GlitchInTheMatrix

You grunted as Meera shuffled into your chambers with your clothes draped over one arm. You were still sitting upright in your bed, barely awake, as she barked orders at the other maids to prepare your bath. After the day you had endured yesterday, you had decided that you would sleep in and skip breakfast in the Great Hall, preferably remaining in the safety of your chambers until the entire castle had forgotten about you.

Unfortunately, your mother had other plans. She had decided that you would be having breakfast with Princess Jena, Valarr's mother, in her solar.

Your mother had left no room for argument when she had ripped the furs off you and told you that you had half an hour to make yourself presentable. You had tried to protest, but her reasoning had been simple enough. Princess Jena had wanted to speak with you for some time, and now that a potential marriage between you and Valarr had been proposed, it was only proper that you meet your potential good-mother.

You rubbed a hand down your face before dragging yourself out of bed and into the bathing chamber. After peeling off your night robes, you lowered yourself into the lukewarm water, the water sloshing around you as you settled into the tub. The maids moved around you, preparing your clothes and oils while whispering and giggling amongst themselves.

"My lady will be meeting her good-mother today," one girl, barely fourteen, whispered excitedly.

"I know. I heard the prince is completely head over heels for our lady," another girl of similar age giggled.

You groaned and massaged your forehead. Normally, you would have found their excitement amusing, but today you were in no mood for it. Your head was already full enough without having to listen to castle maids gossip about your life.

Thankfully, Meera seemed to have noticed your growing irritation. She gave the girls a single look, and whatever amusement they had vanished immediately. They gulped, bowed and quickly shuffled out of the bathing chamber.

Meera moved behind you and began lathering soap through your hair, her fingers working gently against your scalp. You leaned your head back, allowing your eyes to fall shut as the tension that had settled into your shoulders began to loosen, if only slightly.

"If someone saw you now, they would think Lord Stark had asked you to take the black," Meera said with a chuckle.

You sighed. "I suppose that would be less stressful than this."

Meera laughed quietly and moved her hands to your shoulders, working through the knots there.

"How is Layla?" you asked after a moment.

"She is doing well. Her injuries are healing, and the maester says she should be able to return to her duties soon." There was a slight sadness in her voice.

You hummed. "Tell her to take as much rest as she needs. There is no reason for her to hurry back."

"I will."

For a while, there was only the sound of water and Meera's hands working through your hair. Then she spoke again.

"Have you given it any thought?"

You opened one eye. "Thought about what?"

"The betrothal."

You immediately closed your eyes again.

"I..." You took a moment before answering. "I do not know yet. Father said I can take my time, and I do not wish to make this decision hastily."

Meera hummed thoughtfully as she stood and reached for a fresh robe. You rose from the tub, water dripping down your body as she helped you into it before handing you a towel.

"But..." she began. You narrowed your eyes at her and she smiled innocently. "You should not make the poor prince wait too long. A few more days and the poor man might die of a broken heart."

Heat immediately climbed up your neck. "W-what do you mean? He will be fine."

Meera took the towel from your hands and began drying your hair as you moved closer to the hearth.

"Well, since yesterday, he has asked me five times if you were doing well. He asked if you had eaten dinner. He asked if you were sleeping. He even asked if you had mentioned him at all."

You stared intensely into the fire. The hearth had nothing to do with the heat spreading across your cheeks. Meera laughed behind you. The thought of Valarr worrying about you sent a strange flutter through your stomach. You bit the inside of your cheek, desperately trying to keep yourself from smiling like a fool.

Meera shook her head. "You look like a fool right now, you know that?"

You whipped around to glare at her, though the smile already tugging at your lips ruined whatever intimidation you were attempting.

She only rolled her eyes affectionately and handed you your clothes. "Come now, my lady. Your potential good-mother is waiting."

You groaned. "Do not remind me."

By the time you entered your mother's solar, you had managed to convince yourself that you were prepared for whatever conversation awaited you.

You were not.

You had expected the room to be crowded, perhaps filled with southern ladies eager to meet the woman who might one day become their queen. Instead, there was only your mother and Princess Jena. You were grateful for that.

You took your seat opposite the princess and offered her an awkward smile. Ten minutes had passed since you arrived, and you were fairly certain you had spoken no more than ten words to her, half of which had simply been greetings.

Your heart beat rapidly as you picked up another piece of egg and put it into your mouth, staring far too intensely at the plate in front of you. You could feel your mother's gaze on you from across the table, silently urging you to say something.

Gods, how had Berena survived these sorts of conversations all her life?

Princess Jena seemed to notice your discomfort and finally took pity on you.

"I am glad to finally have the chance to speak with you properly."

You looked up and found her already smiling at you. You blinked quickly, swallowing the food in your mouth.

"Yes. The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace."

Your mother's shoulders rose slightly with a quiet breath, and you were fairly certain she was cursing you in her head.

You looked back down at your plate and reached for a slice of lemon cake, hoping that eating would somehow save you from having to speak.

"So," Princess Jena began, lifting her goblet, "what are your hobbies?"

You stared at her. "My hobbies?"

She smiled. "Yes."

You thought about it for a moment. "There are quite a few things I enjoy doing. Horse riding. I do archery as well, although I prefer swordplay. I play cyvasse with Alyssane, though I beat her most days. I enjoy hunting too, although it becomes rather messy whenever Specter is involved because he gets blood everywhere and then refuses to let anyone clean him and-"

Your mother's throat cleared, and you stopped abruptly. Slowly, you looked down at your plate, your cheeks were burning. Across you, Princess Jena was trying very hard not to laugh.

"That is..." she said, amusement evident in her voice, "an interesting collection of hobbies."

You gave her an awkward smile before immediately cutting another piece of lemon cake, deciding that silence was probably the safest course of action.

"Who is Specter?"

You looked up again. "My direwolf."

Princess Jena's eyes widened for the briefest moment before she composed herself. "I did not know you had a direwolf."

"Uh..." You hesitated. You could hardly tell her that your mother had been worried that her southern guests would be frightened by a giant wolf and had therefore asked you to keep him away from the castle.

"The Keep is crowded," your mother quickly interrupted. "Specter dislikes crowds, so we thought everyone would be more comfortable with him in the Godswood."

You nodded quickly. "Exactly."

Princess Jena smiled. "You must introduce him to me one day, then."

"Of course."

"I imagine he will be travelling back with us when you marry Valarr."

The mention of Valarr made your stomach twist. Your fingers immediately began fidgeting with the edge of your napkin as you looked down at your plate. You still had not made your decision. You knew you cared for him. More than you probably should.

But caring for him and agreeing to become his wife were two very different things, especially when marrying him comes with a crown.

Princess Jena seemed to notice the change in your expression because she immediately softened. "I apologize. It was my mistake to assume you had already agreed."

"No, Your Grace, I-"

"You need not explain." She gently shook her head. "Take your time. Marriage is a great decision in any woman's life, and I imagine the differences between the North and the South make it even more complicated. I would not expect you to make such a decision in haste."

Her hand moved across the table and settled over yours. You looked down at it before looking back at her. There was something unexpectedly warm about the gesture. Beyond the wrinkles that lined her face, you could see traces of Valarr in her. The same softness around the eyes. The same warmth in her smile.

"I am saying this as a mother," she continued quietly, "and not as a princess." Her fingers gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "If you do decide to marry Valarr, I know my son will be forever grateful for it."

You stared at her for a moment. There was no pressure in her words. No demand. No expectation. Only a mother's affection for her son.

You swallowed and gave her a small smile, nodding gently. "Thank you, Your Grace."

And for the first time that morning, you found yourself wondering if perhaps this decision did not have to be as frightening as you had made it in your head.

The breakfast ended as smoothly as you could have hoped for, although you were fairly certain that your mother had been disappointed by how little you had spoken. Still, Princess Jena's words had given you something to hold onto. She had not pressured you, nor had she looked at you as though your answer had already been decided.

You were making your way towards the training yard when you spotted Prince Baelor walking through the courtyard. You immediately considered turning around and taking another route, hoping that perhaps he would not notice you. You did not particularly wish to speak to your potential good-father so soon after the rather awkward breakfast with his wife. Unfortunately, the Old Gods seemed to have other plans.

"My lady Stark."

You stopped and turned around, offering him a bow. "Your Grace. Good morrow."

"Good morrow, my lady." He smiled as he approached, his gaze briefly falling upon the sword at your hip. "I presume you are on your way to the training yard?"

You nodded, already hoping the conversation would end there. "I am, Your Grace."

"I was also going to the courtyard. Walk with me?"

You took a long breath before forcing a polite smile onto your face. "Of course, Your Grace." Today is going to be a very long day.

You fell into step beside him, with Meera and the Kingsguard following a few paces behind. Servants moved through the corridors around you, carrying baskets and trays, while guards bowed whenever the prince passed. For a few moments, Baelor said nothing, and you silently prayed that perhaps the walk would remain quiet.

It did not.

"I heard my wife had breakfast with you this morning," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I hope you enjoyed her company."

You nodded quickly. "Of course, Your Grace. Princess Jena was lovely company." You hoped desperately that Jena would not tell him how awkward you had been throughout the entire meal.

Baelor chuckled softly before looking ahead again. "I do not know whether Lord Stark has spoken to you about this, but regarding the betrothal, there is no need for haste."

You looked at him and nodded. "He did, Your Grace. I am grateful for that."

"Good." He nodded slowly. "The announcement was rather sudden. I suspect most of the people in that hall were expecting me to make a different offer."

You looked down at the pommel of your sword, your fingers brushing over the leather wrapped around it. "I imagine they were."

"So I would not have you, nor Lord Stark, make such a decision in haste. Whatever answer you give, I would rather it be one you can live with."

You remained quiet for a while, his words settling somewhere in your mind. There was something about the prince that made it difficult to decide whether he was speaking as the Hand of the King or simply as a father. Eventually, curiosity won over your hesitation.

"Why me?"

Baelor glanced at you, his brows drawing together slightly.

You quickly licked your lips. "I mean..." You hesitated, searching for the right words. "What caused the sudden change in interest?"

Understanding dawned upon his face, and he looked ahead again with a small smile. "I would make a poor father if I failed to notice my son's rather persistent interest in you."

Heat immediately crept up your neck, and Prince Baelor chuckled.

"He has been enamoured with you, if I may be so bold. And after having had the chance to speak with you myself, I believe you would make an excellent wife for him."

"Why?"

The question escaped before you could stop it. Baelor blinked at you, apparently amused by your bluntness.

"Because my son, exceptional as he may be, is not without his flaws."

You raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"He is too dutiful for his own good. He has spent much of his life believing that every burden placed upon his shoulders must be carried alone. He thinks too long before speaking and, when he finally does speak, he often worries more about how his words may affect others than what he himself desires."

You glanced at him, listening carefully.

"He is compassionate, which is a virtue in a prince, but compassion can become a weakness when a man forgets that a ruler must sometimes make difficult choices. He has a gentle heart, and I would not have him lose that, but a king cannot always afford to be gentle."

You looked down at your sword. Baelor continued, his voice quieter now.

"He needs someone who will remind him that kindness does not mean weakness. Someone who will tell him when he is wrong rather than merely agree with him. Someone who will stand beside him when the realm demands a hard decision and have the courage to tell him when he is being a fool."

You gave him a look. "And you believe that person is me?"

"I do."

You took a deep breath. "So you do not want a wife for him, Your Grace. You want me to be his advisor."

Baelor laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "No, my lady. I believe you misunderstand marriage."

You looked at him curiously.

"A marriage is not simply a union between a man and woman. It is the joining of two lives. Two people, both flawed in their own ways, choosing to walk the same road and learning how to make each other stronger along the way."

His gaze softened as he continued. "Valarr does not need a wife who will simply stand behind him. He needs someone who will stand beside him. Someone with the strength to challenge those that stand against him, the wisdom to guide him when he falters, and the courage to remain beside him when the crown becomes heavier than either of you imagined. And you, my lady, possess those qualities."

You did not know what to say to that. The sound of wooden swords clashing grew louder as you approached the training yard. You looked ahead, and your steps slowed when you saw Valarr standing in the centre of the yard, sparring with William.

Your eyes immediately went to him. He was trying desperately to match William's intensity, but his form was poor. He kept leaving openings, and William was taking advantage of every single one of them. Valarr looked frustrated, his brown hair falling across his forehead as he stumbled back from another strike, the white streak sparkling in the northern sunlight.

Despite yourself, the corner of your lips twitched. Baelor noticed, but he said nothing. You quickly looked away.

"I understand, Your Grace," you said, clearing your throat. "This has been a rather...fruitful conversation."

Baelor smiled. "I am glad."

The two of you stopped at the edge of the training yard, and his gaze moved towards his son before returning to you.

"Remember what I said, my lady. Whatever your answer may be, I shall hold no ill will towards you. You owe me, my son, or the crown nothing."

You nodded slowly.

"But if you do choose Valarr," he continued, his expression softening, "then I believe the realm would be fortunate indeed to have you as its future queen."

You looked back towards the training yard. Valarr had just been knocked onto his back by William. And despite everything, you found yourself smiling.

You unsheathed your sword as you entered the training yard, the familiar clank of steel immediately drawing everyone's attention towards you. Valarr, who was still sprawled on his back after William had knocked him down, looked up at the sound. Your eyes met for a brief moment, and you immediately looked away when you felt heat creep up your cheeks.

You walked towards William, who raised an eyebrow at you.

"I thought Mother would tie you to a chair in her solar."

"Shut up," you muttered, rolling your eyes. You glanced towards Valarr, who was now getting back onto his feet. "May I ask why you are harassing the poor prince?"

William's mouth twitched into a smirk. "He asked to spar, all right? And, well, he did make you and Berena rather miserable yesterday, so I thought I should make him suffer a little." He looked at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. "What? Are you sad I hurt your future husband?"

You shook your head, feeling the heat climb higher into your cheeks before pushing against his chest. "William, I will kill you one day."

He only laughed and shrugged before raising his hands in surrender and walking towards Ethan, who was watching the entire exchange with an amused expression.

You turned back towards the yard. Valarr was standing now, his sword hanging loosely in his hand as he looked at you with that same ridiculous expression in his eyes. His hair was completely dishevelled from the spar, several strands falling across his forehead, and there was a faint flush across his cheeks.

You cleared your throat and walked towards him. You could see the surprise cross his face when he realised you were actually approaching him. He immediately straightened himself and clasped his hands behind his back, a habit born from nervousness that you had noticed long ago.

"My lady."

"Is the sword your weapon of choice, my prince?" you asked, skipping the usual pleasantries.

Valarr looked almost startled by the question. His mismatched eyes found yours before he nodded. "Y-yes. I am better with a sword than anything else."

His gaze dropped towards the ground. You could see the hesitation in his expression, as well as the disappointment he was trying to hide after losing to William. You motioned towards the open yard with your head.

"Then let us see how true that is."

Valarr's head snapped up. "You want to spar with me, my lady?"

You nodded before he could change his mind and stepped into the centre of the yard. After a moment of hesitation, Valarr followed you, drawing his sword as the surrounding men began to gather closer, curiosity quickly spreading through the yard.

Valarr took an attacking stance, though you could see him visibly swallow. You almost smiled.

Gods, he looked rather cute when he was nervous.

You quickly pushed the thought away and nodded. Valarr moved first. You easily stepped aside, his blade cutting through nothing but air. He was too readable, that was the first thing you noticed. His movements were precise enough, but you could see every attack before he made it.

You moved closer as though preparing to strike, only to stop beside him for half a heartbeat.

"Consider this your first lesson, Your Grace."

You moved away before he could respond, taking your stance again. A faint flush crept up his neck as his fingers tightened around the hilt.

You smiled slightly before your expression turned serious. "Never attack first unless you understand your opponent." You began circling him slowly.

"William over there fights like a bull." You nodded towards your brother. "And you never charge at a bull without knowing where it will strike."

"Ethan, however, is swift." You motioned towards the other side of the yard. "Against someone like him, you may have to attack first if you wish to catch him off guard."

Valarr's eyes shifted briefly towards Ethan. That was enough, you swung. He tried to dodge, but your blade stopped against his neck before he could move another inch.

"Never allow yourself to be distracted." You slowly lowered your sword. "One swing is all it takes for your head to leave your shoulders."

Valarr swallowed. You stepped back and lowered your blade. "Watch their feet. Feel how your opponent moves beneath you. Learn their rhythm. But do not allow any of it to distract you. Your thoughts must move with your sword."

You shifted your weight. Then, without warning, you swept your foot across the ground and moved around him. Valarr reacted almost immediately, he turned and swung. This time, your swords met with a sharp clang. You barely managed to block him. For a brief moment, you stared at the blade pressed against yours before looking at him.

Valarr was panting, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his expression slowly changed. He grinned.

You could not help but smile. "You are a fast learner. But you still have a long way to go."

You moved before he could react. One moment you were standing in front of him, and the next you were inside his guard. Your foot struck his chest, sending him stumbling backwards before he landed heavily on his back.

You pointed the tip of your sword towards him, smiling down at him. Valarr stared up at you. You sheathed your sword and reached for the handkerchief tucked into your sword belt, dabbing the sweat from your forehead before putting it away.

It was only then that you noticed the silence around you.

You looked down. And your heart nearly stopped.

Valarr was still lying on the ground, staring up at you. His mismatched eyes were wide, fixed entirely upon you. His lips were slightly parted as he tried to catch his breath, his hair completely dishevelled, the pale streak falling across his forehead. His cheeks were flushed from the sparring, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach flutter.

Admiration. No.

Something far more intense than admiration. It was far more closer to worship.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your ears burned. And then, despite every effort you made to stop yourself, your gaze dropped towards his lips. You immediately looked away, and cleared your throat. You realised that everyone in the yard seemed to be staring at the two of you.

For fuck's sake. You had no idea why.

"That was a good match, Your Grace."

Your voice came out far too quickly. You sheathed your sword properly and gave him a brief nod before turning away. You simply walked away, desperately hoping that no one could see how red your face had become.

"Do you think he is one of those men?" Alyssane asked from where she was perched on your bed, popping another nut into her mouth.

William, who was sitting lazily in the chair beside the hearth, raised an eyebrow at her. Berena, sprawled beside Alyssane, looked equally interested, her head turning towards the younger sister. Your chambers had somehow become crowded after lunch, with nearly all your siblings finding their way inside. Even poor little Errold had been dragged along and was now running around the room with his wooden toy, entirely oblivious to the conversation happening around him.

William had mentioned, much to your embarrassment, the way Valarr had looked at you after the sparring match. Despite your groaning and repeated attempts to change the subject, your siblings had decided that it was apparently the most important matter in all of Winterfell.

You looked at Alyssane while trying to stop Errold from running headfirst into the edge of the table.

"What kind of men?"

The moment the words left your mouth, Alyssane's eyes sparkled with mischief. You immediately regretted asking.

"Well, my new southern friends told me about these men from the Reach." She shifted on the bed, lowering her voice as though she were about to reveal some great secret. "Apparently, some men there like to be hit."

Your face immediately soured. Even Berena and William looked taken aback. Alyssane, however, continued as though she had not noticed your expression.

"Apparently they like it. She said these people are called masochists." She paused, looking rather proud of herself for remembering the word. "Yes, that is what she called them. Do you think Prince Valarr is one of them?"

William immediately burst out laughing. Berena covered her mouth, giggling beside Alyssane.

Your eyes widened. "Gods, Alyssane."

You quickly caught Errold before he could crash into another piece of furniture and lifted him into your arms. Deciding that he was safer with William, you deposited him onto your brother's lap before turning back towards the others.

Before you could say anything, Berena spoke. "I have not spoken to him enough to know." She looked at you with a wicked little smile. "But our sister probably knows."

It took you a moment to understand what she meant, then your face burned. "Berena, you-"

Alyssane dissolved into giggles. "Imagine if the prince asks her to hit him on their wedding night."

Berena burst into laughter. You stared at both of them in disbelief.

William, apparently deciding that his life was not yet in enough danger, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "Our sister would probably enjoy that."

You narrowed your eyes. "William."

He grinned as you marched towards him. William immediately realised his mistake and lifted Errold in front of himself like a shield.

"Do not you dare," you warned. He laughed as you kicked his leg beneath the chair.

"Ow! Gods, woman!"

"Put Errold down before I actually kill you."

"Oh, come on," William said, a smirk already spreading across his face. "As if you were not flaunting that handkerchief in front of the entire yard. I did not know you two had started courting each other."

Your cheeks immediately burned at the mention of the handkerchief. After returning to your chambers, you had horrifyingly realised that the handkerchief you had used to wipe the sweat from your face had not been yours.

It had been Valarr's. The very same handkerchief he had given you back in the Wolfswood. You had carried it with you all this time without even thinking about it, and then, of all things, you had used it in front of half the training yard while sparring with the man who had given it to you, and might potentially become your betrothed.

