𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 just an angel lost in the wonders of mortal emotions and pleasure. drowning in the kisses that do not even linger along her skin, they phase through while she yearns.
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‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. This blog contains mature content. Please do not interact if you are below the age of 18 and an ageless/blank blog.
Content in my works of fiction may contain DARK THEMES, so please do take the time to read the tags before consuming any of the fics you read. Scroll away if you do not like the au, genre, or details of the fic; this blog is dedicated to those who find comfort in chubby self-inserts. Majority of these will be Female or Gender-Neutral 'x reader'.
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⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Alternative Universe where the war of The Five Kings never occurs and everyone is alive and happy.
There are some maesters who say the realm was saved not by swords, nor dragons, nor kings, but by a girl with golden hair smiling beneath the boughs of a heart tree.
The singers would tell it differently, of course. They would speak of fate and romance, of a young wolf seeing a lioness amongst the snows and losing his heart before the feast was done. They would speak of vows whispered beneath red leaves and northern winds, of two great houses bound not through conquest, but affection.
But the truth, as ever, lay somewhere in between.
When King Robert Baratheon rode north to Winterfell with all the splendor of the south at his back, he brought with him more than queens and princes and courtly poison. He brought change.
Lord Eddard Stark expected politics. Cersei Lannister expected insult. Tywin expected opportunity.
None expected Robb Stark to fall helplessly in love with Y/N Baratheon before the second night’s feast had ended.
She had entered Winterfell wrapped in pale gold velvet trimmed with white fox fur, southern beauty against northern stone, all soft smiles and watchful green eyes. Too refined for the North, many thought at first. Too delicate. Too much lion and too little wolf.
And then she laughed. Not politely. Not cruelly. Freely. Warmly.
The sound carried through Winterfell’s halls like sunlight breaking across snow.
Robb Stark was doomed from that moment onward.
By the time the royal party departed Winterfell, Robert and Ned had already sealed the match between them with wine, roaring laughter, and the stubborn certainty that perhaps — perhaps — this union could heal what years of mistrust between lion and wolf had broken.
And strangely enough… it did.
The wedding took place beneath the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood, witnessed only by family and a handful of sworn men. No grand sept. No courtly spectacle. Just snow upon the ground and old gods listening silently through carved red eyes.
Y/N wore pale gold silk sewn with tiny silver direwolves at the sleeves, her cloak lined with white fur gifted by Lady Catelyn herself. Her hair fell in soft curls beneath a circlet of woven weirwood branches and golden thread.
Robb Stark wore dark grey wool and black leather, his Stark cloak heavy upon his shoulders, though his face looked almost boyishly awed as he watched her walk toward him.
Those present would later swear the North itself seemed gentler that day.
When their vows were spoken, Lady Catelyn wept quietly. Ned Stark smiled for the first time in weeks.
Robert Baratheon drank enough ale for six men and declared it the happiest day he’d seen since the rebellion.
And Joffrey—Joffrey looked as though someone had carved out his heart with a dull knife.
⸻
A Realm Rewritten
The marriage accomplished what councils, wars, and threats never could.
The Starks and Lannisters, once wary allies at best, became inseparable pillars of the realm. Trade flourished between North and West. Northern timber and furs flowed south while gold and grain traveled northward.
With Y/N in Winterfell and Robb forever welcome at court, old suspicions softened. Even Cersei and Catelyn learned a sort of careful peace through shared love for the same girl.
Either way, the realm did not bleed for it.
There was no War of the Five Kings. No Red Wedding. No shattered North.
Instead, Westeros suffered a far stranger fate: prolonged political stability.
⸻
Winterfell Under Lady Stark
Y/N became beloved in the North in ways no southerner ever had before her.
At first, the northern lords distrusted her silks and soft manners. They expected arrogance. Fragility. Southern vanity.
Instead they found a woman who remembered every servant’s name, learned northern customs without mockery, and listened more than she spoke.
She hated cold weather passionately. Complained about snow constantly. Required at least three fur blankets at night.
The North adored her instantly. Children followed her through Winter Town because she always carried sweets in her sleeves. Old women blessed her in the markets. Even the roughest Stark bannermen softened beneath one of her smiles.
And Robb?
Robb Stark looked at his wife like a man who had personally won a war no one else knew he’d been fighting.
He worshipped her openly and without shame.⸻
Meanwhile in King’s Landing…
King Robert was ecstatic.
His favorite lord and favorite girl had married each other, the realm was peaceful, and feasts became significantly more entertaining whenever the Starks visited court.
He spent years loudly proclaiming:
“See? THIS is diplomacy. Gods, Ned, we should’ve married our houses sooner!”
Cersei remained fiercely protective of her daughter but slept easier knowing Y/N was far from courtly vipers. Tommen and Myrcella adored visiting the North.
Arya idolized Y/N instantly.
Sansa thought her marriage to Robb was the stuff of songs.
And Joffrey— Poor, miserable Joffrey.
Forever bitter. Forever furious. Forever forced to watch the entire realm adore the sister who had “abandoned” him for a Stark.
Every time Robb touched her waist at feasts, Joffrey nearly bit through his goblet.
The court noticed.
Everyone noticed.
No one spoke of it.
Years later, maesters would write that the peace of King Robert’s later reign rested upon three things:
Lord Eddard Stark’s honor.
Tywin Lannister’s gold.
And Lady Y/N Stark’s impossible ability to make enemies love her despite themselves.
In songs, they called her:
The Golden Wolf
The Rose of Winterfell
The Lion Who Tamed the North
But in private, Robb simply called her his wife, usually with the awed expression of a man who still couldn’t believe she had chosen him at all.
❦. Y/n Baratheon, The Red Bride who wandered the kings road asking if her wedding dress was clean
The girl who wandered the kingsroad was said to wear a wedding gown beneath a travel cloak, though little of its ivory remained. The silk had drunk too deeply of blood, until white became crimson and crimson browned with age. Dried roses clung stubbornly to the torn embroidery, as if even they had refused to leave her.
Her hair, once bright as beaten gold, hung in tangled curls stiffened with old blood. Here and there it caught the sunlight still, but only in broken pieces, like gold buried beneath ash.
She was pale in the way only the dead could be pale. Not the softness of untouched milk, but the color of winter stone, drained of every warmth the sun had ever given it. Across her throat lay a dark seam where death had once opened her. Another marked her breast beneath the ruined bodice, hidden except when the wind tugged cruelly at the torn cloth.
Her eyes remained beautiful. That was perhaps the cruelest thing.
Great green eyes, bright as summer leaves after rain, though there was something wrong within them now. They wandered instead of fixing upon a face. In daylight they narrowed against the pain, watering beneath the sun as though the world itself burned them. She would pause before speaking, one hand stretched carefully into the empty air until her fingers brushed cloth or skin.
Only then would she smile.
Those who did not know her drew back in fear, believing she reached for them as a wight might reach for living flesh. She only wished to know where they stood.
She walked slowly, measuring the world by sound rather than sight—the crunch of leaves beneath boots, the call of distant crows, the rush of rivers she could no longer clearly see. Faces had become little more than pale blurs. Fire was only an ache of light. Stars were scattered ghosts.
She did not know what she looked like. She could not see the dried blood woven through her hair. She could not see the crimson staining her skirts. She could not see the scar crossing the white of her throat.
Sometimes she would smooth her gown with gentle hands and ask, almost apologetically,
“Is it very dirty? It was my wedding dress.”
And those who heard her seldom answered. For there are some truths too cruel to place in the hands of the dead.
They called her many names upon the roads. The Red Bride. The Blind Lioness. The Widow in White.
Yet old women, septons, and broken men alike swore the same thing.
She thanked every stranger who guided her across a stream. She apologized whenever she stumbled into another traveler.
She smiled at children who hid behind their mothers. Death had taken much from the lioness of the west.
Her sight. Her warmth. Her heartbeat. But somehow… …it had failed to teach her cruelty.
˚.⋆꒰ genre. soulmate au, strangers to lovers, fluff, angst.
˚.⋆꒰ summary. you always knew soulmates were real, but you never thought you would find yours. travelling to the north with your father to learn about the berries you loved so much led you to a man you felt an undeniable connection with. but was he a true gentleman . . or were you being fooled by the heir to the north?
˚.⋆꒰ word count. 10.1k
˚.⋆꒰ warnings. happy ending, canon compliant-ish but if i do continue this universe i will be changing big things about the plot, everyone lives au, pre s1 ish timeline wise, aged up stark siblings (but also aged down in rickon's case?), lots of yearning from robb, just a lot of stark family dynamics and loverboy robb.. what more could a girl want??
You always had an affinity for plants.
Growing up behind the tall walls of The Eyrie, you had to find some way to entertain yourself. Perhaps if you had been allowed to play with your younger half brother Robin, you would have found some other way to occupy your mind.
