded once, sharp. Then he turned to leave.

“Wait,” you called. He paused, looking back. “Why do you hate us so much? And don’t say it’s about the war. I know there’s more to it than that.”

For a long moment, you didn’t think he’d answer. Then he said, “You want honesty? Fine. I look at you and your family and I see everything my people are not. You come from a place of war, of violence. You have fought sky people, killed them. You carry that with you, in the way you move, the way you watch everything like you expect an attack.”

“Because we do expect an attack. We’ve been at war our entire lives.”

“Exactly. And now you bring that here. To our home. To our peaceful waters.” His jaw clenched. “My sister looks at your brother like he hung the stars. She does not see what I see. She does not see that he is reckless, dangerous. That he will get her hurt or worse.”

“Lo’ak would never—”

“Not intentionally. But it will happen anyway. Because that is what happens around your family. Chaos. Destruction.” He took a breath, seeming to forcibly calm himself. “I do not hate you. I hate what you represent. I hate that my father felt he had no choice but to offer you sanctuary. I hate that my sister is falling for someone who will break her heart when you inevitably leave or when the sky people come and kill you all.”

It was the most honest he’d been since you arrived. And maybe it was because you’d nearly died, or maybe it was because you were tired of all the hostility, but you found yourself saying, “I get it.”

He looked surprised.

“I get it,” you repeated. “You’re scared. You’re trying to protect your family, your home. I understand that. I’ve been doing the same thing my whole life.” You wrung out your hair, suddenly exhausted. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want to be here either. I miss my home. I miss feeling competent. I hate that we brought our problems to your door. But we’re here. And we don’t have anywhere else to go. So maybe we can both stop pretending the other doesn’t exist and just… coexist.”

Ao’nung stared at you for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, his mouth quirked up in something that might have been the ghost of a smile.

“Coexist,” he repeated.

“Yeah. Radical concept, I know.”

This time he definitely smiled, just a little. “You are not what I expected.”

“Yeah, well. You’re exactly what I expected.”

He laughed at that, actually laughed, and the sound was so unexpected you found yourself smiling too.

“I am going to pretend that was a compliment,” he said.

“Take it however you want.”

He shook his head, that almost-smile still playing at his lips. Then he dove into the water and was gone, leaving you standing there wondering what the hell just happened.

Things shifted after that. Not dramatically, not all at once, but gradually. Ao’nung stopped going out of his way to antagonize you. He still made comments, still had that air of superiority that made you want to throttle him, but the real venom was gone.

You found yourself watching him sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking. Watching the way he moved through the water, the way he interacted with his sister, the way he took his role as future Olo’eyktan seriously even at nineteen. He was a good teacher, you realized. Patient with the younger kids, firm but fair with his peers.

He caught you staring once. Raised an eyebrow in question.

“Your form is good,” you said, because you had to say something.

“I know.” Cocky as ever. But then he added, “Yours is improving.”

It might have been the nicest thing he’d ever said to you.

The lessons continued. You were up to seven minutes on your breath-hold now, could dive deep enough to hunt, could keep up with the others on the ilu rides across the reef. Ronal had even given you a grudging nod of approval last week, which felt like a bigger victory than anything else.

Lo’ak and Tsireya were officially courting now, whatever that meant for the Metkayina. It was sweet, watching them together. Your brother had never been so focused on anything in his life.

“Your brother is going to ask Tsireya to be his mate,” Ao’nung said one day.

You were sitting on a platform together, repairing a fishing spear. When exactly you’d started sitting together, working together, you couldn’t say. It had just sort of happened.

“They’re young,” you said.

“So are we.”

You glanced at him. “We’re nineteen.”

“Yes. Old enough to know our own minds. Old enough to make our own choices.” He was quiet for a moment, focusing on the spear. Then: “Would you try to stop him? If he asked her?”

“No. It’s his life. His choice.”

“That is very reasonable of you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am not surprised. I have learned you are more reasonable than I gave you credit for.” He tested the sharpness of the spear tip, nodded in satisfaction. “I have been unfair to you.”

You nearly dropped your own spear. “What?”

“I said I have been unfair. The things I said when you first arrived, the way I treated you. It was wrong.”

“Are you… apologizing?”

“Do not make me say it twice.” But there was no heat in his words, just a kind of wry amusement.