You stared at William, your face growing hotter by the second. William laughed harder, trying to shield himself while Errold giggled, apparently delighted by the entire situation. You shook your head, fighting back your own laughter as you looked around the room at your ridiculous siblings.

"I hate you all."

Berena laughed again, Alyssane was still giggling into her hand, and William simply grinned at you from behind Errold.

And despite everything -the betrothal, the uncertainty, the confession, and the thoughts that had kept you awake half the night- you found yourself laughing with them.

For a little while, you allowed yourself to forget about everything else.

Chapter 14 [21st August]

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Valarr sat in his chambers with his head buried in his hands, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as he tried to calm his rapidly beating heart. His face was still flushed, his ears burning, and no matter how many times he took a deep breath, the heat refused to leave him. The reality of everything he had said to you in the corridor was finally settling in, piece by piece, and with every passing moment he felt more horrified with himself.

The way he had pinned you against the wall. The way you had let him get so close to you. The way he had poured every thought and feeling he had been keeping buried into words without even stopping to think. Gods, you were more than capable of hurting him. He had seen you fight. He had watched you cut down a knight twice your size without hesitation, yet when he had pinned you in that corridor, you had not struck him. You had simply stood there and listened while he made a complete fool of himself.

"Oh gods," Valarr groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as his own words came rushing back to him. "I am an idiot. A complete idiot. The Targaryen madness has definitely caught up with me."

He dropped his hands onto his lap and stared blankly at the fire.

He had prepared an entire speech for you. Something proper. Something befitting a prince. He had planned to explain why the match made sense politically, why you would be an excellent wife for him, how he would respect your duties and your family and never ask you to become someone you were not. He had rehearsed it in his head more times than he cared to admit.

But the moment you had looked at him with tears in your eyes and told him that what happened in the Godswood had been a mistake, all of it had vanished.

He had not thought, he had only seen you slipping away from him. The one thing his heart had desired, the one thing he had finally allowed himself to reach for, had suddenly been taken from his grasp. And something inside him had simply snapped.

So he had confessed everything.

Every foolish thought, every longing, every feeling he had been too frightened to even name to himself.

"What must she think of me?" he muttered, rubbing both hands over his face.

He sounded like some lovesick bard singing beneath a maiden's window, not Prince Valarr Targaryen, heir to the heir of the Iron Throne. He had spoken of fate and hearts and souls as though he had spent his entire life composing love songs instead of studying histories and laws.

His eyes burned. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

He was a prince, an adult man. He had faced council meetings, political negotiations and the expectations of an entire kingdom without breaking down.

Yet the thought of losing you made his chest ache in a way no council ever had.

A knock on the door startled him. Valarr immediately wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and straightened himself in the chair. He took a slow breath, then another, desperately trying to make sure his voice would not betray him.

"What is it?" he called, forcing as much strength into his voice as he could.

The door opened, revealing his father. Valarr rose immediately as Prince Baelor entered the chambers and closed the door behind him.

"Father, you should sent for me."

He gave a slight nod, and Baelor returned it before looking at him properly. A small crease appeared between his father's brows.

"I heard you were unwell. Ser Donnel said he saw you practically running through the corridors of Winterfell. He also said you looked rather pale...and flushed." Baelor gestured towards his son's face. "Is everything well?"

Valarr cleared his throat and swallowed. "It is nothing. Just the Northern winds."

His father hummed, though the look in his eyes made it clear he did not believe him. He walked further into the room and glanced around before settling his gaze back on Valarr. The room settled into silence for a few moments.

"It is not easy to win a person's affection," Baelor said quietly as Valarr's head lifted. "Especially a woman who places duty and family above everything else."

Valarr immediately knew what his father was referring to.

"Father, I-"

"I understand your restlessness, son." Baelor walked towards the table and poured himself a cup of wine from the pitcher resting there. He took a slow sip before continuing. "But rushing things will not lead you anywhere. If anything, it will only push her further away."

Valarr lowered his gaze. He wondered if his father knew. If he had somehow seen what happened in the corridor. If someone had told him. If the entire castle already knew that he had confessed his heart to you like a fool.

"Sometimes," Baelor continued, "it is better to allow things to happen in their own time. Give the other person the chance to understand what they feel. Let them think without the cloud of shock and anger hanging over them."

He placed a hand on Valarr's shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. Valarr looked up at him, if only his father knew how badly he had already ruined everything.

"I'm worried, Father." The words came out before he could stop them, and Baelor's expression softened.

"What if it all falls apart?" Valarr asked, his voice growing quieter. "What if that cloud of anger never disappears?"

His eyes burned again, and he quickly ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself.

"Valarr." Baelor straightened and gave his shoulder another reassuring pat. "It will not fall apart. If your heart is honest and your intentions are pure, anger will fade eventually. No matter how heavy the cloud may seem."

Valarr nodded, though he was not certain he believed it. He rubbed at his eyes before looking towards the fire again.

Baelor gave him a small smile and straightened his doublet. "Now, if you have gathered yourself, you must follow me to my solar. Bloodraven has sent word that some Blackfyre loyalists have been seen travelling towards Dorne. We need to discuss the matter with your uncle Maekar. It will take your mind off the things for awhile."

Valarr nodded and quickly followed his father out of the chambers, though his mind remained far behind in the corridor where he had last seen you.

By the time they reached the solar, Valarr was still trying to push the thoughts from his head when he stopped abruptly.

You were standing outside his father's chambers with Berena. His father stopped a few paces ahead of him, and Valarr remained beside him, staring.

He immediately noticed your hands were trembling and your eyes were red. You had been crying. The thought made his breath catch in his throat.

The instinct to cross the distance between you and comfort you was almost impossible to resist. He wanted to ask what had happened. He wanted to wipe away the tears from your cheeks and tell you that everything would be alright, even though he was not sure it would.

Instead, he stood frozen. Berena said something to you that he could not hear before taking hold of your wrist and pulling you away.

Valarr caught the confusion and hurt in your eyes before you disappeared around the corner with your sister.

His heart sank.

Had his selfishness ruined everything?

He looked towards his father, who appeared just as confused as he was. Baelor watched the corridor for a moment before sighing quietly.

"Whatever is happening," he said, "I think it best that we do not involve ourselves in the matters of Lord Stark's family."

Valarr nodded slowly. But as he followed his father into the solar, he wondered what had happened between you and Berena.

If his selfishness has ruined things between you and your sister.

Your breath came out ragged as Berena dragged you through the corridors of Winterfell towards your chambers. Her grip around your wrist was firm, almost painfully so, and every step she took seemed to carry another ounce of anger with it. You could feel the fury rolling off her, but beneath it was something else, something that made your own heart ache.

After Valarr's confession, you had wanted to be selfish. For a few fleeting moments, you had allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like to have him. To accept his love instead of running from it. Because deep down, beneath all the guilt and fear and duty, you knew the truth now.

You liked him.

Gods, you loved him.

His confession had been nothing but sincerity. You could still see the way his eyes had watered as he poured his heart out to you, the way his voice had trembled when he spoke of you as if you were the only thing in the world worth wanting. For those few selfish moments, you had imagined what it would be like if Valarr were yours and you were his.

Then you had remembered Berena's face as she left the Great Hall. Her watery eyes. The way she had refused to look at you. The tightness of her hand around yours before she had left.

And you had decided that you would fix everything. If Valarr would not tell his father, then you would. Prince Baelor seemed like a reasonable man. Surely, if you explained that the betrothal was a mistake, that you were not the right woman to become Queen and that Berena was far better suited for it, he would understand.

Everything could still be put right.

You had barely reached Prince Baelor's temporary solar when Berena had appeared before you and asked what you were doing. You had smiled at your sweet little sister and told her that you were going to fix everything, that everything would be as it was supposed to be.

Instead of looking relieved, Berena's eyes had flashed with anger. She had grabbed your wrist and practically dragged you away. If you wanted to, you could have easily overpowered her. You were stronger, faster and far more experienced with a sword than your sister. But how could you possibly fight her when she looked so heartbroken, when she had practically commanded you to come with her?

"Berena, please," you called, your lips trembling, but she did not listen.

She reached your chambers, pushed the door open and shoved you inside before following you in herself. Sara, who had been fixing the bedsheets, looked startled at the sight of the two of you. Berena merely dismissed her with a nod, and Sara quickly dipped into a curtsy before leaving, closing the door behind her.

"Berena-"

"What were you doing there!?" she screamed, and you flinched.

Her eyes were filled with fury, but there were tears gathering in them too, and something inside your chest twisted painfully. You quickly stepped towards her, cupping her cheeks in your hands. You had always hated seeing your younger siblings cry. No matter how old they grew, a part of you still saw them as the children who had once followed you through the corridors of Winterfell.

"Sweetling, I told you. I'm going to fix everything. Believe me-"

Berena slapped your hands away from her face. You flinched at the motion, watching as her breathing grew quicker.

"Fix what?"

"Berena-"

"Fix what?" she repeated, her voice breaking as she took a step towards you. "Fix the fact that the prince does not love me? Fix the fact that he looks at you like you hung the stars and the moon?"

"Sweet girl, please-"

"Fix the fact that both he and the Lord Hand think that you are better suited for the crown? Fix the fact that they right about it?"

She was standing directly in front of you now, glaring at you. But the anger had begun to disappear from her eyes, replaced by something far worse, disappointment.

Your hands trembled, and you swallowed hard, trying to force the words out through the lump in your throat. "I swear I will fix it. You have to believe me, I didn't mean-"

"Do you think so little of me, sister, that I would want a man who so clearly loves my sister?"

You choked on your breath. Berena shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks as she gave you a bitter little smile.

"Gods, anyone with eyes can see that Prince Valarr loves you. And anyone who knows you well can clearly see that you love him too."

"No, Berena." You stepped towards her, clutching her shoulders. "I swear, this is all just a misunderstanding-"

"Do not lie to me!"

Her voice cracked through the room and you froze. Her face had crumpled into something close to despair, and your own heart began beating wildly in your chest.

"I have seen the way you look at him," she continued, her voice trembling. "The way you smile when he speaks to you. The way your eyes follow him when you think nobody is looking."

"That is not the-"

"Tell me, sister, do you truly believe that I would marry a man after knowing I had crushed my own sister's happiness?"

Your breathing came out ragged as you stared at her, unable to find an answer.

"I thought you knew me," she whispered. "I thought you understood me." Tears were falling freely now. Berena clutched the ends of your cloak as a broken sob escaped her, and your hands instinctively moved to cup her cheeks again, wiping away the tears with your thumbs.

"No, sweet girl. Of course I know you. You are my sweet, sweet sister. I would never-"

"I have envied you since the day I was born."

