Welcome to my Brain

In the South, the earliest lesson every young lord and lady learns is that words are a knife; you must learn to wield them properly, lest you end up making yourself bleed. You'd been through countless lessons with your septa as a girl, political meetings after meeting, and so many dances and feasts that it’d become reflex to put on that polite smile expected of you. You chose your words carefully to match the atmosphere of every room you walk into and held your head high even with every practiced curtsy. You became the knife your mother sharpened you to be.

But life in the South was lonely. Even with all of the riches of Westeros within reach there was very little to care for. The longer your stay in Winterfell, the more obvious it became: what the North lacked in complexity it certainly made up for in the beauty of its simplicity.

You never had to worry that someone didn’t mean what they’d said. Northerners never minced their words or tried to hide their true intentions behind fanciful phrases and follies. They were calm and level-headed, keeping their sense in the heat of every conversation.

The North also understood that the only way to survive through the winter was together. Everyone had their duty and everyone honored it. They would keep each other warm.

And the land was respected, not like the South where people would sell an arm and a leg to purchase a plot of land, eager to cut down trees and raise farms for a profit. The forests were sacred and hunting was much more for survival than entertainment. The hot springs were the lifesource of Winterfell, heating the city with their steam and warming its walls as the hot water traveled through the inlay pipes. And the stars… oh the stars.

When you’d arrived at Winterfell, unaware you’d never return home, the one hope you’d held close was to see godswoods at night. Your father had described them the same way throughout your childhood, in the

stories he only told when he was sober enough to wish you goodnight. He would recount the days of his youth and his friendship with the Starks, painting portraits of the godswoods with his words, complete with descriptions of the blood red leaves reminding him of blood whenever they’d fall on the snow covered ground. He’d told you that every time one of his men would fall in battle, he’d try to imagine their blood as leaves claiming their bodies to return them to nature. And despite terrifying you as a child when describing the trees, he’d always manage to make you smile when he’d describe the stars.

“It will overwhelm almost any southerner,” he’d tell you. “There’s so many of them so close together… It almost looks like velvet, like the sky would be soft to touch.”

And you’d laugh when he’d ruffle your hair, saying, “You can’t touch the sky!”

“No,” he’d respond, his voice gruff and tired. “But you’ll never see the sky so crowded as you do in Winterfell. The stars all gather there because it’s the only place in this god forsaken kingdom worth being.”

So when you’d arrived with your family in Winterfell, on your father’s business to visit his oldest friend, Ned Stark, you’d been certain the most excitement out of this trip you’d find would be in the godswoods under a blanket of stars. You were proven dreadfully wrong.

It had been a surprise to no one but yourself when your betrothal to Robb Stark was announced at the supper feast on your very first night in Winterfell along with the wedding announced to be only a moon away. This put a rather large spoke in the wheel of your plan to see the stars. Suddenly your days were filled with preparations. Your only hidden moments were with Robb himself, as he took it upon himself to get to know you whenever you had the time.

He had taken you to the godswood, navigating it with an expertise that only could have come from years of living next to them. You’d asked each other questions about values and duties, of family relations and habits you’d found in yourselves to be annoying, and of wishes you’d held deep in your hearts that you knew could never be because of who you’d been born as.

Soon enough, you’d found that Robb took up most of your time, pulling you for dances at dinner feasts and whispering jokes in your ear while you tried not to step on his foot while laughing. He’d sneak into your chambers at night, only to drop off Grey Wind, his direwolf, who’d grown fond enough of you that he’d sleep at the end of your bed as often as he could. And during meetings amongst yourselves and your parents, discussing your dowry, agricultural trades, and political alliances, the two of you exchanged looks that had your mother kicking your foot under the table chastising you for your lack of propriety.

Although the company was lovely, with only seven days left until the ceremony, you’d still never seen the stars of the Northern skies. So that night, once you were certain your family had retired to their own chambers for the night and wouldn’t wake until the morrow, you’d asked your handmaiden to sneak you out. She brought a fur cloak with a large hood to hide your face, and helped you navigate the halls of Winterfell, leading you to the entrance of the godswood with the straightest paths to a clearing to see the stars.You’d thanked her profusely before entering.