“I’m just shocked you’re capable of admitting you were wrong.”

“I am capable of many things that would shock you.”

There was something in his tone that made you look up, really look at him. He was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“Like what?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Like recognizing when I have made a mistake. Like changing my mind about someone I was determined not to like.” He set the spear aside, turning to face you fully. “Like admitting that I find you fascinating.”

Your heart was suddenly beating very fast. “Fascinating.”

“Yes. You are stubborn and defensive and you never back down even when you should. You argue with me constantly. You question everything. You make me want to either kiss you or throw you into the ocean, sometimes both at once.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Ao’nung—”

“I know this is unexpected. I know I have given you no reason to see me as anything but an asshole, as your brother so eloquently puts it.” His jaw clenched. “But I cannot stop thinking about you. I have tried. Eywa knows I have tried. You are supposed to be temporary. You and your family are supposed to leave when the threat passes and I should want that. I should want you gone.”

“But you don’t,” you said softly.

“No. I do not. And I do not know when that changed. Perhaps it was when I saw you refuse to give up, day after day, even when everything was difficult. Perhaps it was when you stood up to those boys even though you were outnumbered. Perhaps it was a hundred small moments I did not notice until suddenly I was noticing everything about you.”

You couldn’t find words. Your brain had short-circuited somewhere around “I find you fascinating.”

“You do not have to say anything,” Ao’nung said, misreading your silence. “I know I have no right to feel this way. I know I have done nothing to earn your good opinion. I just… I needed you to know. I needed to be honest with you.”

“I think I might hate you,” you said.

He flinched, but nodded. “I understand.”

“No, I mean—” You grabbed his arm before he could pull away. “I think I might hate you because you’re not supposed to be right. You’re not supposed to be the person who pushes me to be better. You’re not supposed to make me laugh when I’m frustrated or challenge me when I’m being stubborn. You’re not supposed to look at me like I’m something special when I still feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water here.”

His eyes were very wide. “I do not understand.”

“I’m saying I think I might be fascinated by you too, and I hate it because it’s inconvenient and complicated and you drove me absolutely insane for weeks.”

“And now?” His voice was rough.

“Now you still drive me insane. But differently.”

The smile that spread across his face was like watching the sun rise. Slow and bright and inevitable. “Differently,” he repeated.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” But he was already leaning closer, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You didn’t want him to stop. You kissed him first, closing the distance between you before you could overthink it.

The kiss was everything you’d expected and nothing like you’d imagined. He tasted like salt water and something sweeter, and his hand was gentle against your face even as the kiss deepened. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

“Well,” you said, eloquently.

“Well,” he agreed.

You should probably talk about this. About what it meant, where it could go, all the logical concerns about courting someone from a different clan when your own status here was still uncertain.

Instead, you kissed him again.

Word spread fast in a village this size. Within days, everyone knew that you and Ao’nung were… something. Together, maybe. People had opinions about it. Lots of opinions.

Ronal’s expression when she first saw you together could have frozen the ocean. Tonowari looked thoughtful, assessing. Your father just looked tired, like this was one more complication in an already complicated situation.

But Lo’ak was thrilled. “Does this mean we’re going to be related?” he asked, grinning. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you muttered, even as Ao’nung’s hand found yours under the table.

Tsireya was delighted, immediately pulling you aside to talk. “I knew it,” she said. “I told Lo’ak weeks ago that you two would end up together.”

“We’re not—I mean, it’s early—” You stumbled over the words.

“It does not matter. I see the way he looks at you. The way you look at him. My brother does not give his heart easily, but when he does, it is with everything he has.”

You thought about that later, sitting with Ao’nung on his favorite platform, watching the sun set over the water.

“Your sister says you don’t give your heart easily,” you said.

“My sister talks too much.” But there was affection in his voice.

“Is it true?”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of your hand. “Yes,” he finally said. “I am… careful. My mother raised me to think about duty, about the clan, about what is best for the people. Personal desires come second.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.” He looked at you, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that you’d never seen before. “You make me want to be selfish. To choose what I want instead of what I should want.”

“What do you want?”

“You. This. A future where you stay here, where you become one of us, where I can court you properly without worrying that one day you will disappear back to your forest.”