You fell silent. Berena smiled faintly, but there was no happiness in it. Her eyes remained fixed on yours as your hands trembled against her cheeks.

"There is nothing to envy, Berena. I am but a-"

She shook her head and continued before you could finish. "Gods know how much I have envied you. Whenever I watched you train with Donner and William, I wondered if I could do the same. I wondered what it would be like to have people look at me and see something more than Lord Stark's daughter." Her voice grew softer as she looked down. "But I wasn't born with a talent for swordsmanship like you. Or perhaps I simply did not have the determination for it that you did."

She gave a small, humourless laugh.

"So I decided to become the lady everyone expected me to be. I learned embroidery. I learned how to speak politely, how to smile at the right time, how to dance, how to sit quietly and listen. You name it, I did it. All so the North would look at me the way they looked at you."

Her grip tightened around your cloak. "But it never worked."

You felt tears beginning to gather in your own eyes.

"My identity, my worth, my use started and ended with being Lord Stark's daughter. Just like it does for every other woman in this realm." Berena looked up at you.

"But you were different. They looked at you as you. Your opinions were your own. Your accomplishments were your own. Every lord in the North admired you for something. Some admired your swordsmanship, some your mind, some your courage. But they admired you."

Her voice had softened into quiet sobs now. "So when Mother said that I must marry Prince Valarr, I thought perhaps this was how I could finally be of use to Father."

"Oh, my sister." You pressed your forehead against hers, your own tears slipping down your cheeks. "Your presence alone is enough for all of us. Everyone in the North loves you. You never needed to be useful to anyone. You are my sister. That is enough."

Berena let out a small chuckle and shook her head. "I know. I know that." She reached up and placed her hands over yours. "This isn't about that. It is just..." She took a shaky breath. "I don't want you to refuse the betrothal because you pity me."

You opened your mouth, but she shook her head. "I'm not blind, sister. I think some part of me always knew the prince liked you. Especially after Ethan appeared. That day, his eyes were practically glued to you, even I could tell something was happening."

You swallowed and looked away.

"And then came the trial." A small smile tugged at her lips despite the tears still wet on her cheeks. "Gods, he was so obvious. The way he stared at you...he looked more like a maiden watching a knight at a tourney than a prince."

A laugh escaped her, and you could not help but look at her.

You could still see Valarr standing on that balcony, his eyes fixed solely on you.

"And it isn't shocking that he fell for you," Berena continued. "You are quite the catch, if I say so myself." Her eyes crinkled in the same way Donner's used to when he was teasing you. "The southern ladies certainly made that quite clear."

You groaned at the memory, and Berena giggled. She took your hands from her cheeks and brought them down, holding them against her chest.

"I wasn't sad when the Lord Hand asked for your hand. I was just..." She shrugged. "Taken aback. That is all. And besides, he isn't my type anyway."

You stared at her.

"So do not pity me."

Your eyes watered again. Gods, you had cried more in the past day than you had in years.

"For once, I want you to chase your own happiness. Donner would want that."

The mention of your brother broke something inside you. A sob escaped your lips before you could stop it, and Berena immediately stepped forward, wrapping her arms around you.

"If you truly like the prince, then I want you to marry him," she whispered, rubbing your back. "I want you to be happy."

You buried your face against her shoulder, your arms slowly wrapping around her.

"And say no only if you do not like him. Not because you pity me. Not because you think someone else is more suited for the crown." Her arms tightened around you. "But because you do not like him."

You held her tighter, your tears soaking into her gown as you finally managed to whisper, "Okay."

The two of you remained like that for a while, holding each other as the anger that had filled the room slowly faded away. You wondered when all your siblings had grown so much. It seemed only yesterday that Berena had been small enough to sneak into the kitchens with you, and now she was standing before you, telling you to chase a happiness you had spent your entire life denying yourself.

Eventually, Berena pulled away. You were certain your eyes were red from crying, but you still rubbed at them with the back of your hand.

"I must go see William now," she said, fixing her gown. "He has been freaking out since the announcement. All my siblings seem to be stupid like that."

A small smile tugged at your lips. Berena reached for the door before looking back at you.

"Promise me you will think about it?"

You raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

"Prince Valarr." The warmth immediately returned to your cheeks. Berena smiled knowingly. "Promise me you will make the decision for yourself. Not for me, but yourself."

You stared at her for a moment, Valarr's face flashing through your mind. His mismatched eyes, his smile, his freckled face. The way his voice had trembled when he told you that he loved you. The warmth of his hand against your cheek and the softness of his lips against your forehead.

"I will..." You swallowed, your heart beginning to beat faster. "I will think about it. I promise."

Berena smiled and nodded before opening the door.

"Good."

She stepped out, leaving you alone in the quiet of your chambers. You stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, your sister's words echoing through your mind.

It was well past dinner when Meera came to ask if you would join the rest of the family in the Great Hall. You had declined, telling her that you would eat in your chambers instead. She had looked worried, but thankfully she had not pressed you any further.

Now you sat on your bed with your knees pulled against your chest, staring blankly at the flames burning in the hearth. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the wood, but your mind was anything but.

Your thoughts kept wandering back to the kiss you shared with Valarr in the Godswood. To Valarr's confession in the corridors today.

You buried your face in your hands as your heart began beating rapidly again. The red rising to your ears. You did not know what you wanted.

On one side, there was Valarr. His confession had been sincere, you knew that. There had been no calculation in his words, no political ambition hidden beneath them. He had looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world he wanted, and the memory of his lips against yours was still fresh enough to make your stomach flutter.

But then there was the promise you had made to yourself when Donner died.

You had promised that you would never marry. That you would remain for your family, that you would care for your siblings and protect the North in whatever way you could. You had built your entire life around that promise. Berena had told you to chase your own happiness, but it was easier said than done.

This was not simply about what your heart wanted. It was about your honour. Your family. Your promise to Donner. The memory of the brother you had lost and the life you had promised yourself you would live in his absence.

And then there was Valarr himself. He was a good man, you knew that much. He had done nothing wrong, not truly. If anything, he had been painfully honest with you.

But being betrothed to him would mean far more than simply marrying a man you loved. He was the heir to the heir. One day, he would sit the Iron Throne. And if you became his wife, you would become Queen.

You had never once imagined yourself wearing a crown. You had spent your entire life preparing to be a Stark, not a queen.

There were too many things to consider, too many lives that would be affected by one decision.

You sighed and rubbed a hand over your face, trying to make sense of the thoughts swirling inside your head.

A knock on the door startled you.

"Come in," you called, your voice quieter than you intended.

The door opened and your father stepped inside. You immediately moved to get off the bed, but he waved a hand.

"Stay."

He crossed the room and settled into the chair beside your bed, his eyes studying you carefully.

"Father, you should have sent for me," you said, managing a small smile.

He hummed, his own smile faint. "Meera tells me you have not been feeling well."

"I am fine." You looked down at your hands. "It has simply been a long day."

"That it has."

Silence settled between you. For a while, neither of you spoke. You found yourself picking at the edge of your bedsheet, pulling at a loose thread until your father finally broke the silence.

"Your mother thinks it is a good match although it was not the one we expected."

You closed your eyes briefly and took a slow breath. "I expected her to say that."

Your father nodded. "William has been on edge all day, though even he admits it is a decent proposal. And Berena..." A small smile tugged at his lips. "She seems surprisingly happy about it."

You looked down at the furs of your blanket, biting your lip. "And you?"

Your father leaned back in his chair, studying you for a long moment before answering. "I think it is a good match. The prince seems like a good man. In the time he has spent here, he has shown nothing but respect to our family. More importantly..." His eyes softened. "He seems to admire your strength rather than finding it something that needs to be softened. That matters to me."

Your father's hand came to rest over yours, which was still absentmindedly plucking at the fur of your blanket. He gave it a firm squeeze.

"But what I think does not matter."

You looked up at him.

"Nor does what your mother thinks. Nor what the council thinks. Nor what the prince thinks." His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. "The only thing that matters is what you want."

Your lips parted, but for a moment, no words came.

"I don't know what I want." The admission came quietly. "There is just so much happening in my head. It isn't even only about Valarr. I don't know if I want to leave the North. I don't know if I want to be Queen. I don't even know if I could be a good Queen."

Your father smiled sadly. "Matters of the heart and matters of honour are rarely simple, my little wolf." He squeezed your hand again. "Take your time. These decisions should not be made hastily. I have already told the Lord Hand that we will need a few days before giving him an answer, and he has generously agreed."

You nodded, leaning back against the headboard as you let out a slow breath. For a moment, you thought the conversation was over. Then your father spoke again.

"But I agree with Prince Baelor."

You looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You would make an excellent Queen."

A small laugh escaped you.

"You are biased."

"Perhaps." He smiled. "But I have watched you grow up. I have watched you sit through council meetings when you were far too young to understand half of what was being discussed. I have watched you learn the laws of the North, learn the ways of our people, learn how to command men twice your age."

His expression softened. "And I have always regretted not naming you my heir."

Your smile disappeared. "Father, you shouldn't say that. It was the right decision."

"It wasn't."

You stared at him, he rarely spoke so firmly.

"No matter the circumstances, I should have waited for you to heal and then asked you what you wanted. Instead, I made the decision for you."

"Father-"

"I let grief make the decision that should have been yours." His voice had grown quieter. "And I will die with that regret. Not only because I undermined my own daughter's abilities, but because my decision drove a wedge between me and my son."

"William does not hate you." Your father gave you a tired smile. "And neither do I think you undermined my abilities." You squeezed his hand. "The North needed an heir beside you during those difficult years. I was drowning in my own grief. I could barely get out of bed some days, let alone stand beside you and rule the North. You made the decision you thought was best for the North."

"But that does not make it right."

You looked at him quietly, his words made your throat tighten.

"I should have fought harder for you. I should have told the council that being wounded did not make you incapable. That grief did not make you weak. I should have reminded them that you were my daughter before you were anything else and that ruling the North was your birthright."

Your eyes began to burn, "Father..."

He gave your hand another squeeze. "And that is why I want you to make this decision yourself." He straightened in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours. "I do not want you to think about what happens to the North if you leave. I do not want you to think about what your siblings need. I do not want you to think about what I need."

His voice softened.

"You have spent enough of your life thinking about everyone else. Your destiny may be here in the North. Or it may be beyond these walls. Perhaps it is beside Prince Valarr, perhaps it is not. But whatever it is, it should be your choice."

You stared at him, your eyes filling with tears.

"If you want him, then I will gladly agree to this betrothal."