But your stepmother would never have allowed it, always coddling her Sweetrobin.
With your father always lost in his work or away as the hand of the king, you found yourself sneaking into the Maesters rooms of the castle, reading notes and observing the plants. It didn’t take long for the old man to catch you and, taking pity on the poor young lady of the house, sit you down and teach you about the different herbs.
You had your fair share of learning from your Septas, of course. As a girl born into nobility, into House Arryn no less, you knew everything a proper lady should know. How to sew, how to plan a dinner, how to speak quietly, how to care for your children. But plants? Herbs? These things were so new to you, and you found yourself infatuated with their properties.
In fact, you were so obsessed, you begged the Maester to allow you a few seeds, so that you could start a garden beside the fountain in the castle. He allowed you, of course, even checking in on your garden and explaining the different conditions each plant needed. You ate up all the knowledge you could behind the walls of the castle, and the fauna was no different.
One topic your stepmother forbade you from learning about though, was soulmates.
You asked the Maester about his soulmate once, back when you were only 10 namedays along. You remember the way his hand twitched, a soft, faraway look in his eye. He was forbidden to tell you anything, but you knew from the look on his face, the question must have brought happy thoughts to his mind.
Even at only 10 namedays, you knew the reason your stepmother didn’t want you learning about soulmates. She planned to marry you off as soon as you were old enough, and she couldn’t have you fantasising about the follies of love and faith in the old Gods when she needed you to marry whoever would be a convenient ally.
The thought wasn’t something you would ever admit upset you. Taking your education into your own hands, you found a book detailing the history of soulmates in the library, where you found that:
‘Not all folk are destined to find their soulmates in this life, but if not in this one, they will be together in another. The soulmate bond signifies more than just a perfect match between two, it is a mark of one soul split directly into two. This is no pairing of hearts, it is one heart beating in two bodies.
Once a soul becomes whole, it is painful and difficult for this to be undone. It can lead to violence, insanity and even death. This is why many do not search for their soulmates and marry whomever they so choose.’
But there was a bright side to having a soulmate, you knew that.
You thought about the look on the Maesters face when he thought about his soulmate. The way your handmaiden, Ellie, spoke of her husband Edin. There was a beauty to having a person completely understand you, having a complete soul.
“Y/N!”
You stopped in your tracks, surprised at the sight before you.
Your father was home.
Your father, Lord Jon Arryn, was home with his good friend, Lord Ned Stark. His was a face you had been very familiar with from a young age. He worked closely with your father, so he never missed a family gathering or ball. Even now, when you were a lot older than only 10 namedays, you couldn’t help but smile at the familiar man.
“Father. Lord Stark,” you curtsied politely, watching as Ned rolled his eyes.
“Every time . .” he mumbled under his breath. “Call me Ned,” he told you, the same way he always did when you reverted back to calling him by his formal titles.
“Are you going somewhere?” Your father asked, noticing the small basket you were carrying.
You quickly pushed the basket behind your back, making both of the men grin in amusement.
“No . . no! I was just–”
“Tending to her garden, my lord,” one of the maids said as she began to lay out breakfast for the two men. “She’s a good green hand too, you should see how well everything's bloomed. We’re using her spices in the kitchen, and I know the Maesters glad she’s growing healing herbs.”
You winced.
Gardening was not ladylike, according to your stepmother.
But she was never around, always fussing over Robin somewhere far away, so she wasn’t actually aware of what you had been doing the last few years. And your father? He was always away in Kingslanding, not a care in the world about what you were getting up to at The Eyrie.
The servants, maids, chefs– anyone who worked in the castle knew what you were doing in your spare time. It was hard not to notice your overgrowing gardens when they blocked the pathway to the kitchens, but all of the staff assured you that they didn’t mind. You were always sharing your crops with them, offering to help with anything you could, so they treated you like the sunshine of the household.
They had taken to calling you ‘Sunshine’ even when you weren’t around, partially because of your kind nature (in comparison to what they experience from your stepmother) but partially because of how well the plants grew with your care. You were like the sun, with plants stretching out to reach your light.
You knew the maid meant well, answering your father, but you couldn’t help the fear that overtook you. Would you be in trouble? Would your stepmother find out? While your father wasn’t around much to punish you, his wife often took it upon herself to discipline you whenever she felt it necessary.
Thankfully though, your father didn’t seem annoyed at this revelation.
In fact, both he and Ned seemed intrigued, the latter inviting you to come sit beside him.
“Plants, aye? Don’t see much of that up at Winterfell,” he says, a hint of sadness in his voice.
Ned Stark was the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.
You had never been, but you knew the climate was very different to that of the Vale. A lot of snow, and a coldness you wouldn’t even be able to imagine.
“Actually, there are a lot of herbs that can only grow in the cold,” you said, excitedly. “And almost everything can still grow in the snow, as long as you’re taking care to cover the crops to avoid any snowfall.”
“Only grow in the cold? You’re talking nonsense, girl,” your father took a bite of his food. Despite his words, his tone was casual. Conversational. You rarely got to speak with your father, so it surprised you, but you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“I– I have a list here. I’ve never been able to test it – you know it doesn’t snow here – but I’m sure you can grow all of these things in the North,” you showed Ned your little book, filled with notes and findings that you had made over the last decade.
“Gods . . the girls a scholar, Jon,” Ned laughed, squinting at the book. “Ye should get her sent off to some institution or something!”
Your father chuckled lightly, but it wasn’t cruel.
“I always knew she would be a smart one,” his eyes were on you now, a small amount of pride in them.
And you couldn’t help but smile back.
It was reassuring to know that your father wasn’t going to punish you for your gardening, and even moreso calming that Ned also approved. You just hoped no one would mention it to your stepmother.
The meal continued, with the men discussing something about an unrest in the West, and the Lannisters while you ate your food and sipped your tea. Inside, all you could think about was going to check if your poppies had blossomed, and if Ned Stark knew anything about Winterberries and Baby’s breath, two plants you knew could only grow in the Northern climate.
As if they could read your mind, the conversation turned back to you and Winterfell.
“Perhaps we should take Y/N with us,” your father’s suggestion seemed playful as he took a swig of his wine.
“Take me where?”
“Up North,” it was Ned who answered you. “Your father’s accompanying me home, we have an important meeting at Winterfell. Would you like to join us, Lady Y/N?”
Would you like to join them? Would you like to visit a beautiful, snowy castle and try to find Winterberries? Would you like to escape from your stepmother and spend time with your father?
You jumped up from your seat faster than ever, clutching your basket.
“Really? May I, father? Please, may I?”
“Cease your whining, girl,” your father groaned, shooting Ned a glare. “Of course you may. What’s all the fuss about, have you not been before?”
You knew you couldn’t blame him. He was, of course, a busy man. But your father was always so . . unaware, when it came to your upbringing. Here you were, nearing 10 and 9 namedays and he didn’t know that the only place you had ever visited outside of the Vale was Kingslanding.
“No, father. I’ve never been to Winterfell,” you said quietly, looking down at the ground.
To his credit, he seemed surprised.
His white eyebrows shot up, and the man nodded once.
“Then it’s settled. You shall join us in the North–” he looks to Ned, tone teasing as he adds. “If that is okay with his Lordship?”
“It would be my absolute honour, Lady Y/N.”
It was cold.
You knew it would be, but you had no idea how the cold would sit with you. It felt like a sheet of ice had wrapped itself around your bones, enclosing you tighter and tighter in its grasp.
The thick, velvet gloves in House Arryn's signature sky blue colour helped to shield your fingers from the snow as you stepped out of the carriage and looked around.
Winterfell was . . beautiful.
Despite the cold, despite the snow, despite all you had heard and read about the horrors of the North . . all you could see was the beauty of the castle. And if your heart wasn't warm enough at your surroundings, it softened even more when you watched Ned Stark run over to his wife and hold her in his arms.
Everyone knew Ned and Catelyn Stark were true soulmates.
It wasn't completely rare to find your soulmate, you knew that. But for a nobleman and a noblewoman to be soulmates? To find each other and be eternally happy? To not have to sacrifice love or status or family in this life?
Yes, the Starks were a blessed family. You could only hope to find a fraction of that love with the man you were to end up wedding.
A soft, white glow surrounded the couple in their embrace, evidence of their soulmate bond being at peace.
"Lady Y/N!"
You were broken out of your thoughts by a vaguely familiar voice . . that belonged to . .
"Lady Sansa," you breathed out a smile, nodding to the girl you remember meeting at a ball last Spring.
She seemed to be excited, as did the rest of her family.
Ned was the one to make your introductions.
"You all know Lord Arryn, this is his daughter, Lady Y/N Arryn," he nodded to where you were standing next to your father, dressed in a cloak that was nowhere near thick enough to shield you from the weather.