The honesty of it stole your breath. “The sky people—”

“I know. I know they are still out there, still hunting you. I know the threat is real.” His grip on your hand tightened. “But you asked what I want. And I want you to stay. I want to build something with you. I want to argue with you every morning and kiss you every night and teach our children to swim someday.”

“Our children?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am getting ahead of myself.”

“A little.” But you were smiling. “Though for what it’s worth, I’m not planning on leaving.”

“No?”

“No. I miss the forest sometimes. I miss the trees and the green and the way everything smelled like life and growth. But this is home now. You are—” You paused, trying to find the right words. “You are home.”

He kissed you then, soft and sweet, and you thought maybe Tsireya was right. Maybe you’d been heading toward this moment since the day you arrived, since that first antagonistic meeting. Maybe all that anger and frustration had just been something else in disguise.

But of course, nothing could ever be simple.

It was Ronal who brought it up, during a gathering of the clan leaders and elders. You weren’t supposed to be there but you heard about it afterward from half a dozen sources, each version slightly different but the core the same.

“The boy may court my daughter if he wishes,” Ronal had said, speaking of Lo’ak and Tsireya. “But Ao’nung is different. He is my son. The future Olo’eyktan. He cannot tie himself to a girl from a family of fugitives.”

Your stomach had dropped when Tsireya told you. “What did Tonowari say?”

“He said it was Ao’nung’s choice to make. That he was old enough to know his own heart.” Tsireya squeezed your hand. “But my mother is not letting this go.”

You found Ao’nung at the edge of the village, sharpening his spear with more force than necessary. He looked up when you approached, and you could see the tension in every line of his body.

“You heard,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“I will talk to her. I will make her understand—”

“Ao’nung.” You knelt beside him, taking the spear from his hands before he could hurt himself. “She’s not entirely wrong.”

He stared at you. “What?”

“Your mom. She’s not wrong. You are the future Olo’eyktan. The people need to trust you, need to believe you’ll put them first. And choosing me… it’s a risk.”

“I do not care.”

“I know. But maybe you should.” You took a breath. “Your mother thinks I’m going to bring trouble here. That my family is cursed or marked or whatever. And honestly? She might be right. The sky people are still out there. They’re still looking for us. One day they might find us. And when they do—”

“We will fight. Together. As a clan.”

“And people will die. Your people. Because of us. Because of me.” Your throat was tight. “I don’t want to be the reason your mother is proven right. I don’t want to be the reason your people suffer.”

Ao’nung cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “Listen to me. You are not responsible for the sky people. You are not responsible for the war. You are not responsible for any of the violence that has followed your family.” His voice was fierce. “You are responsible for showing up every day and working harder than anyone else to learn our ways. You are responsible for treating my people with respect and kindness. You are responsible for making me believe that maybe my mother is wrong, that maybe strength comes not from isolation but from unity.”

“That’s a pretty speech.”

“It is the truth. And I will say it as many times as necessary until you believe it.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “I am not giving you up because my mother has concerns. I am not giving you up because the future is uncertain. I am not giving you up at all. Unless you want—”

“I don’t,” you interrupted. “I don’t want to give this up either. I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of failing you. Of failing your people. Of being the disaster your mother thinks I am.”

“You could never be a disaster.” He kissed your forehead, soft and gentle. “You are brave and stubborn and you never give up. Those are exactly the qualities my people need in their future Tsahik.”

“I’m not—we haven’t even talked about—”

“I know. I am getting ahead of myself again.” But he was smiling. “For now, just be with me. Let me worry about my mother. Let me handle the politics and the clan concerns. You just focus on being yourself. That is more than enough.”

You wanted to believe him. And looking into his eyes, seeing the absolute certainty there, you thought maybe you could.

Ronal cornered you three days later.

You were helping prepare food for the evening meal, gutting fish alongside some of the other women. You felt her presence before you saw her, that commanding energy that made everyone instinctively straighten.

“Walk with me,” she said. It wasn’t a request.

You followed her away from the village, down to a more secluded part of the reef. Your heart was pounding. This was it. She was going to tell you to stay away from her son, to know your place, to stop reaching above your station.

“You are afraid,” Ronal said, echoing her words from months ago.

“A little,” you admitted.

“Good. Fear means you are smart enough to understand the situation.” She studied you with those sharp eyes. “I do not like this thing between you and my son.”