A shaky breath escaped you. "And if I said no?"

Your father laughed softly and reached up to pat your head the way he used to when you were a child.

"Then we say no."

"But wouldn't the royal family be offended?" you asked, a small pout forming on your lips despite yourself. "What if they declare it treason?"

"I do not think Prince Baelor is an unreasonable man." He paused, his smile widening. "But if refusing his son's hand is enough to offend him, then I have no doubt the entirety of the North would rally behind you."

You laughed softly, though your eyes remained wet as your father stood. But before he could take another step, you lurched forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. He froze for half a second before his hand came down to rest against your head, gently stroking your hair.

"Do what your heart desires," he murmured. "That is all I want from you. Your happiness will always be my first priority."

You pressed your face against him, and the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over. You let out a quiet sob, your fingers tightening around his tunic.

The decision was yours. And somewhere beneath all the fear and guilt, you already knew what your heart wanted.

Chapter 13 [18th August]

Taglist: @snowwythegloww @supermanshand @rakiroad @cassandra-reborn-anew @bloomballet @bubblegupyy @darling-darling3 @targaryenamour @boundandbrews @onlyrealjoy @qardasngan @rather-melodramatic @appalost @writingshae @uixhzzzi @ch3ska0 @lasylady @jjubilee-fluff @noilusionsblr @062292 @kiszexo-blog @arutsumu @bloomfaery @febru4rystars @secretf1lms @lilybear1-2 @bobostark @whydoshe2308 @Older-bro @madisonosidam @icebearcucumber @ky-3102 @mikariell95 @galactict3a @topsecretgoatt @beelinesblog @lucycarlisleswife @idfkgabby @starlitflora @scuderiapng @madszoca @nice-nice-dazey @mols832

The letter started with usual pleasantries, and as you suspected, there was no mention of your wedding and how she had decided to not to attend it. It was such a Margaery thing to do, she refused to address the issue, instead let it hang there like a sword, no doubt having decided to wait until you two saw each other again to solve that. There was news of Highgarden, apparently she had visited there recently before going back to Kingslanding, a journey she had made a moon and half ago as well. Her handsome betrothed Renly took up most of her time, but of course she had met lovely Sansa, and was planning on introducing her to her seamstress, the one who made her purple gown—

Purple gown.

There it was.

It was a completely innocent remark to anyone else, but both you and Margaery had decided that if there was any mention of a purple gown, you had to check the third word of the next four sentences to see what the real message was. Your eyes darted over the lines, a shiver running down your spine once you found the very simple, yet chilling statement: 

Stark made a mistake.

A breath left your lips and you stared at the parchment as if it could come to life to give you any details, your heart dropping to your stomach.

“On what?” you whispered into the empty room, your gaze following the lines once again. “On what?”

Was it Joffrey and Sansa’s betrothal?

But that didn’t sound like Margaery. If she suspected it was a bad match or that Joffrey would prove to be a bad husband, she would’ve simply implied she would teach Sansa the southern games, as you already knew she was, per your request. This mistake she spoke of had to be about power, not the ways of heart but the ways of mind.

How could Lord Stark have made a mistake?

The sound of the door opening made you snap out of your thoughts and you turned around to see Alys and Wylla at the threshold, both out of breath.

“What is it?” you asked and Alys motioned at the hallway, still panting.

“Wildlings tried to attack Bran in the woods.”

Your eyes widened. “What?!”

“Lord Robb and the boys saved him,” Wylla added. “They’re in the maester’s tower now, Maester Luwin is tending to him.”

You darted through the room, your heels echoing in the hallway as Wylla and Alys followed you.

You had been to the maester’s tower a couple of times since you had wed Robb. It reminded you of the maester’s tower in your own home; Maester Stafford had been serving your father as the maester of the castle even before Alton was born. He smelled of ink and parchment, and was always nice to you, unlike your very strict septa. Whenever you arranged a flower bouquet for him and brought it to his chambers, he would thank you with a huge smile, saying that you made an old man very happy and put the flowers in front of his biggest window so that they could meet the sun.

More than once, you had told him he could ask the maids to tidy up his chambers, seeing that it was a mess with books and parchments everywhere, but he would always tell you the same thing: “A messy room signifies a busy mind, little lady. And we must all make sure to keep our minds busy, that is how we improve.”

Maester Luwin’s mind had to be busy with how messy his own chambers were, as well.

“If Maester Luwin says you must rest,” Robb’s strong voice carried into the hallway when you turned the corner, relief hitting you fast, “then you must.”

Thank the gods he was alright.

“But I didn’t even feel it!”

“That’s not the point, Bran,” Jon said. “That’s still a wound, whether you feel it or not.”

You rushed into the room while Bran was asking Jon how it could be a dangerous wound when there was no pain, earning an exasperated sigh from him. Your eyes darted over Robb who looked healthy as ever with no wounds, only stains of blood on his hands, but he pressed a kiss on your temple as if to assure you.

“I’m fine, it’s not my blood,” he muttered and you nodded, then turned to Bran who was pouting in the bed while Maester Luwin stitched the open wound on his leg.

“Bran?”

“I’m alright,” he said sulkily and pointed a finger at Robb. “He says I cannot ride.”

“Mother will put my head on a spike when she gets back for letting you get hurt in the first place,” Robb told him, “I’d rather not take any other chances.”

Bran narrowed his eyes. “She won’t care.”

Jon shifted his weight while Robb frowned at his little brother.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means she won’t care, because she doesn’t care.”

“Don’t ever say that, Bran,” Robb demanded. “Who told you that?”

“No one has to tell me anything,” Bran insisted. “She’s not here, is she? She left.”

“You know why she left.”

Bran shrugged his shoulders, still pouting.

“She’s not here,” he repeated. “She wouldn’t have left if she cared.”

 Robb opened his mouth to argue, but Maester Luwin put aside the needle and the thread, then lifted his head.

“Robb, you must not keep the hill lords waiting,” he reminded him, and turned to Jon. “And Bran could do with some rest.”

Robb exhaled through his nose and stormed out of the chambers, and Jon stood up to ruffle Bran’s hair.

“I’ll be back, alright?”

“Alright,” Bran said and you offered him a small smile, his direwolf Summer curling up at the foot of the bed.

“Well, you’re in good hands,” you jested. “I’ll try to talk to him about letting you ride as soon as you feel better.”

Bran blinked a couple of times. “Will you?”

“Of course,” you said, Jon walking past you through the doorway. “Mayhaps we can all go riding, Silk would love that. She can make friends with your horse, no?”

Bran nodded fervently. “She can!”

“Wonderful,” you said. “Get some rest, and I’ll visit you once you wake up.”

You closed the door behind you and walked to Jon who was waiting for you in the hallway.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm hm.”

“You’re not hurt?”

Jon shook his head. “Nah, none of us were. Just Bran, and that’s because…gods, we looked away for one second.”

You fiddled with your bracelet. “What are the wildlings doing in the Wolfswood?”

“There trespass sometimes,” Jon said. “Never this close though, we weren’t even deep in the woods.”

“But…” you trailed off, looking over your shoulder. “Why do you think they were this close?”

“I don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. There was a woman with them, we brought her with us.”

Your head shot up.

“You brought—there’s a wildling within the walls?”

“Robb commanded it. We don’t kill women, and we couldn’t just let her go.”

“So the solution was to bring her here?” you hissed through your teeth. “Jon, I don’t like this.”

“She’s just one person, she can’t do anything to anyone in the castle.” He stole a glance at you. “Robb killed one of the men, though. If he sounded irritated back there, that’s why. His first kill.”

You swallowed thickly, your worries about the wildling woman disappearing in an instant.

“I’ll talk to him,” you managed to say. “One of the very first jousts that Silas attended, he…the other knight, he died. My brother was distraught for days, he hadn’t even meant to do any damage, just unhorse him, but the knight was too green. It’s never easy, I’m told.”

Jon averted his gaze from yours, frowning to himself as if he was angry at his own thoughts.

“How is he?” he asked after a beat. “In Dorne?”

Gods, Jon still didn’t know that you knew, and out of respect to both Silas and him, you couldn’t say a thing until he decided to tell you about it.

If he ever decided to tell you about it.

“The twins are giving him a lot of trouble,” you said. “I bet he misses the times he thought I was up to mischief. He’s been helping out Aunt Anya, she’s the head of my mother’s house. Her older sister.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, still not looking you in the eye.

“I’m told he, uh—” He cleared his throat. “He won’t visit anytime soon Robb says, because he has a mistress there?”

…You were going to kill Robb.

Actually, first you were going to kill Robb for being so clueless, and then you were going to kill Silas for deciding to take a mistress instead of dealing with his feelings.

“Mistress is a big word for it, I’d say. Silas is very—his attention is favored among many, I don’t know if you noticed,” you jested. “His go-to solution has always been distracting himself in everyone’s admiration of him, hoping that their praise will silence the thoughts in his head. It doesn’t surprise me he entertains himself to feel better, he was in low spirits when he left here.”

“Because he left you here.”

“Perhaps.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “Perhaps?”

“When it comes to Silas, I learned not to assume,” you said once you both left the tower to step into the yard. “Trust me. My brother has a way of taking people by surprise, in regards to doing why he does what he does.”

He heaved a sigh and looked around the yard.

“I’ll find Theon,” he said. “He shot an arrow into the man holding Bran hostage, and Robb was furious, saying that he could’ve hit Bran.”

“Theon acted without thinking?” you asked, rolling your eyes. “How shocking.”

He repressed a laugh.

“I know,” he said. “But he did end up saving Bran.”

“His one time of being useful.”

Jon tilted his head like a confused puppy, reminding you of Robb. “Has an argument taken place?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I just don’t like him, as you know very well.”

“Aye, I don’t blame you,” Jon muttered. “I’ll see you later?”

You watched him walk away before you made your way to your Wylla and Alys who were waiting by the entrance to the Inner Keep.

“How is he?”

“His leg was wounded but Maester Luwin stitched it,” you told Wylla and Alys let out a breath.

“Poor child…”

“First the fall, and then this,” Wylla muttered. “What is happening?”

You looked over your shoulder to the maester’s tower, then turned to them.

“I’ll go into the sept first, and then to the Godswood,” you said. “To pray for his health, and the whole family’s. Would you like to join?”

“I’ll come with you into the sept,” Wylla said, and you remembered once again that she was the only one who worshipped the new gods among your ladies-in-waiting. Alys shrugged.

“I’ll join the Godswood,” she said. “Do you want me to let the others know?”

“If you don’t mind,” you said and she nodded.

“We’ll meet you by the sept yard once you’re done.”