"It's a pleasure to meet you all," you offered all of the Stark siblings a smile.
You didn't know exactly how many kids Ned and Catelyn had, but as well as Sansa there was a younger girl and two younger boys who all shared similar dark hair and strong features. The youngest couldn’t have seen more than 3 namedays, a tiny toddler clinging to his mothers skirts.
"This is my good lady wife–" Ned was still holding Catelyn's shoulder. "My daughter Sansa you already know, this is Arya, Brandon and Rickon–"
"Father!"
Everyone's attention turned to the drawbridge, where two men on horseback arrived.
They were both dark haired, that you noticed, but the first one . . the one with hair that was more of a dark auburn . . there was something about his eyes . .
They came to a stop in front of the Stark family, Arya rushing over to hug the one that caught your attention.
"Robb!"
Robb.
Robb Stark, Ned and Catelyn's firstborn and heir to the North.
Robb Stark was tall, with curly dark hair and a beautiful face to match. You didn't know much about the Stark family, only things you had heard from the household at Arryn or from Ned himself, but you didn't know the Stark children were all so beautiful. You almost couldn't stop staring as he spun his younger sister around, laughing as she squealed–
"Robb! Y/N, this is my son Robb, and my other boy Jon," Ned's voice was filled with more pride than you'd heard in all the weeks you had been travelling together, and that made you smile again. “This is Lady Y/N.”
And then Robb's eyes landed on you.
And time seemed to slow down. It didn't completely stop, not in the way Ellie described it to you, but it was as if the flakes of snow that were falling around you were moving 100 times slower. It was like every voice and noise around you settled to a dim hum. Everyone's faces blurred around you and the only other person that you could see as clear as crystal . . was Robb Stark.
"Lady Y/N," he whispered, his words a soft breath. It was like he was tasting your name. And then he finally noticed your father beside you. "Lady Y/N Arryn?"
You fought a smile.
Was it possible? Was it truly possible that Robb Stark was your soulmate?
A man of nobility, a man from a good family, with good ties to your father, was to be your destiny.
Were the Gods truly this kind? Would you be allowed to marry him? Would your stepmother allow it? Could she overrule or convince your father? And what if Robb was already married? Or betrothed?
An overwhelming stress suddenly clouded your mind, and you knew you wouldn't be able to logically think about all of this with all these new people around, in an unfamiliar place.
"I . ." You broke his steel gaze, looking away and to your father. "I'm sorry, father. I don't know what– I'm dreadfully cold all of a sudden–"
"I can show you to your rooms!" Arya jumped up, proudly volunteering herself to help you inside.
You gave her a half hearted smile, still looking down to avoid Robb's stare.
But someone else had picked up on the Stark boy's odd behaviour.
"No. I will take Lady Y/N," Catelyn announced. She held an arm out for you to take, and you did so gratefully.
Your father didn't seem too disturbed by your quiet outburst, only nodding at you once.
"It has been a long journey for you, rest well."
"I will," you promised, letting the lady of Winterfell guide you into the castle. "Thank you, Lady Stark," you added, quieter.
There was a brief period of silence between the two of you as Catelyn led you around the giant castle.
"I haven't seen you since you were a babe. You have grown into a beautiful young lady, Y/N," she finally said.
"Thank you, my Lady."
"And how are your studies? My husband wrote to me while he was at the Eyrie, he mentioned you are interested in plants."
You felt some of your tension melt away at her kind words.
"Yes, it was my intention behind joining my father here. I was hoping to find Winterberries, they're a healing fruit that only grows in the North," you rambled, not noticing the way Catelyn smiled at you.
“Winterberries . . from the children’s tales?”
Winterberries were thought to be a myth in the North, originating from old tales and apparently being able to cure any ailment. They haven’t been seen for centuries, so you understood why people thought them to be unreal, but you had faith.
“They’re real, and I intend to find them,” you said determinedly.
Catelyn nodded once, not wanting to argue with you on this.
"And how is my sister? Does she treat you well?"
Her sister?
And then you remembered.
Your stepmother was once a Tully, just like the current Lady Stark. They were sisters, even if your stepmother rarely spoke of it. In fact, you had only ever heard her mention Catelyn out of bitterness, which explained a lot to you.
Catelyn married her soulmate, while your stepmother was your fathers fourth wife.
"She . . she treats me well," you lied smoothly. It wasn't your place to gossip or speak ill of your stepmother, especially not to her sister.
Catelyn frowned.
"I know my sister can be difficult--"
"No, no! I assure you, she . ."
"You do not have to hide the truth from me, Y/N."
By now, the two of you were entering a guest room. There was a large bed, covered in furs and silks of the Stark house colours, as well as a fireplace that was already lit, for which you were thankful. Catelyn nodded at a window and a servant boy immediately rushed over to close it. The room instantly warmed, and you breathed out a sigh.
"She treats me as well as she is able," you finally settled on, staring across at Catelyn.
She smiled.
"You have a good heart, Lady Y/N."
"Thank you, Lady Stark. And thank you for your hospitality, I'm sorry for leaving so quickly–"
"Not at all, my dear," she cut you off. "I know better than anyone how much of a shock the cold here can be when you come from the south . .” she trailed off, making you wonder what she was reminiscing on. Was she thinking about her life before moving to the North and becoming the lady of Winterfell?
“Do you ever miss it?” You asked carefully.
She looked down at you, her smile bittersweet.
“I can always travel there, but it will never feel the way it did when I was a girl,” she confessed. “Besides, my children are here. My husband is here, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”
Her voice was so firm, you couldn’t help but be convinced by her words.
“The snow is beautiful here, I don’t think I ever want to leave,” you joked.
Catelyn gave you a look that said more than words could, and you couldn't help but wonder if she knew.
Did she know about the moment you had shared with her son? That odd pull you could feel right now, urging you to run back to him in the courtyard? Did she know that he was possibly . . maybe . . your . .
"I . ."
"Shall I send for a maid to draw you a bath? Or help you out of your garments?" She quickly changed the topic.
"No, I– I will manage," you told her.
"I will send someone later to collect you for supper then," she nodded, going to stand in the doorway. "Rest well, Lady Y/N."
You bowed your head as she left.
"Thank you, Lady Stark."
You did not rest well.
As soon as Lady Stark left the room, you threw off your gloves and fell in front of the hearth, seeking warmth. You pulled off your uncomfortable cloak and took one of the furs from the bed, making a sort of faux bed by the fire.
It worked. Partially.
You still shivered after every other breath, but the flames were warm enough to heat up your cheeks as you curled up and tried to close your eyes, thinking out everything that had happened since your arrival in the North.
Ned and Catelyn, soulmates.
All the Stark children, dark haired aside from Sansa. She took after her mother.
Robb and Jon.
Robb. Robb. Robb. Robb--
You squeezed your eyes shut, ignoring the tingling feeling in your palms. That was just your freezing fingertips, right? Not the soulmate bond that you had read about . .
You couldn't know for sure. Not until the two of you touched skin. Which, for some reason, you weren't desperate to do. No, you were scared to know. What if Robb Stark was your soulmate? As the heir to Winterfell, surely he has a wife? Or is promised to someone?
The door to your room opened, but no one was there.
You looked around in confusion, before noticing the small animal crawling towards you.
A small grey hound– no, a wolf pup, was approaching you, slow and careful. You had never seen such an animal before, a slight feeling of fear growing inside you as you shuffled back against the wall.
"Hello there," you said quietly, cautious. You didn't want to startle him. "Where did you come from?"
Of course, the pup didn't answer you.
Instead, he crawled to the edge of your garments, making your breath hitch in your throat. You had heard tales about wolves in the North. They were vicious, merciless. Would he tear your heart out with his claws? Chew it with his . .
Only he wasn't violent.
He whined softly as he climbed up into your lap, making you let out a puff of air. You laughed once, slowly reaching down to pet the wolf. His fur was soft, and the low rumbling sound he let out at your petting made you smile wider.
"You're quite cute . . little pup."
He wasn't a rabid, vicious animal, like all the stories about the North paint wolves out to be.
"Perhaps we will be friends."
And it was then that you realised how warm you were. The pup was radiating heat across your lap and to your body, making you melt into your furs and close your eyes as you finally relaxed and fell asleep.
It must have been hours later when you awoke to the sound of a soft knocking on your door.
The pup was still sleeping soundly across your torso, making you smile absent mindedly, before you remembered the knock.
"Yes?"
The door opened, and a man stood in the entrance to your room.
A familiar man.
Jon.
"Lady Y/N," he bowed slightly, a smirk on his lips when he noticed the wolf pup in your lap. "Your father is requesting your presence in the hall."
Supper. Right. Catelyn said you would join them for dinner.
"Thank you," you pulled the furs closer, over your shoulders, not missing the way he was still staring at the animal. "Is– do you know this pup?"