“I know but—”

“But.” She held up a hand when you started to speak. “I do not like it because it is complicated. Because it challenges the way I have always seen things. Not because you are unworthy.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I have watched you these past months. I have seen you struggle and fail and get back up and try again. I have seen you treat my people with respect, even when they did not deserve it. I have seen you learn our ways with dedication and sincerity.” She paused. “And I have seen my son become someone I barely recognize when he is with you. Softer. Kinder. More patient.”

“Tsahik—”

“Let me finish. When the sky people come—and they will come, do not fool yourself about that—we will need warriors. We will need strategy. We will need unity.” Her gaze was piercing. “My son believes you and your family can help provide that. I am beginning to think he may be right.”

You didn’t know what to say. This was so far from what you’d expected.

“But,” Ronal continued, her voice hardening, “if you hurt him, if you prove to be the disaster I fear, there will be nowhere in this ocean you can hide from me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

“Good.” She turned to leave, then paused. “He asked me to give you a chance. To see you as he sees you. I am trying. Do not make me regret it.”

Then she was gone, leaving you standing there trying to process what had just happened.

When you told Ao’nung later, he looked unsurprised. “I told you I would handle my mother.”

“You talked to her?”

“I did more than talk. I told her I was going to court you whether she approved or not. That she had raised me to know my own mind, to make my own decisions, and this was my decision.” He pulled you into his arms. “I also may have pointed out that she mated outside her own clan when she was younger, before my father became Olo’eyktan. That she of all people should understand.”

“You’re kind of devious.”

“I prefer to think of it as strategic.” He kissed the top of your head. “She will come around fully. She just needs time.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I will deal with it. But I think she will. My mother respects strength and dedication. You have both.” His arms tightened around you. “Besides, she already likes you more than she lets on. I can tell.”

You weren’t sure you believed that, but you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

This was home. He was home. And you were done running.

The tide had brought you here, through anger and struggle and fear. But it had also brought you to this moment, to this person, to this love.

“Don’t care.” He tilts his head, catching your mouth again. “Didn’t even wanna go to this thing.”

You laugh softly, but you turn away before you’re tempted to melt into him again. “As tempting as you are, baby, I spent a lot of time to look this good.”

Johnny groans, partly from the loss of your warmth, partly from the way your perfume lingers while you walk away. “You’re killing me.”

The ballroom is a glittering spread of champagne flutes, polished marble, and a string quartet in the corner. Every guest here is dressed to impress and you step in on Johnny’s arm, squeezing his suit for your own reassurance.

Photographers call out from one side, flashes popping. Johnny squeezes your hand before steering you toward the bar. “You okay?”

You smile, “Mm-hmm.”

Johnny knows you’re still not used to the cameras. You’re a civilian, not a superhero, just here as his plus one.

You’re by the bar getting a drink when Johnny’s being called to take a group photo for the Fantastic Four. Johnny glances at you for permission.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “Go.”

His mouth presses into a thin line. “I’ll be right back.”

You smile and watch him leave, bringing the champagne glass to your lips. You don’t know anyone else here except the four people who’ve claimed you as part of their family. Most of the crowd are superheroes. Some from other cities, some from other universes, but you’ve never met them, and they’ve never met you.

And so the awkward observation begins—

“You new to this?”

You hear a voice beside you. Captain America. You blink a few times. “Um, y-yeah.”

He extends his hand, realizing the lack of introductions. “Sorry. Steve. Rogers.”

You smile and shake his hand, introducing yourself.

“I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Oh, I’m with Johnny. Storm.” You point towards where Johnny is, “He’s my boyfriend.”

Steve nods, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s a nice kid.”

You chuckle, “You say that like you’re so old.”

He feigns a wounded look. “You do know I’m over a hundred years old, right?”

Your eyes go wide, “Oh my God, I forgot… sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” Steve laughs, “I was just teasing. You just look like you’re uncomfortable here.”

You let out a small laugh because you got caught, “I wanted to come. But… honestly this is kind of freaking me out.”

He nods in understanding. “I get that. It can be overwhelming.”

You take a deep breath. “At least I know I’m safe. Literally the safest place in the world right now.”

Steve chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

“So where did you two meet?” Steve asks.

You glance at him, appreciating that he’s continuing the conversation instead of letting it quiet out. “Oh, he just saved my life one time. I was falling from the sky, you know, as we civilians do,” You try to make a joke and Steve laughs, “And he swoops in, carries me away to safety.”