The air in the godswood was crisp and biting, the Northern wind whipping through the ancient weirwood trees. It smelt of pine and snow, sharp and wild compared to the heavy perfumed air of the South and the rotten air of King’s Landing.

You stepped into the clearing, the canopy of branches parting just enough to reveal the vast, endless stretch of the Northern sky—more stars than you’d ever seen.

And you laughed. You laughed because it looked like velvet. You laughed because it looked soft enough to touch. You laughed because no one was there to see the future Lady of Winterfell ignoring her duties just to get a glimpse of the stars. There were no courts here, no lady mothers to scold you or septas to drag you back into your chambers. There was only you and the stars, and the sky had never been so crowded. Just as your father had warned, the majesty of the Northern skies overwhelmed you.

You shook your head in merriment, lowering your head to rest your neck, only to find the carved face of a weirwood tree staring at you.

“Here are the gods of old,” you muttered to yourself and the weirwood. “I can see why the South no longer believes… It’s difficult to hear your voice when the cities are so loud.”

The wind seemed to answer you—a strong insistent gust that seemed to hum through the canopy, carrying your words like whispers. It wrapped around you, lifting your hair, pressing against your skin.

“And I can see why the North still believes,” you continued, “it’s quieter up here in the cold. And the wind sounds like whispers.” You smiled to yourself glancing at the sky once more. “And you can see so many stars.”

A particularly strong gust answered you, this time nearly knocking you back on your heels, but it carried with it the clean scent of snow and pine. You threw your arms wide in response, laughing as the wind howled around you, whipping your cloak up like wings. There you stood momentarily yet utterly free.

“I’m to be married here, in seven days time,” you called out with a small chuckle. “It feels so far away now… I wonder, if you’ve seen all then you must be able to see my future here in Winterfell. You must know if I’ll be able to do my duty, not just to Westeros but to myself.”

The wind died down abruptly, leaving the godswoods eerily silent. Even the nocturnal sounds of night birds and rustling leaves seemed to hold their breath. A heavy, expectant stillness settled over the clearing as if the very trees were leaning in to listen—or answer.

“I hope I love him,” you admited, your voice barely a whisper. “And I hope he grows to love me.”

A single snowflake drifted down from the sky, landing softly on your outstretched palm. It melted instantly, leaving a tiny spot of water. The weirwood tree seemed to shiver, its red sap eyes glinting in the moonlight as if acknowledging your words.

You smiled, watching the snowflake melt on your palm, and you looked to the stars again. It might have been your imagination but you could have sworn they seemed brighter.

You breathed in deep, the cold, thin air filling your lungs until it burnt. For the first time, in months, perhaps years, you felt alive. No masks, no performances, no Southern courtiers watching every move, just you and the Northern gods and the roaring silence of a thousand stars above.

The snow creaked behind you, the sound of heavy boots tracking across the snow.

You turnt with a gasp, pulling out the small dagger hidden in your sleeve.

Robb freezed in his tracks, hands raised in surrender as he caught sight of the dagger glinting in the moonlight. His heart pounded—not from fear of the blade, but from the sudden realization that you were armed and alone in the godswoods at night. 

“Easy,” he whispered, “It’s only me.”

“Robb?” you breathed out, the dagger slipping from your grasp onto the forest floor. It hit the frozen earth with a soft thud. 

He lowered his hands slowly, his expression a mix of amusement and genuine concern. He stepped into the moonlight, the weirwood left casting blood-red shadows across his face.

“You carry a dagger into the godswoods at midnight?” he asked quietly, his tone more curious than chastising.

You glanced down, remembering yourself, “Yes.”

A low, amused huff escaped him, fogging in the cold air. He stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the snow as he retrieved your dagger from the ground. He wiped the blade on his cloak before holding it out to you, his eyes dancing with a mixture of respect and dry humour. 

“A sensible precaution, my lady.”

You took it from him, still in shock of his presence. 

“Why are you here?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head slightly, considering the question. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and the moonlight highlighted the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he responded softly, his voice barely audible over the gentle rustling of the leaves. “But I think I already know the answer.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you think I’m here?”

He took a step closer, his gaze steady and intense. The weirwood tree seemed to watch you both, its red eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

“To talk to the gods,” he said simply. His voice was low and serious, devoid of any mockery or judgement.