Jon instantly straightened up, shaking his head.
"I do not. But he seems to know you."
You stroked his fur, staring down at the wolf in awe.
"He's so beautiful . . and he kept me warm while I slept," you told him as you continued to pet him.
"I'm sure his owner will be glad to hear that," Jon's voice still had a teasing lilt to it, and you couldn't shake the thought that maybe Jon knew more than he was letting on.
Before you could ask him about it, he spun on his heel and began to make his way towards the dining hall.
Jon sat at the far end of the table, which you couldn't help but find odd.
You were sat beside your father, with Sansa on your other side. She was lovely to talk to, complimenting your dress and asking about life in the vale. She even explained why Jon was sitting separately.
It was because he wasn't Catelyn's son.
Jon Snow was a bastard, which surprised you. Not only because he looked like the rest of the Stark siblings to his core, but because Ned and Catelyn were soulmates. Had Ned lain with another woman, after finding his soulmate?
"Do you prefer roses or lilies?" Sansa's question pulled you out of your thoughts.
"Lilies," you answered immediately.
"Your mother had a fondness for flowers, it follows that you do too," your father said.
"She did?"
You didn't know much about your birth mother. You never met her. She died giving birth to you and only a year later, right after Robert's Rebellion, your father remarried Lady Lysa Tully, your stepmother.
"Aye, that she did," Ned confirmed. "Not a green thumb like you though, Y/N."
You smiled warmly at the new information, not noticing the hard stare Robb was fixing you with from across the table.
Thick gloves covered your hands as you ate, and no one questioned it.
In truth, you were coping a lot better with the temperatures around you, but the gloves were for your own safety. You knew Robb would be at Supper and you couldn't risk any skin on skin contact with the man you suspected was your soulmate.
Robb himself was torn.
He noticed the way you were staring at Jon, not knowing that it was out of pure curiosity, not romantic interest. He couldn't understand why you wouldn't look at him, when you were all he could think about all day.
Why did you not take his hand outside to confirm that you were soulmates? Why won't you take it now? Why were you avoiding his stare? Had he done something to offend you?
It was driving him crazy, knowing you were his soulmate but you wouldn't even speak to him.
Because Robb knew, for certain.
He felt his half a soul pulling towards yours outside the castle today, and now again over the table of food. It was reaching out, desperately trying to hook itself onto yours and embed its deep claws there. It wanted to make a home in your heart, but you wouldn't open the door.
You wouldn't even look at him.
Robb tried to respect your wishes, not barging up to your rooms while you rested.
But this? This meal where he was being tortured by your beauty, your words of grace and thanks towards his parents, your attentiveness to his sister, your praise of his beautiful home–
This already felt like his end.
Desperately, his eyes met his mothers, and he knew she knew.
She looked between you and Robb, a hint of amusement on her face as she continued to eat and pretended she was none the wiser.
He looked at Jon next, unsure if his brother would be any help.
Jon just smirked, winking at Robb.
Ass, Robb thought to himself.
Just as Robb mustered up the courage to speak to you, someone else would ask you a question.
First it was Arya, then Bran, then his father.
Even his mother asked you something about plants, which made you light up. Robb couldn't help but smile and listen as you explained the properties of some rare poppy.
"I really hope to find some Winterberries while I'm here. I know they're rare, or extinct, according to my book, but if they are real, they only grow in this region–"
"I can help you," Robb blurted out.
Everyone at the table stopped eating. And talking.
Robb, stupidly, realised that these were the first words he had spoken all evening.
Usually, he would be more talkative than even Arya, but tonight, he had spent the better part of the meal just staring at you in a mixture of fascination and distress. And now he was randomly volunteering himself to go on a quest for some mythical berries?
You looked across at Robb, unsure.
"I mean, no one knows these lands better than I," he corrected himself, trying to emphasise his importance. Which was difficult, when you were finally looking at him. Everyone else melted into a puddle of blurred faces. Everyone but you. "I can help you find the berries you seek."
It wasn't you that answered him, but your father.
"Well that settles it," he was slightly drunk now, nudging Ned. "Your boy can show her the plants tomorrow. What do you say, Ned?"
Robb glanced at his father, trying not to let his worry show.
"You keep her safe," Ned's tone was warning as he stared at his son.
"I promise, father," Robb rushed out.
Finally, you spoke.
"Thank you."
You were looking at him.
You were looking at him and you were smiling.
Robb may have stopped breathing.
"My pleasure, Lady Y/N."
Sansa stole you away after supper, a fact that made Robb's face pull into a scowl as he joined Theon and Jon for a late night drink.
"Who pissed in your ale?"
"Robb has a crush," Jon teased, making Theon's eyes widen.
"What? On a real girl?"
Robb glared at them both.
"She's my soulmate," his words were firm, making Jon's eyes widen.
He had noticed the way his brother was staring at you, mooning over your arrival. It was interesting to him; women always fell over their feet in front of Robb, but you had run away from him after taking one look at his face.
Even at supper, you didn’t stare at him like some lost princess, which amused Jon. But finding out that you were his soulmate . . that changed things.
"Soulmate . . bloody hell. I thought you just fancied her," he winced. "That's . . why did she run away then?"
At this, Theon lit up.
"She ran away? Oh, this is brilliant. Lord Robb Stark, the mighty wolf of the North, rejected by his soulmate!"
"She didn't– we haven't spoken about it," Robb defended weakly. "I think she . . she needed space?"
"Maybe she doesn't like the cold? Doesn't want to spend the rest of her life up here," Theon suggested, making Jon roll his eyes.
He remembered the way you were perfectly fine with the temperatures in your chambers, not even needing your cloak to sleep.
"She's fine in the cold, caught her with the furs in front of the hearth in her room," he told the pair, not even considering the implication in his words.
But Robb did.
"And why the fuck were you in her room?"
Jon winced again.
Theon burst out laughing.
"Your mother sent me to fetch her for dinner," Jon said bluntly.
"Oh."
"Yes, oh."
All three of them shared a look, before laughing.
"Speaking of wolves," Jon began playfully. "Where's Grey Wind? Haven't seen him in a while."
He was right.
Robb hadn't seen his direwolf all day, and seeing Jon with Ghost was making him realise that. Had he been so occupied with thoughts of you that he had forgotten about his own wolf?
He stood up, drinking the last of his ale and heading out to gardens where he assumed Grey Wind would be resting with Lady.
"You should check the East Wing!" Jon called after him, holding back a laugh.
You were enjoying the North even more than you expected, which was surprising, because you already expected to enjoy it a lot.
But you had only been here a day and you were already sitting with a girl close to your own age, Lady Sansa Stark, and listening to her explain her braid to you. Sansa was even helping you to create a traditional pattern in your own hair, saying that you would fit in perfectly in the North.
“It’s been lovely having you here, Y/N. I do hope you’ll stay for the Winter, Arya never wants to braid hair with me . . we can practice together!”
Sansa was only a few namedays younger than you, so you could understand her frustration at her younger, more combative sister.
“You’re lucky to have so many siblings,” you said comfortingly. “Perhaps you could try doing something she is interested in?”
Sansa scoffed.
“Something such as archery? I would rather be shot from the battlements in my undergarments.”
You choked on a laugh.
“Sansa! Do not– do not say such things!”
You both shared a look, before laughing in unison.
It took a while for it to die down, but when it did, you took the ribbons from Sansa and closed your braid.
You stared at it in the mirror, an odd feeling overcoming you. You had never had your hair done by anyone other than a handmaiden, never playfully talked with a friend.
Sansa felt like a friend. For the first time in all your years of talking to plants or reading away your sorrows in an empty, neglected castle with only your stepmother to punish you, you were laughing with a friend.
But beneath that, there was something else.
Simmering, just below your skin, your body was pulling you out of this moment. It wanted you to leave, to run towards wherever Robb was. Acknowledging the soulmate bond was the only thing that would calm your restless heart, you knew that.
For now though, you would discuss Sansa’s plans to create a new dress in the sky blue Arryn colours that you had inspired her with.
With every step Robb took towards the East Wing, he felt his heart tighten.
He was almost becoming familiar with the feeling he had been grappling with all day, the sharp ache in his chest dulling to a longing that made him wish he was near you. Just being close to you. Observing you. Listening to you speak. Whatever he could get from you.
"Grey Wind!" He called out, searching the castle for his wolf.
Finally, he heard a howl.
Up the stairs.
“Grey Wind!”
A whine this time, quieter than before.
Why would the damn dog not heed his call? Why did Robb have to hunt him down? Shouldn’t he come to his master when he calls?
Robb's head snapped to the right, opening the door to the room and finding . . you.
You, with an elegant, Northern braid curling around your hair. You were curled up in front of the fire with Grey Wind in your lap, a heavy Stark cloak covering your shoulders, your eyes wide in surprise.