He nods with an amused smile, “That’s a very romantic story.”

“I’m just one lucky girl, I guess—” You pause, feeling a warm hand snaking around your waist.

Johnny.

“Hey Cap,” He nods his head to the older guy before turning to you. “Sorry it took a while, babe.”

“Johnny.” Steve nods back, “Well I’ll leave you two lovebirds. Have a good night.”

“You too,” you reply, watching him go before turning to look at Johnny, his expression cold and stoic.

“Everything okay?”

He simply nods, grabbing a champagne flute and drinking most of it in one big gulp. You blink at him.

“Johnny—”

“Dance with me?” His hand extends, a gesture that feels more like he’s begging you to than an invitation.

You take it anyway, letting him guide you to the dance floor. You’ve never been much of a dancer, but with his hand resting firmly at your lower back and the other clasping yours, you let him lead.

You’ve been looking at Johnny the entire time you’re dancing to the soft music, but his eyes were anywhere else but at you. What’s gotten into him?

“What were you two talking about?” Johnny finally asks, trying to sound casual.

You squint at him. You’ve never seen Johnny’s jealous side before—mostly because there’s never been anyone for him to be jealous of. Back in your city, he’s the one people stare at in awe, and you’re the one quietly annoyed that every woman seems to be in love with him… though you can’t exactly blame them.

“Baby, are you…” You hesitate for a second, “jealous?”

Johnny’s lips press into a line, exhaling, and he finally looks at you. “A little.”

“Johnny—”

“—Not in the way you think,” He quickly says, “Probably.”

Your brows furrow, begging him to explain.

He shifts his weight, eyes darting away. “It’s not that I think you’d leave me for him. I know you wouldn’t. I just… sometimes I wonder if you’d prefer someone like him.”

Your questioning look urges him to keep going.

“You know... He’s big.” Johnny says. “Broad. Pure muscle. I’m… leaner. I don’t have those muscles… or his maturity. Or his height.”

You soften at his confession. Looping your arms around his neck, you give him a peck to distract his thoughts. “Okay, Johnny, let’s dissect this, okay?”

He nods against your forehead.

“First, I don’t care about how you look. You could be… purple with antennas or anything else and I’d still love you.” You stroke the hair at his nape.

“Oddly specific, but okay—”

“Second,” You press, “You’re leaner because you’re faster. Imagine if Cap had your powers with his build. He’d be much slower than you.”

Johnny huffs a laugh but you can tell he’s still listening.

“Third,” You say, “Cap’s mature because he’s over a hundred years old. He’s older than my grandpa.”

That gets a real laugh out of him.

“And finally… you’re the perfect height, Johnny. Any taller, and I wouldn’t be able to do this...” You rise on your toes and kiss him.

His hands instinctively tighten at your waist.

When you pull back, Johnny’s already smiling, looking at you with the same adoration in his eyes as earlier tonight. “Do you have any idea just how much I love you?”

You hum, shrugging, “I could use a reminder.”

Everything they think they've seen over the last few weeks – Ao’nung’s only slightly tender gaze, the rap of his three-fingered hand on your family’s marui pod before the end of night, his surprisingly charming gifts which match the accessories in your hair – is a farce.

Ao’nung watches you fumble with the anklet three times before he breaks. You sit in the sand, taking note of the eyes that linger over the two you.

“I can’t watch this anymore.” He grumbles, taking your calf in his hand and placing it firmly in his lap. Ao’nung ties the flimsy jewelry around your ankle in a single neat knot with a stupidly smug look on his face that seems to say ‘see how easy that was?’ and it makes you want to shove him hard in the chest.

Like he can see those violent wheels in your head turning, he clicks his tongue. “Nuh-uh.” He chides. “They’re watching.”

Spending time with the Olo'eyktan’s son, it seemed there was always someone watching.

You nod, but Ao’nung doesn’t miss the way your eyes roll slightly. It made his chest clench in a way that felt uncomfortably new. By this age, he’d really hoped there were no new feelings left to encounter. Nothing quite like this, sinking through him like a slab of metal through water.

“They’re always watching.” You retort, blowing a loose strand of hair up from your face. “When else do I get to roll my eyes at you? All this pent up anger is gonna burn a hole through my stomach.”