“Thank you. And Alys?”

“Yes?”

“Would you tell Kyra to let me know once Robb is done with his meeting?” you asked. “I didn’t have the chance to talk to him.”

“Of course,” she said and entered the keep while you linked your arm through Wylla’s, then you both started walking towards the sept.

After praying in the sept and then in front of the weirwood tree, you decided to remain in the Godswood to have a small picnic there with your ladies. You figured while you were there, you could pick some flowers to make bouquets like you would when you were a child, so while your ladies were snacking and gossiping, you grabbed the small basket to get to work, half listening to their chatter.

You were so lost in your own thoughts of both Margaery’s letter and Lady Stark’s whereabouts that you didn’t even realize Jorelle had come over to plop down next to you until she snapped her fingers in front of your eyes, making you snap out of the haze.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh!” You tried to smile. “Yes. My apologies, I was just…thinking.”

“Of Bran’s injury?”

“No—well, kind of,” you said. “I was thinking about something he said earlier.”

“What did he say?”

You plucked a flower, then shook your head.

“That Lady Stark would be here if she cared,” you muttered. “The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that it’s an impossible task, being a mother.”

Jorelle gave you a quizzical look.

“It’s just—when Bran was injured, when he first fell,” you said, “she was beside him day and night, as you know. She didn’t even see off the girls and Lord Stark, wouldn’t leave his room even for a moment. And Robb resented her a little for it, because he was shouldering all these responsibilities, very well I might say, and Lady Stark wouldn’t even acknowledge it, or notice it. And now that Bran is awake, he is convinced she doesn’t care because she left, regardless of how much of a mess she was while he laid there sick. Rickon is convinced she all but abandoned him, and the girls, they had to have been heartbroken when she didn’t even say goodbye to them. Is that how it’s supposed to be, then? No matter what you do, it’s not enough to meet the expectations?”

She heaved a sigh and reached out to pluck a flower to put it in the basket.

“My mother always says that for all its dangers and pain, giving birth is the easier part of motherhood,” she said. “Raising the children is much harder, she would say.”

“She might have a point,” you muttered. “I always assumed giving birth was the hardest—but that’s because in the south, you just hand the babes over to the nursemaids. Nursemaids and tutors and septas and septons. Simpler but more distant. I used to think it was because of the responsibilities that came with being the lady of the castle, but now I think it’s also a way to manage the expectations.”

“Or lower them.”

“Or that,” you admitted. “My mother was great at it, I’m told. Dorne is a bit like here, strangely enough; she took care of all my six brothers.”  

“Gods,” Jorelle said, “taking care of six sons?”

“I mean not by herself completely, that’s impossible,” you added. “But with minimum help. That’s why all my older brothers have many memories with her, but not me or the twins. Us three don’t remember her at all.”

She reached out to squeeze your hand.

“Your father will tell her all about you when they meet again,” she assured you, drawing a small laugh out of you.

“I suppose,” you said, nibbling on your lip. “But Jo, what if I can’t meet the expectations?”

“Your mother’s?”

“My future children’s,” you corrected her. “Mine and Robb’s. What if I make a mistake that’ll make them resent me, like Lady Stark?”

She thought for a moment as if trying to find the right words.

“Making mistakes is a part of being alive,” she said. “And knowing you, you’ll love them with all your heart and make sure they know it. Mistakes tend to pale in comparison when there’s love.”

“What are you two talking about?” Lyra called out, making you look over your shoulder before you grabbed the basket, and you and Jorelle made your way back to the girls.

“Just Bran’s accident.”

“Did you see the wildling?”

“No.” You sat down between Jorelle and Wylla. “Did you?”

“I did,” Barbrey said and motioned at Lyra. “We both did.”

“Really?”

“Mm hm, from the window!”

“How did she look?”

“Like a wildling,” Barbrey said airily and made a face. “I would never wear what she’s wearing, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Except that you would, because wildlings aren’t known for pretty gowns,” Jorelle pointed out and Alys let out a laugh.

“Very true.”

“I’d make my own gowns, thank you very much,” Barbrey said as Lyra rolled her eyes.

“I don’t think pretty gowns are their priority, Barbrey.”

 “It doesn’t hurt to attempt to look beautiful, that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

“I cannot believe Robb brought her here,” you muttered. “Jon implied it was for questioning, but then what?”

“They’ll make her a kitchen servant if she’s good, I’m told,” Wylla said. “Too merciful if you ask me, after she and her friends tried to kill Bran, but…”

“I heard they eat people,” you said. “Everyone in the south says so.”

“I heard the same!”

“I heard it was the giants who ate people.”

“Giants don’t exist, Alys.”

“My cousin met a crow, he says they exist.”

“A crow?” you asked and Jorelle waved a hand in the air.

“A man of the Night’s Watch.”

“Ah.”

“What do you think the Night’s Watch protects us from?”

“From the wildlings!” Wylla insisted and Alys shook her head.

“No, from the giants and the White Walkers!”

“I also heard about the White Walkers,” you said and scrunched up your nose. “Robb teased me endlessly for believing it.”

“Well I believe they exist.”

“We could ask that wildling woman—”

“No!” you cut through the argument. “Absolutely not. I want all of you to stay away from that woman, she could be dangerous.”

“She can’t best me in a fight.” Lyra put her hand on the dagger you had gifted her before in a proud manner. “I’d take her down.”

“I’d rather not risk it, Lyra,” you insisted. “All of you. Promise me.”

They all mumbled in agreement and you pointed at Jorelle who held up her hands.

“I don’t even believe in White Walkers or giants,” she said. “Why would I go near her? I promise.”

“Good,” you said and took a deep breath. “Now, let’s talk of something else. Something pleasant, today has been awfully dreary.”

By the time Kyra brought you the news of Robb’s meeting being over and you returned to the castle, dinner was merely an hour away. You had been rather restless to see him the whole day, especially now that Jon had told you about what had taken place in the woods.

Killing people—especially in the north where they believed the man who passed the sentence should swing the sword— was not something new, especially to House Stark. Robb himself had told you that his father had taken him to pass the king’s justice to a traitor when he was even younger than Bran, which you couldn’t even wrap your head around. While it was true that in the south, the only deaths you witnessed were during jousts and tourneys, in such traditional and harsh place as the north, it was a part of life. It was embedded in the culture itself, that was why the north had such a feared army and not even the kings could go against it; the northerners were raised to fight and die in war if they had to, from a very young age. They saw it as an honor, and even old men, who would not move from their comfortable castles down in the south, volunteered to go into war just so that there would be more resources for younger generations, which meant no matter at what point in their lives, they had to be ready for battle.

Hence the north’s terrifying reputation and legendary warriors.

However, you could still remember how shaken Silas was when his opponent died, and northern traditions or not, you were not going to assume Robb would be fine after his first kill.

The maids told you that Robb was in your shared bedchambers, and when you turned the corner in the hallway, you saw the servants carrying out the bathtub, along with buckets of water. The pleasant scent of pines filled your nostrils as you approached the room and walked past Grey Wind after pecking him on his head to step through the door.

Gods, he really was handsome.

Robb had put on his pants but not a shirt just yet, leaving his muscular upper body bare for you to feast your eyes on as he moved about in the room. His curly hair was still damp, droplets of water racing down his neck before he grabbed a towel from one of the servants and ruffled his hair with it in an attempt to dry it faster, but all it did was make the curls even messier in the loveliest way possible. You had to remind yourself you couldn’t jump into his arms and drag him to bed, not when the servants were still in the room, so you licked your lips and forced yourself to focus before you cleared your throat to announce your arrival.

Robb’s head whipped around, the scowl on his face—which was surely the result of his own thoughts—softening.

“I was wondering where you’ve been,” he said and a smile warmed your face.

“In the Godswood,” you chirped. “Are you done with your meetings for the day?”

“Thankfully,” he muttered more to himself while you leaned back to the wall. “I just need to visit Bran, and then I’ll be done until dinner.”

You nodded your head as the last servant left the room and Robb threw the towel on the chair, then grabbed a clean linen shirt to put it on.

If it were up to you, he would not be wearing any clothes in your bedchambers.

“We can go together,” you offered. “And then take our dinner here.”

He gave you a quizzical look. “You were saying we could not just the other day, because of the guests.”

“I think the guests would understand,” you pointed out. “No one could blame you if you wanted an evening to recover from the events of today, gods know it had to be scary—”

You didn’t even need to finish your sentence to realize that was the wrong thing to say.

The shift was subtle, and perhaps anyone else could’ve missed it, but you had already met the future Lord Stark, Warden of the North back in the armory when you had suggested him not to fight in the duel. His shoulders tensed up and his jaw clenched for a moment, his gaze that always held a fond warmth in it whenever it fell on you now defiant. Your stomach dropped, what to say next to fix what you had already said shooting through your mind faster than arrows, but before you could so much as open your mouth, he had already spoken:

“I was not scared,” he all but spat in distaste, his voice stern. “And I don’t need to be soothed like a boy.”

Of course.

Implying that he could’ve been scared was the biggest insult you could throw at Robb, accidental as it was.

“No,” you were quick to assure him. “No, of course not. I was just thinking, in the south when someone is killed in a joust, even the best knights find it rather—”

“This is not the south.”

Wonderful, now you were digging yourself even deeper.

You had to take control of this conversation fast, but it was clear that pushing it would not work, and you had a feeling that an argument wouldn’t help either, at least right now. You licked your lips and frowned slightly, then offered him a small smile.

“You misjudge my words,” you said, keeping your tone calm and composed. “I only assumed, because it was scary for me to hear that you were in danger.”

He scoffed as if the mere idea was ridiculous, determination etched on his handsome face. “I wasn’t in danger.”

Right, because the heir to House Stark could never be in danger, even when he faced the wildlings who held his brother hostage, and would want nothing more than to hurt him.

The exasperation you felt at the sheer arrogance could’ve made you scream if you were not a lady of the court.

“Very well,” you said after a beat. “I see that my worries are unwelcomed if not vexing, so I’ll leave you be. I shall see you later, my lord.” 

That seemed to snap him out of the mood he was in, his head whipping up at the honorific before you turned to grab the handle.

“Wait—” he said in a rush. “Wait, don’t leave.” 

You bit inside your cheek and turned around to raise your brows at him.

“I didn’t mean…” he trailed off, running a hand through his curls before he sat on the bed with a sigh. “Come here?”

You didn’t move, nor did you pull your hand from the handle while you kept your gaze on him, and a small smile flitted across his face.

“Please?” he asked and you clasped your hands behind you as you crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, the silky skirt of your gown flowing like waves on the floor.