Robb's sudden entrance had clearly startled you, and he made a mental note to kick Jon in the teeth for this.
Jon knew.
Jon knew that you had apparently befriended Grey Wind, the traitorous beast cuddling against you with not a care in the world.
"Lord Stark," you seemed surprised. "I . ."
"Lady Y/N," he bowed his head immediately, out of embarrassment. "Forgive me for intruding."
You fought a grin.
Despite your surprise at his entrance, the feeling of being so close to him again calmed your restless body. You felt a wash of peacefulness, making you smile up at the young lord.
“This is your home, can you truly be intruding?"
Robb lifted his head, realising that you were joking with him.
"Aye, that is true. But even so, I am a gentleman. I cannot be barging into ladies rooms like some kind of . ." his thoughts trailed off, watching you petting Grey Wind and noticing how the wolf didn't protest.
Robb knew his wolf to be aggressive, and untrusting of every human he met. How had you managed to tame the beast in less than a day?
"Animal? Wolf?" You finished his sentence for him, noticing his stare at the wolf in your lap. A thought occurred to you. "Do you know this pup?"
Robb smirked.
"This pup is supposed to be my most formidable ally . . yet you have him as guardless as a newborn babe," he rolled his eyes at Grey Wind’s surprisingly cuddly behaviour.
You blushed, looking down.
"He belongs to you? I apologise, he came in earlier while I was resting–"
"There's no need to apologise, Lady Y/N," Robb couldn't help but smile at the sheepish look on your face. You were apologising for taking care of Grey Wind? Gods, you were as sweet and kind as you were beautiful. "I don't doubt that he trapped you, not the other way round."
You looked back up at Robb, meeting his eyes.
The soulmate bond between you hummed.
"Is he similar to his owner in that respect?"
You both knew what you were really asking. What you were skirting around.
Robb made sure to be as honest as possible when he answered you.
"I would never do anything to deceive you," he spoke slowly, with intent.
You swallowed.
Robb's words were so firm, so certain.
You knew what he was saying, the underlying promise in his words.
He wanted to touch you. He wanted you to know that you were soulmates. He wanted you to acknowledge the bond between you.
If you were being honest, the bond was the only thing you could feel all day.
You knew it was the reason you couldn't rest when you first arrived, your mind and body pulling you away from your room and desperately trying to drag you to him. Fate didn't want you to be apart, even if just to rest and think over your thoughts.
"You think he is deceiving me?" You looked back down at the wolf, who was now sleeping soundly.
Robb shook his head.
"I'll skin him if he hurts you, my lady."
At this, your arms immediately tightened around the animal.
Robb noticed.
He already thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world, but he now knew that his feelings extended beyond the soulmate bond. The way you were so polite to his mother, the way you respected and cared for his siblings, and now the way you angled yourself to protect Grey Wind in this moment made his heart soar.
You were more than any eligible, powerful lady he would be expected to marry for a political alliance. You were kind, considerate, and you were definitely smarter than anyone he had ever met, judging by the way you discussed your studies at supper.
And he knew Sansa was responsible for the braid in your hair, the one that claimed you as a Northern girl. It warmed his heart to see you, his soulmate, as one of his people. Perhaps you didn’t even know it yourself, but that braid . . it awoke something inside the mighty wolf of the North.
"That is a horrible thing to say," you whispered, so quietly Robb wasn't sure he was meant to hear it.
He shrugged once.
"I meant it," he stood his ground, softening slightly as he turned to leave. He gave Grey Wind a small nod, smiling as the wolf lolled his head to the side in acknowledgement. "But I know I can trust him with you. Goodnight, Lady Y/N."
"Can you grow carrots?"
"Yes."
"Potatoes?"
"Yes."
"Even here?" Rickon pressed.
He was right in thinking that it was too cold for potatoes to grow in the North. Under normal conditions, potatoes couldn't grow in freezing temperatures . . but you knew you could work around that.
"I can use a chamber," you told him, leaning closer to the boy at the breakfast table. "To protect the potatoes, and make them grow."
Rickon seemed to like that idea.
You both shared a conspiratory smile, which made you think of Robin. You had barely spent any time with your younger half brother, due to his mothers rules, but you liked to think he would ask you questions and look at you excitedly, the way Rickon was doing.
Robb was watching you from across the table again, and his mother was watching him again.
Ned and your father were holed up in Ned's rooms, discussing some political business, so they would not be joining the rest of you for breakfast.
"You make yourself too obvious, my son."
Robb didn't even look away from you when he replied to his mother.
"Why does she avoid me? Isn't she supposed to . . fall into my arms and we live happily ever after?" He huffed.
The noise Catelyn made was something between a laugh and a cry.
Even your infectious happiness as you discussed fruits with Rickon, the happiness that he could feel through your soulmate bond, wasn't enough to calm his anxious worries.
"I believe she is scared."
At this, Robb's head snapped to face his mother.
"Of me? I would never do anything–"
"Not of you," Catelyn laid a hand over Robb's to calm him. "I know my sister, her stepmother. And growing up with her can't have been kind."
Robb mulled over her words, turning back to watch you laughing with Rickon and Arya.
You looked so carefree, so happy. It was hard to picture you as anything but the sunshine in every room you walked into.
Catelyn followed her son's gaze, speaking again.
"You should use today as an opportunity. Show her that she can trust you. Show her that you are a gentleman, then she will have no choice but to . . how did you put it? Fall into your arms and live happily ever after?"
Robb groaned at her teasing words.
"Mother! I want to grow strawberries with Lady Y/N!" Rickon shouted, stumbling over to Catelyn with half a bowl of porridge. “Strawberries! Strawberries! Strawberries–!” Needless to say, the boy ended up tripping on his own toes. His porridge ended up falling on himself, making Arya laugh loudly and Robb hold back a chuckle.
Rickon immediately burst into tears.
Catelyn frowned, about to scold the boy when you rushed over, crouching in front of him.
“Oh, Rickon, it’s okay.”
You took the empty dish from him, cooing words of reassurance that it was 'all going to be well', and he had 'done nothing wrong'.
Rickon's sobs slowed, his sniffs and cries muffled by your skirts. The boys grubby porridge hands had ruined your garments, Robb noticed, but you didn't seem upset by this.
"I am so sorry," you looked over at Catelyn in fear. "I only meant to discuss crops, I didn't mean for him to get over excited."
The servants had already cleaned away the mess, but you were bowing your head to the lady of the house as though she was going to execute you over a toddler spilling a bowl of oats.
Robb frowned when he realised that you were holding Rickon to the side, as if you were protecting him. As if you were expecting a blow to come and were prepared to take it for the boy. Your fear stretched from you to him through your bond, making his heart skip a beat.
He could feel what you were feeling, and it made him sick.
Was this what his mother meant when she said that you were used to a different way of life? He would not allow you to ever feel scared in this house– or anywhere, for that matter.
"It is no matter, he spills his porridge every day," Robb lied carefully.
Catelyn, quick to catch on, nodded in agreement.
"There's no need to apologise, Lady Y/N. This wasn't your fault."
Your shoulders relaxed slightly, and so did Robb's tense heart.
"Did you ever meet your soulmate?"
It took you all day and all night to gather the courage to ask him that question.
You and your father weren't close by any means, you only spoke to him at mealtimes or at formal gatherings, when introductions were being made. Your stepmother took control of your lifestyle and education whenever the man was away, which was often, as the King's hand.
But you liked to think he still cared about you, deep down. You may not be his heir, but you were his only other child.
He was out by the stables, talking to Ned when you approached him. The Stark Lord excused himself when he saw you, and you took the opportunity to ask your father a question you never thought you would be confident enough to speak.
He looked at you, confusion obvious on his face.
And then it twisted into a bittersweet smile.
"She was . . a beautiful girl," he began.
"A noble lady?"
"No," he shook his head. "She wasn't. And I could not shame my father or my house by marrying her . ." he reminisced, a melancholy, faraway look in his eyes. "This would have been . . a long time before you were born. 30 years or so."
So he would have been extremely young . .
"I can only hope you never have to go through that, my girl," his words were simple, but you knew he meant them. You could feel that he meant them. "Meeting your soulmate but not being able to marry them . . I can think of no worse fate."
You frowned.
"If I did meet my soulmate . . if he were a nobleman . ."
He tilted his head to the side.
"Do you have something to tell me, girl?"
You froze.
"I just wonder . . would I be able to marry him? I know stepmother worries about political alliances, and I know she discusses my marriage with other houses," you voiced your concerns.
Surprisingly, your father didn't look at you the way your stepmother looked at you when you asked her about soulmates when you were only a little girl, like you were a stupid girl with no idea how love worked.
He looked at you with respect and admiration.
"If you had met your soulmate . . and he was a good man . . from a good family–"
"You would consider the Starks a good family, would you not? You and Lord Stark are good friends," you pointed out.