Ao’nung laughs a hearty laugh that you know is meant for your ears, but he smiles for everyone to see. Gently leaning his muscular shoulder on your own, he shrugs, and you take it that he doesn’t really have an answer.

That seemed to be the case a lot lately.

When Ao’nung first proposed the idea to you, he was shocked at the ease to which you complied. He was expecting more resistance, the way there’d always been in your relationship – a splash of the water to the face when he bragged about finally training with tsurak, a cheap and sarcastic laugh at one of his not-so-funny jokes which warmed him and vexed him at the same time.

He knew why he had asked. His parents were slowly but surely introducing the topic of mating into conversation and it was stealing all the air from his lungs like a vindictive little vacuum.

Talking about mates made everything feel so real. So heavy. Like he’d lived his whole life to get to this point and suddenly it was here and he’d do anything to go back and live one of those light-hearted days again. With you, and everyone else, playing because you could afford to.

He asked you to get his parents off his back for a bit – just until he could find it within himself to live out his destiny. Still, he couldn’t understand why you had said yes.

“If I’m so hard to be around,” Ao’nung jokes, but not really. “Why’d you even agree to this in the first place?”

You pull your knees to your chest, let the cool pieces of sea glass strung onto his anklet mediate your body temperature. “Same reason as you, really.”

Ao’nung quirks an eyebrow, turning his head to meet your eyes, but he’s met with resistance. Your eyes are glued to the rounds of your knees, a small bite to your lip that stirs a barrelling feeling in his stomach. He waits for you to elaborate with his forehead pinched.

“My parents want me to find a mate.” You say simply. “At first, it was easy to convince them otherwise. I could say I was focusing on completing my rites.”

He passes a contemplative glance. “And now?”

“Now, they have suggestions.”

Suggestions. The word felt sticky in his mouth and birthed a new feeling.

Ao’nung knew your parents. They were dedicated members of the clan – your mother, a celebrated hunter for her sharp mind in battle and borderline overwhelming tenacity, and your father, renowned for his artful craftsmanship of weaponry. They loved you well, but were a tad controlling. He could tell it bothered you – how tight their reigns were.

“And you know me. I wouldn’t be any good… at that.”  

You were right, he did know you. But it was the second part of that statement that was causing him full-body grief, though it’d be hard for him to pinpoint exactly why. Ao’nung feels his mouth open in objection, but you continue without waiting for him, like you always do.

“Anyways, I said yes because I need to do this. For myself.” You wrap your arms around your knees and gently press your chin atop them. “I don’t even know if I want a mate… but if I do, I-I need it to be my choice. And I need them to understand that.”

The heat Ao’nung feels is suddenly everywhere, but he nods all the same.

You shuffle under his hot gaze and let out a hefty breath that staggers as it falls. Every molecule in the air felt heavier and it had a lot to do with the fact that things were a lot different now than they were ten years ago. Ten years ago, when you’d joined Olo'eyktan’s children in teaching the Sully’s the ways of the Metkayina. When Kiri had joined your life-long friendship with Tsireya, and you’d pined for Ao’nung as inconsistently as high-tide, sometimes early in the day, sometimes late, but always so long as there was a moon.

The you of ten years ago wouldn’t have been able to fathom the situation you were in now, but the you of today knew that there were worse people to pretend to court than your best friend’s fickle, but well-meaning, brother. Some nights it felt like you were strong enough to do this. Other nights it singed at your fingertips, leaving ash on your sleeping mat.

According to Kiri, love doesn’t just fade like that. Maybe she was right and some completely sensitive part of you, trudging water from the past, was eager to have him in whatever capacity you could even if it was destined to disappoint. Maybe Tsireya was right and you wanted to hurt a little.

“I want to be more brave. Like you.” You finish, and Ao’nung feels a teasing shiver run down his spine. Like Eywa blowing air down his back.

“Brave?” He snorts. “My body just moves. I don’t know if I would call that brave.”

Ao’nung wasn’t sure how he felt hearing you undersell yourself. It was definitely bad, but it was also confusing. He’d never known anyone more daring than you. You butted his hard-headedness in a way that no one else seemed willing to. You’d been known to entertain Lo’ak’s recklessness more than a few times, flying ikran when you were born for water, and it annoyed him to no end. In most of his childhood memories, you were somewhere in the foreground, doing something that he’d wanted in on, but would never say so.