 “I don’t believe I said anything that warranted such harsh response,” you stated once you reached him, and he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“No,” he murmured, nuzzling into the soft swell of your chest, pushed up by the laces of your gown. “No you didn’t. I’m sorry.”

You could’ve pressed on the matter, but you found yourself absentmindedly playing with his curls instead, the tension on his shoulders dissipating before your eyes.

“And don’t ever say that,” he added. “Nothing you say could ever be unwelcomed or vexing. You’re the only person in this castle whose mere presence is the remedy to everything else.”

You let a smirk curl your lips.

“Should I be worried about outside the castle, then?” you teased him. “A hidden mistress beyond the walls?”

That coaxed a small chuckle out of him, and he lifted his head to look up at you.

“The whole realm,” he corrected himself while you scratched your nails over his scalp. “Forgive me, it wasn’t my intention to sound harsh. Not to you, of all people.”

“I know.”

“Gods, it just keeps coming,” he said with a shake of his head. “Everything, on top of each other. First Bran’s fall, then my father leaving for the capital, the assassin, that Lannister ambush, not to mention my mother has turned into a bandit in my father’s absence it seems, taking hostages off the roads—”

You repressed the laugh threatening to climb your throat. “Robb.”

“Rickon thinks everyone has abandoned him because she’s not here,” he insisted. “The girls are in the capital and we don’t know if they’re safe, and Bran could’ve died today, if not because of the wildlings, because of—Theon shot an arrow at the man who held a knife to Bran’s throat, did I tell you about that? If he missed…”

It could’ve been so easy to use this very moment to fuel him against Theon.

The opportunity was right there. Lady Olenna would’ve advised you to do it, especially now that you knew Theon was trying to create unrest between you and Robb, but for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Putting Robb’s mind at ease and soothing him—even though he claimed he didn’t need it—was more important than whatever trick you could’ve spun against the threat that Greyjoy thought he could pose to your standing.

That could wait.

“And I’m trying, truly,” he said, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “To handle everything the way my father would have if he were here, as if he hasn’t been ambushed all the way down in the south in a den of fucking lions. And I’m supposed to—” He scoffed and gestured at the window. “I’m supposed to sit here so as not to start a war when all I want is to go there and put Jaime Lannister to the sword.”

Seven hells, of course he was restless.

You couldn’t even begin to imagine what you would’ve done if someone hurt your family even without you having to handle the biggest and the most feared part of the realm. First Lady Stark had said the Lannisters had something to do with Bran’s fall, now Lord Stark had been wounded by Jaime Lannister in a cowardly ambush, there was no wonder why Robb was straining at the leash to descend upon the south with an army and take vengeance while everyone, including you, told him to stay put for the sake of peace. In addition to keeping the north together, he also had to keep his family, which kept getting attacked from all sides, safe and alive.

“He could’ve died,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. “I looked away one second, and some wildling had a knife to his throat.”

“Oh my dearest love…” you murmured when he laid his forehead on your bust again. You dipped your head to press a kiss into his damp curls, the fresh smell of pines trickling down your lungs, as if you were standing in the middle of the Wolfswood, the sharp wind of winter wrapped around you. He let out a shaky breath while you stroked his hair, his grip around your waist tightening as though he feared you would slip out of his grasp and disappear into thin air.

It wouldn’t have surprised you if he started to cry, gods knew you would have if you were under that kind of pressure, but what was it that he had told Rickon, a mere child who had come to you after a nightmare?

“You’re a Stark and a northman, we don’t cry.”

So of course Robb himself would not even though it was just you and him in the room, not when he was brought up with that way of thinking. His whole body tensed up when he sniffled like he was angry at himself, but you kissed his temple, raking your nails over the nape of his neck. Your simple touch managed to calm him a little, and though there were tears in his eyes when he pulled back to look up at you, he blinked them back fast, clearing his throat.

“Would you tell me if I were doing a bad job at it?”

“At what?”

“This,” he said, motioning around vaguely. “Being the Warden of the North. Would you tell me if I were dooming the future of my house and my family?”

A soft smile curled your lips. “You’re doing no such thing.”

“But would you tell me?” he insisted and you shook your head.

“No,” you said. “What I would do, if that were the case, is that I would go behind your back and fix whatever issue that’s rising that you’re missing. And it doesn’t seem like there was anything that I needed to fix, because as I’ve told you before, I spent the whole day in the Godswood gossiping and eating lemon cakes with my ladies-in-waiting.”

A faint grin pulled at the corners of his pretty mouth. “Just that?”

You pretended to think for a moment. “There were also oat cakes but I don’t like them that much.”  

He huffed out a laugh and turned his head to kiss your palm when you cupped his cheek.

“You forget that I grew up around many heirs,” you said. “The future of your house and your family is safe in your hands, my love. You’re doing a great job, even under such difficult circumstances. And even if something went wrong, even if you made a mistake, it wouldn’t matter, because you have me, and we’d fix it together.”

His gaze softened as he pulled you to him so that you could straddle him, and you nibbled on your lip, your eyes darting over his handsome face before you took a deep breath.

“I’ll love you forever, no matter what,” you told him, lacing your fingers through his before you smiled. “You don’t have to be what you are to everyone else when you’re with me.”

An exhale left him while he stared at you like he was in a daze.

“Gods, you…” he trailed off, a small chuckle of disbelief spilling from his lips as he caressed your cheekbone, his touch so gentle that you felt your heart melt in your chest. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

“We must disagree, I’m afraid.” You let out a giggle and leaned in to kiss him. “Because I think I do.”

You didn’t, truly.

Not yet at least.

And in happier news, Bran had woken up last week. Though Maester Luwin said he could never walk again, you were thankful to the gods that he was alive, everything else could be sorted out.

Needless to say, Bran didn’t see it that way.

“Have you two seen Rickon?”

Both Jon and Theon stopped eating their breakfast and looked up at you at the same time.

“Wasn’t he with you and Robb?” Jon asked and you shook your head.

“Robb went to visit Bran in his room, I figured they would want to talk alone. The last time I talked to him, he wasn’t really…” you trailed off and shrugged. “Which is expected.”

“Aye, he wasn’t really interested in talking to me either.” 

“He just needs time,” Theon said. “That’s it—oh, there’s Rickon.”

You turned your head to find Rickon absolutely covered in mud, making you gasp. The little boy didn’t seem like he minded the mud on his clothes at all, judging by the toothless smile he gave you when he reached the table.

“Hello!”

“What’s happened?!” you asked, covering your mouth with your hands and he looked down at himself.

“I was playing with Shaggy.”

“In the mud?”

“Aye!”

You seemed to be the only one who was shocked at the state of him, because instead of reacting in any way, Jon just ruffled his little brother’s hair while Theon let out a laugh. Rickon grabbed a piece of cheese from Theon’s plate without even wiping his hands, then darted through the hall before you could stop him, almost crashing into Robb’s legs on his way out. Robb looked over his shoulder to check where his little brother was rushing off to, then approached you and pressed a kiss on your temple.

“Here you are,” he said and touched the small of your back before he sat down, so you took the seat next to Jon’s. “Where’s he going?”

“To the yard, I’d say,” Jon answered while you stared at the entrance, your mouth half agape.

“He’s covered in mud,” you managed to say, “and he ate food without cleaning his hands.”  

“He does that.”

Your eyes widened. “But that’s not healthy!”

“He has never fallen ill his entire life,” Jon said and Robb nodded.

“Besides, it’s Rickon,” he stated as if that was enough of an explanation, and reached out to steal a piece of bread from Jon’s plate, but Jon swatted his hand away.

“Go get your own plate!”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Then keep your hands off my food!”

“So you’re saying you won’t share your bread with me? Your brother? Your blood?”

“Aye, that’s what I’m saying—”

“Did someone at least tell Rickon that it’s not good manners to walk around covered in mud?”

“Multiple septas did.” Robb filled himself a drink and offered you, but you shook your head. “He doesn’t listen.”

“Besides, he’s northern,” Theon said. “He’s not gonna grow to be one of those flowery Reach knights with their southern manners and poems—”

“What is it with your animosity toward poetry, Greyjoy?” you asked with a frown. “Is it because you can’t read?”

“Your brother asked me the same thing—I can read!”

“Allegedly,” you pointed out, and Robb and Jon exchanged glances, both biting back identical grins. “I’ve heard Ironborn look down on literacy to the point of accusing people who can read as sorcerers.”

“Well, seeing the raids on the Reach, we’re still better fighters than—”

“None of that,” Robb interrupted him while you glared at Theon, and Jon heaved a sigh.

 “How’s Bran?”

“As expected,” Robb muttered. “I don’t think staying in that room is going to make him feel better. I’ll get him out to the yard the moment Maester Luwin says we can.”

“That should help.”

“I hope so.”

“Has father written back yet?”

“No ravens arrived,” Robb said while Jorelle made her way to you. “Should be any day now, though.”

“My lady, you wanted me to remind you about your meeting with Lady Sabitha,” she said. “She’s waiting for you.”  

Theon nodded at Jorelle with a smirk.

“Lady Jorelle,” he greeted her. “Hello.”

Robb and Jon both looked from Theon to Jorelle with the exact same expression of boyish wonder on their faces, and Jorelle raised her brows, eyed him up and down, then chortled.

“Absolutely not, Greyjoy.”

Robb stifled a laugh and kicked Jon under the table while Jon pressed his fist on his lips to hide his smile. Theon sat up straighter, clearly not discouraged as he puffed his chest.

“But I’m…”

“Greyjoy, I understand that you lack subtlety so I’m going to be as direct as my manners allow me,” you told him and stood up from your seat. “If you ever bother my ladies-in-waiting, I’ll make sure you can never speak a word to them or anyone else ever again. I’m sure the whole castle will thank me for it.”

There was a proud grin on Robb’s face as you pecked him on the cheek, then you threw an arm over Jorelle’s shoulder and you both walked away from the table, giggling.

After your small meeting with Lady Sabitha, the rest of your day was considerably idle. You visited Bran, you spent some time with Rickon, and now you and your ladies-in-waiting had nothing to do but remain in your room and gossip until dinner time. You laid in your bed, with Jorelle by your side and Wylla laid on her stomach at the foot of the bed, reading a book. Alys was braiding Lyra’s hair and Barbrey was embroidering something for her new gown on the sofa across the hearth, occasionally holding it up for Alys and Lyra’s opinion.

It reminded you of the Reach, back when you and Margaery and your friends would spend time together before the jousts.

“Jo?”

Jorelle turned her head to see you better. “Hm?”

“What kind of husband do you want?”