Your father seemed to put the pieces together, smiling proudly at you.
"I could not think of a more perfect match, Y/N."
You smiled back at him.
"And your stepmother has no say in your marriage, I can assure you of that."
"I know you lied to me."
Robb's head snapped towards you worriedly.
"I did?"
You nodded, lifting your skirts and climbing onto your horse. Her name was Sunflower, and she had travelled up with you. After the servants at the castle named you Sunshine, you found it appropriate to name your horse after the flower that grew towards the sun.
Robb held his hand out to help you onto the mare but, despite the fact that you still had your gloves on, you didn't take it.
His lips pressed into a thin line at the rejection.
"I could feel it. You lied to me when you said Rickon spills his porridge every day," you told him pointedly.
"You could feel it?" Robb repeated. "And how is it that you could feel it, my lady? Do you possess magical abilities?"
You stared down at him.
Robb smirked, going over to mount his own horse.
"You know how I felt it."
Robb chuckled, knowing that you were trying not to acknowledge your soulmate bond.
"Do I?"
"And in any case, no boy who spills his breakfast every day would cry that much," you defended. "If he were so accustomed to it, he wouldn't have been so upset."
The man, now on his horse, considered your words.
"Are you always this smart? I may find it hard to keep up."
It was your turn to smirk.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord Stark."
Robb took you around the outside of Winterfell, showing you where deliveries of food come in and where the people lived. He took you past the woods and towards the Wolfswoods, where he knew wild fruits and other things grew.
You looked around at the snowy landscape, in awe that the trees could grow so tall.
Robb helped you down from your horse, gripping your gloves so tightly you almost thought he was trying to touch your skin beneath them. When soulmates first touched, their skin would burn permanently.
There would be a mark on your fingertips, or your palms, forever reminding the pair of you of your love.
You knew Ellie's mark was on her palm, from when she high fived her soulmate as a child. The Maester back at the Eyrie must have had it on his forearm, something you suspected because he often held his arm whenever you pestered him about his soulmate.
Robb stared down at you as you regained your footing on the ground, and you knew he was thinking similar thoughts.
So you looked away, dropping his hand and opening your satchel.
You needed to focus on foraging today.
Your father had given you his blessing, but the final decision still lay with you.
Robb might have been a perfect gentleman to you so far, but you had to consider so many things before you gave in to the soulmate bond. And today was about finding Winterberries, completing the task that you had travelled so far for.
"Hold the basket," you pushed the small wicker object at him, far too busy reading your notes to worry about pleasantries.
"Of course, my lady," Robb's tone was sarcastic. "Is there anything else her majesty desires?"
You winced, realising how rude you had been.
"I apologise, I was just making sure we're in the right place–"
Robb stood in front of you, lifting the small book from your hands and staring directly down into your eyes.
"We are in the right place, trust me."
You shivered.
He frowned.
"Are you cold?"
He immediately began to pull off his cloak, making you shake your head.
"No, no, I am–"
It was too late.
Robb had already laid his heavy, dark fur cloak over your pretty blue and pink one.
You were silenced by the weight and warmth of the furs, looking up at him as he stared down at you hungrily. You could feel the soulmate bond, the way he felt proud at being able to help you. You wondered if he could feel your worries, or the way that his cloak made you feel safer than ever.
Neither of you said anything for a moment, just your eyes meeting in a silent peacefulness, until a howl tore through the woods behind you.
Your eyes widened, and Robb grinned, his soft curls blowing in the breeze.
"They won't hurt you, Lady Y/N."
"Are you sure?"
"The North is not as frightening when you're from here."
"But I'm not ‘from here’," you retorted.
"Aye, you're not," he held up the basket cheekily, going into the Wolfswoods. "Best if you stick with me then, don't you think?"
You rolled your eyes, but still followed him.
"These look like . ."
"Devil's gloom," Robb finished your sentence, staring at the berries between your gloved fingertips. "One bite is enough to kill a grown man within the hour. And no antidote."
"That you know of," you said pointedly. "Winterberries can cure any poison." You swung your basket as you left the bush, continuing your journey through the woods.
"Winterberries are a myth, no one alive's seen them!" He called after you. "Oi! What are you doing with that poison? Put those back."
You ignored him, continuing to venture deeper.
There were a few flowers you hadn't seen before, so you crouched down to draw a sketch in your notebook. They were red and yellow, with large petals . . you would have to look them up once you were back in your library. Unless . .
"Does Winterfell have a library?" You stood up, almost crashing into Robb who had finally caught up with you.
He seemed startled.
"Yes, yes we do. Do you want to go now . . ?"
You scrunched your face up.
"Now? Are we not having fun?"
Robb tried not to laugh.
He had spent the last 2 hours chasing after you as you danced around the Wolfswoods, a new plant catching your attention every few seconds. If he weren't such a good hunter, he would never have been able to keep up.
"If we head towards Winterfell, I could show you the Godswoods. There's a big heart tree there, you may enjoy that," he offered.
You considered his suggestion.
"Is this your way of telling me you are tired of showing me the berries?"
Robb looked insulted.
"Lady Y/N . . I am anything but tired of you. In truth, I would rather keep you here with me for eternity. I know once we return to the castle, my family will steal you away from me again," he said these words bitterly.
"But it is past noon, and I worry one of us may end up eating the wrong berries in our hunger–" he pauses, thinking about it. "Perhaps that is a kinder fate than having to watch Sansa and Jon take my soulmate from me."
You giggled at that.
"You would rather eat Devil's Gloom than take me back to spend time with your kind siblings?"
"So you admit you are my soulmate?"
Neither of you had said those words out loud, not since your first meeting yesterday.
You were avoiding it out of your own reservations and Robb was trying to respect your wishes, no matter how much it frustrated him. But it seemed that even his patience had its limits.
He was staring down at you, eyes burning with . . well, you weren't sure what this expression was. It was like that tug in your soul, the one that was distantly pulling you towards him, was snapping. You could feel how his frustration was overflowing, and it made you frown in sympathy.
Robb Stark didn’t deserve the way you had been treating him.
Just because you were unsure, careful, scared . . he shouldn’t have to feel so rejected. Hurt. Confused.
You looked up into his sharp blue eyes, finally deciding to speak the words you had been afraid to say out loud.
"I would be a difficult wife. I would spend all day in the gardens."
Robb didn't hesitate.
"Then I would join you in the dirt, or the snow."
He took a step towards you.
"I wouldn't be a good lady like your mother, I have no experience with running a household, or taking care of children."
"I don't want you to be like her, I just want you to be you," he pauses, staring down at you. "Besides, you did perfectly well with Rickon this morning."
You stared up at him.
“You only met me yesterday, you cannot say with certainty that I am what you want.”
Robb raised an eyebrow.
“You think my soulmate wasn’t made for me? You think I haven’t been watching you take care of the children . . how you patiently wait for your father . . how you selflessly put others first . . or how even Grey Wind chose to protect you.”
He had been watching you?
You hadn’t noticed until now, but it seemed like he was . . obsessed with you.
"Are you not promised to another woman, a proper lady?" You had one last, weak, argument.
Instead of mocking your insecurities, Robb simply shook his head, taking another step closer to you.
"No."
"And do you intend to be?"
Robb took a final step towards you.
There was now less than half a step between you, the tall lord in front of you invading your space like it was his own.
Which, perhaps, in a way, it was.
Now that he was so close to you, you could feel a glow beginning to form around you.
The soulmate bond in you was reaching out to him, the same way he was reaching out to you. It was starting to build, waiting for the two of you to touch so that it could explode in a burst of light.
"Let me make myself clear, Lady Y/N, since you seem to have misunderstood me," his words were low, serious. "I am not betrothed to another. I never plan to be betrothed to another. I never want to look at, to speak to, or to lay with another woman that isn't you. The only woman I wish to love, to wed, to warm my bed, to carry my children, to be the lady of Winterfell, is you."
He was so close now, you knew the bond was about to reach its peak. The glow emanating from his hand as he reached forward to touch your cheek was brighter than before. The pull between your chest and his was stronger than before.
You made a decision.
And then you let out the breath you had been holding in, taking a step back.
Robb looked at you like you had struck him with a blade.
The heartbreak on his face was as clear as day, a mixture of confused and forlorn.
Before he could say anything though, you began to make your way back in the direction you had come from.
"We should go to the Godswoods. To see the tree," you called over your shoulder, a new determination in your words.
How could you be so cruel?
How could the kindest lady he had ever met, also be the most heartless?
How could you sit there on your horse, avoiding his gaze and stare straight ahead as the two of you rode back towards the castle?
On the way to the Wolfswoods this morning, you had spoken to each other endlessly.
He told you stories of his siblings, his military training and how he and Theon would avoid classes as children, while Jon would dutifully attend every one.