Some part of him thinks you always knew that –  which is why most of those memories finish with you tugging him by the arm and pulling him into the fun – often motivated by his hard-to-earn, but more than worth it smile – he was young, painfully begrudging, but entirely grateful, and he hoped you knew that.

In any case, brave was a word he reserved for that starry-eyed girl that spent many sleepless nights outside her marui pod and on the beach, retelling him fantastical Earth stories that she'd heard Jake Sully once tell Tuk. He couldn’t forget those nights if he tried – and if he could, he wouldn’t.

He remembers you, blinking the sleep away, heels buried in the sand in a way much like you were sitting currently. Except back then, you would tell him about ‘once upon a time’ – something humans said before they told stories about princesses and goblins – things that didn’t exist, but he supposed that’s what made them so compelling.

The Metkayina had a similar phrase for their stories, but the words were different. In English, the best translation would have been: ‘there was, there wasn’t’. He’d seen in you that urge to escape when you left the Na’vi words behind any time you told him a story thereafter.

“I guess I just feel stuck.”

That was something Ao’nung could relate to. He follows your eye line, set on a group of barnacles deadlocked to a slab of rock. With an unwavering hand, he breaks one off and chucks it into the sand in front of you.

“Then we pull a little harder." He casts a gentle, but stern look. "Right?”

“Right.” You force a smile over the dull burn of tears. Then you bite back a laugh. “What are you? The barnacle whisperer?"

Ao’nung groans. “Don’t call me that. Please.”

A small laugh rumbles in his chest, and he takes the opportunity to look at you head-on. He lingers on your slightly damp eyes and nudges your side.

“You, uh, look like you’re getting broken up with.” He says in a nervous whisper, scratching the back of his neck. Eyes flickering between you and the onlookers still out on this part of the reef.

You bite your lip, shifting slightly closer to him. “Can’t have that, can we?”

You sneak a quick peak at the eyes glued on the two of you, fingers trembling faintly, but you know you’re nervous for a different reason. There was no going back after this. But you force a deep breath of air so cold that it felt herbal, with a new-found confidence – you didn’t want to go back. Slowly, your hands, once planted in the sand, drift up to snake around Ao’nung’s neck and his breath catches in his throat. He knows the clan is watching – knows you’re doing this because the clan is watching, but he feels his heart beat erratically as if his body can’t tell the difference.

You eye him inquisitively, in a way that he knows means you’re asking for permission, and he nods whilst internally urging his jaw to fall slack. His lips to do something other than wait for you.

Your lips touch his in a way that makes him gasp, and then again, and again, when you swallow his heavy breaths. He feels like a quick-filling cup that you won’t let spill. Against all his self-restraint, his hands tremble around your waist when you pull away from him.

“Is that what that feels like?” You murmur, feeling loose-limbed and heady. He thinks he'll faint if he acknowledges that it's your first.

“Y-yeah.”

But Ao’nung knows he’s lying. He’s never felt anything like this in his life – let alone in a kiss, and he’s suddenly concerned that you'll remember his tells. Tinge of purple on his ears, lightly flaring nostrils. If you notice, you don’t say so, and he’s grateful for it.

He clumsily pulls the heat of his body away, knowing something inside him has changed, and mumbles some kind of non-excuse about having to help his father out before eclipse. He says so whilst avoiding your eyes, though you wouldn’t have noticed anyways. Too busy ruminating in the aftershocks of his kiss – there was no going back – and mostly because those lips shot an arrow dead through the idea that there could be someone else for you.

Wordlessly, you nod and walk away like his retreat is contagious – trying hard not to, but still keeling at the hope that he could feel there was something there. A spark, a desire, a small flash of yearning you swear you saw in his eyes but disappeared too quick to know for sure.

Something that was, then wasn’t.

"Isn't that the Olo'eyktan from the Omatikaya clan?" Tsireya whispered, her voice barely audible. "What could possibly bring them here?"

"I have no idea," you replied, dismounting from your ilu as you approached the shore, Tsireya mirroring your actions.

As you dipped your head in the water, you pushed yourself upward, breaking through the surface. With a graceful motion, you brushed aside your damp hair, allowing it to cascade down your shoulders in a shimmering display.