You laughed and shook your head.

“I came to see the stars,” you admitted with an upward twitch of your lips.

His expression shifted suddenly, caught between surprise and something warmer. He looked up at the night sky, the countless stars twinkling brightly against the dark velvet backdrop. When he met your gaze again, there was a hint of understanding in his eyes.

“To see the stars,” he muttered.

You smiled and nodded, explaining yourself quietly, “My father always told me that there were more here than in the South. He used to tell me stories about them to calm me down as a child.”

He listened silently, his expression thoughtful. The wind howled softly through the godswoods, carrying with it the scent of winter and the distant sound of wolves. You were suddenly very aware of how alone you both were, with no guards, no servants, nor anyone to witness this midnight meeting under the stars.

“It’s difficult not to talk to the gods here,” you admitted, mostly to yourself.

He nodded understandably, his gaze drifting to the weirwood tree behind you. The intricate carving of the face seemed to pulsate faintly in the moonlight, as if listening intently to your words.

“They’re more present here,” he said quietly, almost reverently.

You looked at the tree and had to agree with him. As you stared, you were reminded of his sudden encroachment on your time alone with the stars. Your breath caught and you turned toward him suddenly.

You spoke shyly, not meeting his eyes, “Were you listening to me?”

His eyes met yours unflinchingly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Perhaps,” he admitted calmly. 

He didn’t apologize for eavesdropping; instead, he stepped closer again, so close you had to shiver as his warm breath hit your neck. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his calloused fingers brushing against your cold skin. The simple touch sent warmth flooding through you despite the freezing air. 

“You told the gods you hoped to love me,” he murmured, his blue eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You didn’t sound certain.”

“I’m not.” Your gaze flicked between his eyes and his lips. Your own trembled, either from nerves or from the cold. You couldn’t tell which.

The corner of his mouth lifted—a fleeting, crooked thing that was more understanding than amusement. He didn’t step back, the space between you charged with unspoken energy.

“Seven days,” he murmured, echoing your earlier prayer. “It is a short time to build a lifetime upon.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then lifted back to your eyes.

“We’ve known each other twenty,” you reminded him quietly,

His expression shifted, acknowledging the truth of your words. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a mere whisper.

“Twenty days,” he agreed softly. 

His hand moved from your ear, his fingers trailing down your jawline.

“Robb.” Your voice was hoarse. His name was a ghost on your lips, barely audible over the rustling leaves and howling wind. 

He leaned closer, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes locked on your mouth. His thumb brushed gently over your bottom lip, a touch soft as a snowflake.

“Will you love me?” you asked him quietly, surprising even yourself with such a query.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The godswoods seemed to hold its breath with him, the silence stretching taut as a drawn bowstring. Then, slowly, he nodded. His thumb continued its gently caress of your lip, his blue eyes filled with a quiet intensity.

“Yes.”

Your eyes watered with the cold wind blowing against them as they widened to search his own.

“How do you know?”

He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes briefly as if the gesture could transmit his certainty directly into your mind.

“Because,” he whispered, “I think I might already.”

His lips hovered inches from yours, his words warm against your cold mouth.

“Twenty days,” he muttered.

At that moment, you were certain that a fire could have broken loose in the castle, a war could have erupted throughout Westeros, the stars could have fallen from the sky and you would have paid them no mind. There was only him.

The world outside this sacred grove ceased to exist. The only sounds were the soft rush of breath between you, the distant howl of the wolves, and the whisper of wind through the weirwood leaves. 

His eyes searched yours—deep blue pools reflecting starlight and something warmer, something that felt perilously close to hope. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb still tracing your lip.

“Robb,” you said again, even quieter this time. It wasn’t a question. Not a protest. Not a name spoken lightly. It was an invocation, a surrender, and a plea all wrapped into one soft exhale.

His restraint flickered and broke. When his lips found yours you were certain you’d died. The breath he’d stolen from you came back in droves. You could finally breathe again if only to breathe him in.

The kiss was both gentle and desperate, a collision of souls rather than just mouths. He tilted his head, deepening it instinctively, his large hands spanning your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. The cold vanished, replaced by a heat that started where your lips met and spreaded through every frozen part of you.