You told him about the Eyrie, how you had befriended the household and learnt about horticulture from the Maester.
You both shared that your fathers were away a lot, but Ned was much more present than your father. You knew your father wasn't a bad man, you just . . didn't know him as a father.
Robb thought about this, racking his brain trying to defend your ruthless rejection of his affections.
Was it perhaps because you grew up alone? Or because you didn't want to live in the Northern Winter? Were you unsure of how to respond to him?
Or perhaps . . did you truly not feel the soulmate bond the way he did? Did you doubt his promises?
What had he done to make you so mistrustful of him?
"This is . . beautiful."
You hadn't spoken to each other the entire journey, Robb too occupied with being completely baffled and offended by your betrayal and you too determined to see your plan through to the end.
Sunflower came to a stop under the giant heart tree, allowing you to climb down and stare up at the red leaves in wonder. Robb watched as you spun under the Weirwood, fighting a smile at how happy you looked.
He was supposed to be angry with you.
With your actions, your cruel dismissal of his feelings.
But when you finally looked at him, meeting his eyes with the strongest stare he had ever seen from you, his anger melted away.
He could feel your resolve through the bond between you, and it settled something in his chest. All he had done was worry you were going to reject him, but he couldn't sense any of that from you. You were radiating a calmness that washed over him when you spoke.
"Robb," you said evenly. "Come closer."
Robb.
You called him by his name, not by some title.
He was now even more confused than before, taking a step in your direction.
"Y/N," he said simply, mirroring your usage of his given name. "What are you doing?"
He watched as you grinned wolfishly, pulling off one of your gloves.
His eyes widened.
"I . . Lady Y/N, the cold–"
You ignored his protests, rolling your eyes. Of course he was worried about your body temperature at a time like this.
You wanted to complete your soulmate bond and he was worried about some snow in the Godswoods?
"Give me your hand, Robb Stark."
What? You wanted his hand?
Robb would easily give you his hand, his arm, his leg– anything you asked him for, so he wasn't at all surprised by his actions when he reached his hand out for you to take.
Which you did.
“Sansa told me that this place is sacred for your people,” you said quietly. “For your family.”
Robb was still in shock from your odd behaviour.
“That it is . .”
And so there, under the heart tree, grinning up at him with a white glow cocooning you both, you took his hand and laid his palm against yours.
He felt the pain before he realised what it was.
A burning sensation, emanating from where your skin touched his, white light spreading from the both of you as your soulmate bond finally– finally completed itself.
Your heart settled in your chest. And so did his.
But neither of them would ever beat the same single drum again, now hitting a double beat with every second as you stared at each other with matching smiles.
Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match; the South was too polished for the North, and the North was too discourteous for the South.
And yet, sometimes fate liked to play its game in an arranged marriage.
Warnings: Mature themes, blood, usual Game of Thrones violent themes (No Red Wedding), separate and specific warnings will be included in each chapter. MDNI.
Important Notes: Robb and the reader and all their friends are in their 20s, the fic will not follow most of the canon, and the parts from the show will be explained within the fic.
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
ACT I
Chapter 1 : Big plans require unexpected moves.
Chapter 2 : First impressions can make or break a union.
Chapter 3 : Cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
Chapter 4 : Proceeding with caution is wise in a new environment.
Chapter 5 : Disrespect has consequences.
Chapter 6 : Desire ignites even in the coldest places.
Chapter 7 : What is said and what is meant can be two different things.
Chapter 8 : Southern court training has different strengths from the North.
Chapter 9 : Patience is a skill that can be honed.
Chapter 10 : There’s a time and place for subtlety.
Chapter 11 : There are many different ways to find warmth in the cold.
Chapter 12 : Promises must be made carefully.
Chapter 13 : Courtesy demands good manners.
Chapter 14 : Not every invitation is accepted.
Chapter 15 : One must be careful while mending bridges.
Chapter 16 : It's wise to pay attention to the signs.
Chapter 17 : Words can easily turn into oaths.
Chapter 18 : The heir to the north is raised not only to rule, but also to fight.
Chapter 19 : Honesty is the solution to many issues.
Chapter 20 : Drinks can lead to recklessness.
Chapter 21 : Weddings can be very chaotic.
Chapter 22 : Harvest follows patience.
ACT II
Chapter 23 : After the wedding comes the honeymoon.
Chapter 24 : Ladies of the southern court are taught to wield words like weapons.
Chapter 25 : Saying goodbye to family is always difficult.
Chapter 26 : Honeymoon is made better with gifts.
Chapter 27 : Rumors can cause jealousy.
Chapter 28 : Royal visitors can cause problems.
Chapter 29 : Fears burden the mind.
Chapter 30 : The north and the south have different approaches to nightmares.
Chapter 31 : There are lines that should not be crossed, even in enmity.
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So, I imagine that Soap is fucking RAMPANT for your pussy.
The first time that you get intimate with each other beyond making out, he immediately moves between your legs and says "ive wanted to know what ye taste like for so fuckin long, lass."
Anyway, he ends up cumming in his pants without any stimulation other than eating your pussy out.
I also imagine that he'll just randomly crave you throughout the day, come up behind you and whisper in your ear "I wanna stuff my tongue in yer cunt, baby."
How about that one time you go clothes shopping together and pick out a pair of tight leggings. As soon as you come out of the changing room, Johnny's eyes dart down to the very very obvious camel toe, and licks his lips.
Next thing you know, he's ushering you into the changing room, shoving the leggings down and bending you over. You can see him drop to his knees in the mirror and use his hands to spread your cheeks before diving in. You have to bite your hand to keep from moaning too loud.
Oh, also, he LOVES a nice healthy bush. If you even mention wanting to shave or wax it, he'll hide your razors and forbaid you from going to the appointment. He nearly sobs when you get away with it anyway.
"You smell so fucking good with the hair, dove. I don't know why in the hell you would want to get rid of it.. you've got such a pretty pussy."
Anyway, I love my pussy drunk Soap.
Forgot to mention, he totally mentions how good you taste and sound when he eats you out to his best mate Ghost.
Pairing: Boyfriends!Yunsangi x Fem!Reader
Tags/warnings: no smut, pure fluffy stuff, some adult language, just yunho, san, and mingi being the best and goofy boyfriends, fem petnames, purely fictional stuff
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
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.”
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.
-# Synopsis ￫ after the battle of the bastards, you were pledged to jon. you are ramsay bolton's widow, but also a karstark. a practical choice, for the karstarks needed to seal their loyalty back to the north for their sins. ˎˊ˗
-# Warnings ￫ 1.8k+ .ᐟ fluff .ᐟ mentions of death .ᐟ mentions of ramsay... he's his own warning .ᐟ first time writing for got...kind of nervous .ᐟ ˎˊ˗
-# A/n ￫ i wrote this fic being centered around the time jon becomes king of the north, but before he meets dany. having to write that big ass essay for finals made me lock in on my writing. there will be a pt. 2 to this, and potentially a pt. 3. but i'm wary of when i will post it because this took me like a month to post. i started on a draft, didn't like it and left it alone for a few weeks, and then switched it up just now ˎˊ˗
The aftermath of the Battle of the Bastards was a gruesome one. One Jon would've preferred to reverse, despite the necessity of it. The blood from the battle still stained the snow, a mixture of smoke and soot—a reminder of the price required to pay for the reclamation of Winterfell.
The victory had been absolute, but the cost was etched into every dead man and cracked stone of the keep. In the courtyard, men slogged in a heavy silence, hauling debris aside and gathering the dead for the pyres. The snow fell steadily, strewing the ruins in a deceitful, clean white.
Winter has come. But, now it was no longer a threat to the North. Inside the Great Hall, the air was frigid, biting at Jon's flushed face. He stood by the hearth, his dark curls draping around his face like curtains, staring into the embers. Lost in thought. He looked less like a newly claimed King and more like a man who had seen all too much.
A handful of braziers strived against the draft, casting long, spectral shadows along the walls. Ser Davos Seaworth had stepped forward, his voice low. “The lords are restless, Jon. They don't want just a leader. They want a beacon that the North is whole again.” Without looking from the fire, “I gave them a victory.” Jon responded briskly.
Davos tightened his jaw, “A victory is a moment. A marriage is a foundation. House Karstark is a powerful name, even if it's been dishonored as it has.” Jon finally turned, his dun eyes tired and rimmed with exhaustion. He looked like a man who had just come back to life and found only more burdens awaiting him.
(Name). Ramsay Bolton's widow. Jon had seen you in the godswood many a time, your figure that of a ghost. You were the Bolton's prisoner in all but name. Davos cleared his throat, “She has suffered enough at the hands of the Boltons. Bringing her into your house—properly, as your wife—cleanses the Karstark’s name and will secure their swords. It is a practical choice.”