Just then, your eyes locked with one of the strange forest people. Almost immediately, he bowed low, gesturing to you by placing his fingers on his forehead and extending one hand down. Smiling, you gestured back, returning the greeting with a nod of your head. The forest boy seemed pleased by your response, and his eyes sparkled with interest.

As Neteyam's gaze fell upon you, he couldn't help but become entranced by the mesmerizing shade of aquatic blue that adorned your skin, gracefully accompanied by flowing white stripes resembling gentle waves. The captivating allure of your large, penetrating blue eyes seemed to delve into the depths of his soul and he found himself speechless, mouth running dry.

Taking in your petite stature, the fin-like formations on your arms and legs piqued his curiosity, evoking images of elegant aquatic creatures. Your attire, intricately woven and embellished with coral, shells, and delicate trinkets, complemented your features perfectly, adding to your captivating appearance.

"You're staring, skxawng," Lo'ak snorts, playfully knocking his brother's side. Neteyam huffs, feeling a tinge of embarrassment as he quickly averts his gaze. "Shut it," he retorts, trying to brush off the moment.

As their father engaged in conversation with the newcomers, a group of boys broke away from the crowd, heading towards the brothers. Lo'ak and Neteyam exchanged quick gestures of greeting, but received no response in return.

Neteyam's gaze sharpened as he observed the group encircling them, a hint of caution in his eyes. One of them then laughed heartily, pointing at their tail, "What is that? Is that supposed to be a tail? How are they supposed to swim?"

"Do not!" Tsireya hisses, swiftly moving to smack Roxto's hand away. Sensing the tension, you saunter towards them, joining Tsireya in scolding the boys. "Be nice," you chide firmly.

Neteyam's attention shifts, his gaze locked on you as you approach Ao'nung and place a firm hand on his bicep.

In that moment, Neteyam witnesses a silent conversation unfold between the two of you, communicating with nothing but your eyes.

'You are being mean again,' you assert, raising your eyebrows and fixing your intense gaze upon the Metkayinan boy. Ao'nung blinks slowly, a dull look on his face. With a click of his tongue, he shuts his eyes and huffs in resignation. 'I know,' he concedes.

As all four of you shift your attention back towards the newcomers, Tsireya beams with enthusiasm, her warm greeting echoing once more, "We welcome you."

Lo'ak acknowledges her with a nod and a mumbled greeting, and you can't help but notice Tsireya's endearing reaction. Her cheeks flush, and her smile turns almost bashfully giddy as she glances down at her feet, clearly charmed by the interaction.

Months had passed since the Sully's integration into your village. You couldn't help but admire their quick learning, seamlessly adapting to the ways of the water in less than a month. As you spent more time training with them, your bond with the siblings grew stronger, particularly with endearing little Tuk, who always seemed eager to drag you along the shore to play.

'This is going to be interesting.'

Amidst the camaraderie, not everyone got along. Fights frequently arose between Ao'nung and the two Sully brothers, resulting in heated scuffles, both physical and verbal. And while Ao'nung and Lo'ak seemed to have made some progress in improving their relationship, the situation with Neteyam remained…unresolved at best.

"Ao'!" You gasp out, flinching back when he tackles Neteyam to the ground. The two boys exchange hits with fervor, their fists flying in rapid succession as they grapple with each other.

"Oh, you skxawngs!" you huff, unable to contain your frustration any longer. You grab hold of Neteyam's tail, pulling him off Ao'nung and breaking up the fight. "What is wrong with you two?!"

"I told him to back off!" Neteyam snarls, his hand pressed against a blossoming bruise on his torso. Ao'nung clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders as he stands up, his expression defiant. "Maybe you should back off my mate."

The tension in the air remains palpable as emotions run high, leaving you caught in the middle of the escalating conflict. You don't miss how Neteyam's shoulders drop, his mouth agape as his eyes dart between the two of you.

Confusion fills his gaze as he stammers, "Mate?"

"I am Tsakarem," you affirm, taking a step towards Ao'nung's side to assess his injuries. "But it's bold of you to claim that I'm your mate," you add, clicking your tongue disapprovingly. Neteyam, catching your mocking tone, seems to perk up and grin

"Don't get too excited, forest boy," Ao'nung grumbles, his gaze drilling holes into Neteyam's head, "She is still promised to me."

Sighing you tuck your head into his shoulder, begging him to shut up.

May Eywa help you.