Your hands found his chest, your fingers digging into the heavy furs of his cloak.

He broke the kiss abruptly, pulling back with a sharp inhale as if burnt. His blue eyes were dark with desire, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your clutching fingers. The cold air rushed back between you, biting at the sudden exposure.

“Gods,” he rasped.

You could do nothing but stare. Your cheeks were rosy from the cold of the godswoods and the heat of the kiss. You went to speak but could not find your words.

He searched your face, his own flushed with colour that stood out sharply against the pale backdrop of snow and moonlight. His thumb returned to your lip, tracing it once more as if memorizing the shape.

“I should not have—” he started, his voice low and rough.

“We should not have,” you corrected him quietly.

He nodded, his jaw clenched. The moment of surrender was over, replaced by a tense awareness of the boundaries you’d just breached. His other hand fell possessively at your waist, thumbs hooking into the soft fabric of your dress.

“We should not have.”

You chewed at your bottom lip, unsure what to say.

His thumb caught your lip before your teeth could mark it, pressing softly to release the small indent.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. His eyes flickered down to your lips again, watching the faint impression of his thumb on your skin, then back up to meet your gaze. “Not when I’ve just learnt how you taste.”

You wanted to speak but found that your breath had been stolen again. No words came out.

His expression softened momentarily, catching the sight of your parted lips and wide eyes. But he swiftly schooled his features back into stern lines, clearly at war with himself.

“You should go,” he said gruffly, his hands abruptly dropping from your waist.

“Robb,” you said quietly, desperation seeping into your bones.

At the sound of his name on your lips, something inside of him cracked. The stern lines on his face broke, revealing a tumult of unsaid emotions. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if physically restraining himself from reaching out to you again.

“Go,” he repeated hoarsely.

Your brows furrowed, but you gathered your skirts. You turned to leave, glancing back at him one last time before taking the path back to the entrance of the godswoods where your handmaiden waited for you.

He watched you go, his entire body stiff with restraint. As you disappeared through the trees, he finally allowed himself to sag against the nearest weirwood, a low curse escaping his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands in frustration.

You chewed on your bottom lip as you walked down the path, glancing up at the stars with every break in the trees, hoping the gods could still hear your thoughts. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but it did little to cool the heat that still lingered from that stolen kiss.

You found your handmaiden, Elinor, waiting patiently by the entrance, her own cloak drawn tightly around her.

She curtsies “My lady.”

You smiled at her but it did not reach your eyes.

“My father was right,” you muttered, “there are more stars in the Northern skies.”

She studied your face carefully, her eyes sharp despite the dim light. Snowflakes caught in her hair like tiny diamonds.

“Are you well, my lady?” she asked gently, her voice carrying a knowing quality. “Your cheeks are flushed.” She didn’t mention the way your bottom lip is slightly swollen, nor how your fingers tremble against your skirts.

“Overwhelmed, I think,” you decided not to mention the encounter. “I must need sleep,” you said brushing slightly past her and starting back to the castle, pulling your hood back over your hair.

Elinor fell into step beside you, her arm brushing against yours in silent support. She knew better than to press for details, understanding that some things are better left unspoken.

As you walked back toward the castle, the cold night air did little to sooth your racing thoughts. You wondered back to Robb in the godswoods, and what he must have thought of what had just occurred. You wondered if he was as ruined as you were.

Back in the godswoods, Robb stood frozen beneath the ancient weirwood tree, his hand still gripping its rough bark. The kiss played over and over in his mind—the softness of your lips, the way you tasted like winterberries and something uniquely you. He closed his eyes briefly.

A chill ran through the woods, snapping his eyes open.

Grey Wind emerged from the shadows, golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight, watching his lord with an almost knowing intensity. The direwolf padded silently to stand beside him, a low rumble vibrating in his chest.

Robb rested a hand on the creature’s massive head, seeking—what? Absolution? Guidance?

“I told her to go.”

The wolf just nuzzled into his hand.

A bitter laugh escaped him as he scratched between the wolf’s ears.

“As if that solves anything,” he murmured to Grey Wind.

He turned his face up to the stars, searching for answers in their cold light. But all he finds is your face, those wide eyes, and that swollen bottom lip.