Jon let out an empty scoff, “Practical.” his gaze shifted towards the heavy oak doors. Behind those doors awaited the woman who had survived the cruelty of Ramsay Bolton. A woman who was now being traded from one man to another. “...(Name) deserves someone with much gentler hands than Ramsay.” Sansa had chimed in, sitting at the high table nearby.
Jon glanced at Sansa for a brief moment, his brows knitted. Sansa had endured Ramsay's brutality before, Jon knew that. “She's a kind woman, Jon. She assisted with my escape. She trusted that I'd find the help she needed.” Sansa had said, averting her gaze downward as she added timidly, “You'll come to love her, I know it.”
Jon exhaled gravely, a breath he didn't even perceive he had been holding. “I have faith.” He grunted, turning his gaze back to the cinders of the fire. The doors then groaned open, a servant stepping aside as you entered the hall. You walked with a quiet dignity, your h/c hair falling nimbly over your shoulders.
You didn't spare a glance to the lords whispering in the galleries; only looking at the man standing near the head of the table. The hall fell with an abiding hush as you approached. The only sound was the soft rhythmic thud from the heels of your boots against the stone floor, along with the crackle of the hearth.
The lords of the galleries leaned in, their eyes watching your every move. Jon gradually made his way closer to the table, meeting your stop. He stood tall, the heavy Stark cloak weighing over his shoulder. He didn't move any closer, nor did he offer a false smile. His expression remained guarded, his eyes searching yours for nothing in particular.
“You've had a long journey from the Dreadfort.” Dreadfort. The place Ramsay kept you cooped up in while awaiting the battle. His voice was steady, but devoid of any hardness. Davos stepped back to give you both space, his voice soft “The chambers in the west wing have been prepared for you, My Lady. They are warm, and the servants have seen to the linens.”
Jon ignored Davos, his attention set on you. “You don't have to stand. Please. Sit.” He implored as he gestured to the high table. You offered a paltry smile as you sat, brushing your skirts beneath you. “Thank you.” The distance between you and Jon felt like a canyon, the space filled with the ghosts of the people who had fought to clear this very room.
Jon remained standing for a moment longer than necessary, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His knuckles were turning white. He finally sat back down after the silence got too loud. “I know what they say. The lords. The council.” He didn't look at Davos, but the smuggler remained a few paces away, a silent witness to their awkwardness at the moment.
“I didn't ask for this crown. And I didn't ask for you to be brought here as a payment for your father's sins.” Davos cleared his throat, “Perhaps now is not the time to bring the politics of the past, Jon.” Jon shifted, the heavy furs of his cloak rustling. “It's the only time we have, Ser Davos.”
He looked at you, his expression stoic but not unkind. He was searching for something—a flicker of anger, a sign of fear, or perhaps just a sign that you were still there behind the mask of courtesy. “You've spent years with a man who found pleasure in flaying men.” He paused, leaning forward, “I cannot give you back the dignity you lost. But you will find no cruelty here. Not from me.”
You look up at him, “I appreciate your graciousness, My Lord.” Jon stared at you for a long moment, “Not Lord, just Jon.” he corrected. “...Right. Jon.” Your voice was steady, your gaze clear, but your words felt like formality—a shield you carried out of necessity.
His expression softened in the slightest, “Graciousness isn't what you need. You need peace.” He looked away, his eyes drifting toward the high windows where the grey light of the North filtered through. The silence stretched between them, though no longer oppressive, but heavy with the things unspoken.
Davos stepped forward, “Peace is a rare thing in the North, My Lady. But it is something the King is determined to make do.” Jon grimaced at the title of ‘King’, his posture stiffening. He shifted his weight, his gaze returning to you. He noticed the way you sat—spine straight, hands resting still in your lap.
You were composed. Far too composed for someone who had undergone Ramsay's savagery. “You must be tired.” Jon's voice was gruff as he gestured to the hall, “I'll have the servants bring some food to your chambers. Something warm.” As he spoke, a low, guttural huff echoed from the entrance of the hall. Ghost, his direwolf, trotted in.
His red eyes scanned the room before settling on you. He didn't growl; he simply approached with a slow, curious gait, his paws silent on the stone. The wolf stopped a few feet from the table, tilting his head as he sniffed the air, sensing the lingering scent of the Dreadfort.
Jon watched Ghost, his brows furrowing, “He doesn't trust easily.” he commented. You watched the direwolf with a mix of awe and fright, “He's beautiful.” you murmured—more to yourself than Jon. Ghost stepped closer, closing the gap until his large, white head was leveled with the table.
The wolf didn't lunge or snap; instead, he leaned in, his cold nose nudging tentatively against your hand. Jon smiled, a true one that hadn't been on his face in quite a long time, “He likes to protect those close to me. He knows you're someone worth defending.” He glanced up from Ghost and up at you.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “A good omen.” Davos chimed in, “With the wolf, you'll be the safest you've ever been.” The moment was interrupted by Sansa standing, the shuffling of her boots cutting through the air.
Her red hair—kissed by fire, they say—contrasting sharply with the grey of the stone walls. “I hope your journey wasn't too taxing, (Name).” Sansa smiled at you before turning to Jon, “The lords are gathering in the solar. They are anxious to hear the terms of this union.”
Jon stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Let them wait.” Sansa exhaled shallowly, “They have waited long enough, Jon. The North needs to know that the Karstarks have truly returned to the fold.” You had been petting Ghost, too submerged in the warmth of the wolf's white fur to even heed the conversation.
The wolf leaned into your touch, his heavy head resting against your palm. His red eyes closed in contentment, letting out a purr-like sound that escaped his throat. For a few seconds, the politics of the lords ceased to exist. Jon watched you, his expression unreadable.
He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't remind you of the lords waiting in the solar or the propriety of the situation. He simply watched how the tension in your shoulders seemed to dip, if only by an inch. Sansa's expression softened as she watched you, maybe a tad bit of relief in her eyes at the sight of you relaxed.
She then turned back to Jon, her tone returning to one of business inducing. “Jon, the Manderly representative is asking for a specific audience. He wants to ensure the Karstark lands are formally recognized under the Northern crown before the wedding is announced.”
Jon stood up abruptly, the bench scraping harshly against the stone. “I said let them wait, Sansa.” His voice wasn't loud, but it held a sudden, sharp edge. He looked down at you, seeing you still connected to Ghost, a flicker of something—protectiveness, perhaps, or guilt—crossed his face.
He didn't want to pull you back to the cold reality of the expectant lords just yet. Davos soon stepped in, attempting to smooth the tension, “The Manderlys are thorough, that's all. A bit of parchment now saves a lot of blood later.”
Jon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine.” He looked at you one last time, “Go with Sansa. She'll show you to your chambers. Get some food. Rest. I'll deal with the lords.” He reassured, beginning to walk.
You then look up at Jon, giving Ghost one last stroke along his fur. “Will you come see me later?” You inquired, staring at his back that was partially turned to her. Jon stopped in his tracks, looking back over his shoulders, his dark eyes meeting yours.
“I will.”
He didn't promise a time, nor did he offer a smile.
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Actually when I say “fuck all billionaires” I particularly mean Taylor “having my wedding in the middle of the busiest city in the world on the busiest weekend in the world in the part of the city the majority of commuters need to get through because fuck working people” Swift
dry humping virgin!Jon in his chambers at Castle black, he’s trying to hold his moans—more like whimpers—but the sensation is just too good. Your warmth aganist his hurting erection, his hands roaming messily around your body, and still trying to figure out why it feels soo good. He’s sweating a bit and your hands are holding onto his black hair, pulling him back just enough to leave a messy kiss in his lips. His puppy eyes looking at you like you’re the most precious thing ever and you slid two fingers in his mouth to make him silent but he whimpers aganist your hand. He’d hold your hips tightly—he’s got to hold onto sum—that he’ll leave marks. He’ll apologize later though.
I just know that when Ghost finds a girl that matches his freak in bed he makes it known to absolutely everyone how crazy good his sex life is. Like walking around the gym with her teeth imprints all up and down his biceps, the lipstick marks not even scrubbed off his chest, bruises and hickeys all along his shoulders, showing off how crazy good the sex was the night prior to the point where it starts making everyone kind of uncomfortable.
He sheds his shirt in the locker room to show off a back full of deep, welting scratches and Gaz takes one look at them before quietly sending Johnny a text from across the room that just reads: "I feel violated."
Gaz is the sort of boyfriend who could easily heft you up on to his shoulders to give you a better view of the band at a music festival or at a fireworks show.
He is also the sort of boyfriend who can heft you up onto his shoulders the opposite way and leaving you stuck holding on to his head with your thighs and hands while he eats you standing.
Neck pain? Aching shoulders? Worth it to get you dripping down his chin and neck, your orgasm a warm mess gliding all the way down to his clavicle as he feasts.
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