The question gathered everyone’s attention in the room. Alys stopped braiding Lyra’s hair, Lyra’s head snapped around and Barbrey looked up from her embroidery, her eyes widening. Wylla pursed her lips without pulling her gaze off the page, but you could tell her ears perked up with the way she stopped following the lines. Jorelle craned her head to see you better.  

“What brought this on?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” you said. “You know, when Greyjoy tried to talk to you earlier today—”

“Gods no!”

“No, obviously not him!” you said in a rush. “None of you will wed him, are you jesting? I hate him, he’s vile.”

“He’s your lord husband’s best friend,” Wylla pointed out and you shrugged.

“I still hate him, Robb knows it,” you said. “But it made me think, it’s clear you have admirers, all of you.” You motioned around the room. “Silas fixed my betrothal, and it took him such a long time to make a decision. And you’re my ladies-in-waiting, it’s my responsibility to find you good suitors. I’m determined to find you the best men in the realm, but I can only do that if I know what kind of husbands you want.”

Alys thought for a second. “Perhaps we should make a list.”

“Good idea!” You jumped from the bed and rushed to the desk to grab the inkpot and the quill, and parchments. You dipped the quill into the inkpot, then wrote all their names on different parchments and pointed at Lyra with your quill.

“Lyra, are you certain—”

“I won’t wed, I’m certain,” Lyra cut you off. “Men can be so annoying.”

“She’s not wrong on that one,” Jorelle muttered and Lyra gave her a grin.

“I can also fight Greyjoy if he bothers you.”

“Not needed at this point, but thank you Lyra.”

“Me next!” Barbrey said, sitting up straighter. “I want a southron husband.”

“Where in the south?” you asked and Barbrey frowned as if the thought hadn’t hit her before.

“Um, the Reach?”

“The men of the Reach are full of audacity, I’ve found,” Jorelle grumbled and you shot her a smirk.

“I think you mean the men of Dorne.”

Jorelle bit back a laugh and held up her hands. “All the same to me.”

“And I want him to be a knight,” Barbrey added, her nose stuck in the air. “Like…like that knight you danced with on your wedding.”

You blinked a couple of times. “Loras?”

“Yes, The Knight of Flowers!” Barbrey said. “Oh he was so handsome!”

“Barbrey.” You tried to control your expression. “You would not want Loras as a husband.”

“Why did you not?” Alys asked and shifted her weight. “I mean I know Lord Robb is the love of your life, but before that? The Knight of Flowers is your best friend’s brother, and you two looked like the perfect southron lady and the knight when you danced.”

Well, there were many reasons; the main one being that your brother was Loras’ type and not you, regardless of how you two looked while you were dancing.

“Loras is like a brother to me,” you said. “We could never see each other like that. How about you, Alys? What kind of husband do you want?”

“I don’t want a southron,” Alys said. “I don’t want to be so far away from my family. I want a brave northern fighter, but he must be handsome, and my age.”

 “Do you have someone in mind?”

Her cheeks got pink and she averted her glances.

“…No.”

You arched a brow. “Alys.”

“I don’t have anyone in mind, I just—”

“She admires the heir of House Ryswell,” Wylla sang without looking up from her book, making Alys gasp.

“I do not!”

“You danced with him at the wedding and you were flustered afterwards.”

“Wylla!”

“How else are you going to get the husband you want if you keep it a secret?”

“What kind of reading is that?” Jorelle asked her, gesturing at the book in front of Wylla. “You keep chiming in.”

“Yes well, while you are all listing your requirements for suitors…” Wylla wiggled her brows and turned the page before she held it up so that all could see the vulgar illustration. “I’m learning how to keep my future husband under my spell.”

The room exploded into chaos in a second. Alys jumped from her seat at the same time with Barbrey, who nearly face planted on Lyra in her haste to rush to Wylla. Jorelle sat up in bed and snatched the book from Wylla’s hands, holding it out of her reach while she all but wrestled her to get it back.

“Jo!”

“Where did you find this?”

“Let me see! Let me see!”

“What does it say?”

“Oh it says everything.”

“Barbrey, stop pushing!”

“You won’t even wed, Lyra, no need for you to see!”

The title of the book was familiar to you; it was very famous all over the south. Of course all the septas and the maesters forbid it, saying that it was not appropriate for ladies, but that had never stopped you or any of your friends. All it required was a couple gold dragons given to the right maid, and a ball thrown in someone’s honor so that you and your friends could gather in one of your bedchambers while the rest of the household was busy with the guests.

Though, you were rather surprised to see it was famous enough to be found in the north as well.

“That’s disgusting!” Barbrey let out a squeal as she leaned in to grimace at the drawing. “So very disgusting!”

“Then stop looking?”

“I cannot!”

You pressed your fist on your mouth so that you could hide your smile, leaning back to the table while they all gathered around the bed and turned the page.

“But I don’t—but—” Alys stammered. “My lady mother said, on my wedding night, I’m to just lay there.”

“So did mine! My husband will know what to do, she said.”

Gods, the north really was different than the south, this was yet another proof of it. All your ladies-in-waiting were the same age as you, women grown, and yet they were clueless when it came to certain things because the north was incredibly strict on such matters.

Jorelle turned the page again and yelped in surprise, a scowl twisting her beautiful face. “Seven hells, I’m not doing that!”

“Let me see—”

“I’m a lady,” Barbrey insisted. “I care not what the book says, I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near…that thing.”

“Do all men know about this?”

“I’d say so.”

“Do you suppose there’s a book for them as well?”

“A book?” Wylla asked with a scoff. “They have no need to read about it. What do you think they do in brothels, hold hands?”

“Lady wives don’t do such things,” Alys insisted while Jorelle lifted her head as if she just remembered your presence in the room. “I’m sure of it.”

“I still don’t understand the—the physics of this?”

“You know what Lyra, you were right. If this is what will be expected of me, I’m not going to wed either.”

“My personal feelings aside, it does sound very uncomfortable, I’m not going to lie.”

“Is it?” Jorelle asked you, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Is it very uncomfortable?”

Stunned silence fell upon the room as all the girls turned their heads to stare at you while you bit back your grin.

“Hm?”

“Oh but she doesn’t do that!” Alys said in a haste. “She’s the most graceful lady of the south, Jo.”

“And she’s been quiet since the beginning of this conversation,” Lyra pointed out, narrowing her eyes at you. “Too quiet.”

Barbrey held up the book and pointed at the illustration on the page. “Did you do this?”

Wylla elbowed her. “Barbrey!”

“What? Lord Robb is mesmerized by her, everyone knows it!”

“Because she is beautiful, you idiot, not because she does such tricks!”

You dragged the tip of your tongue on your lip, then heaved a dramatic sigh.

“You see, I would tell you,” you said. “But since such conversations are unladylike, you’d have to swear—”

“I swear it! I swear on my honor!”

“Me too!”

“So do I, on my honor and house!”

“Aye, on my house too!”

“I will never breathe a word, I swear it.” 

“…That it doesn’t leave this room,” you finished your sentence with a laugh. “Very well then.”

They all plopped down on your huge bed, their attention fully on you as you jumped to sit on the desk.

“Lady Olenna, my best friend’s grandmother always said the marital bed is the way to keep one’s husband mesmerized,” you said. “It matters even more than how you look, how much wealth your family has, or what your house is; that right there is the key, she would say.”

“So you knew about all these things?”

“I did,” you said airily. “The south isn’t as strict as the north, and though I lacked practice, I didn’t lack knowledge.”

“Yes well,” Alys grumbled. “In the north we lack both for some reason.”

Barbrey raised the book again, pointing at the page without a word and you nodded, making all of them gasp.

“You did that?!”

Well, they didn’t need to know how you did exactly that in Robb’s solar the other day.

“I reacted similarly when I first heard about it,” you admitted, “It sounded intimidating, the idea of doing that with some faceless husband in the future that I couldn’t even imagine. And unlike what everyone keeps telling women, you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to. I wouldn’t, if I didn’t want to. However, Robb is…” You tried to find the right words. “I desire him so much that sometimes I feel like I can’t even think or breathe. I don’t speak for all married women obviously, but for me it wasn’t uncomfortable.”

“I’d be so embarrassed to do that though,” Wylla muttered and you cleared your throat.

“At first I was too, but then—” You fixed your skirts just so that you could do something with your hands. “He’s never made me feel uncomfortable, no matter what we’re doing. That’s why I find the marital bed so much fun.”

  “Fun!?”

“Of course,” you said. “It can be very pleasurable you know? For women as well, not just men.”

“I heard it’s terrible for women.”

“It’s not terrible.” Your laugh echoed in the room. “Not even close. When you wed someone who loves you, they simply want you to be happy. Not only outside, but also in your bedchambers.”

Barbrey pointed at the next page, making you hiss in a breath.

“Um, no.” You grimaced and shook your head. “Not that, I would not.”

Jorelle leaned over to peek at what it was before Barbrey showed you another illustration.

“How about this?”

“Oh.” Your face grew hotter. “He does that. A lot.”

Jorelle’s jaw dropped. “You’re jesting, surely!”

“I thought at first his beard would be a problem, but as it turns out—”

“Your lord husband kisses you there?”

“Yes.”

“Why? That doesn’t lead to an heir.”

“Well.” You pressed your palms on your cheeks to soothe the fire. “Not everything is about siring heirs.”

“But how come no one said it’d be fun?” Wylla asked to the room. “All I kept hearing was the importance of heirs, why was I not told it could be fun?”

“I think unfortunately many women don’t know,” you said. “But thankfully I know, because I wed the love of my life, and so will all of you. I’ll make sure of it.” You winked at Lyra. “As long as you want to wed, of course. There’s always the option not to.”

“I’ll take that option,” Lyra stated. “I’m uninterested.”

“I’m interested,” Barbrey pointed out and shuffled the pages before she held up the book again. “Not the other thing, but I want to try this.”

You leaned in with the rest of the girls to see the illustration better. Jorelle narrowed her eyes while Wylla tilted her head, Lyra’s lips curled downwards and Alys put a hand on her hip, letting out a hum.

“Oh I haven’t tried that one yet either,” you said after a beat and held out your hand to motion at the book. “But as my best friend would say, every skill needs honing. May I?”

An hour before dinner, you had already changed your gown and had your maid do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting went to their own bedchambers to get ready. You had dismissed your maid to read some more in secret, so engrossed in the book that you had lost the track of time, hence why you didn’t even hear Robb’s approaching footsteps until the door opened. Your head whipped up and you jolted in bed as if someone pricked you with a needle, a gasp catching in your throat.

 “My love!” you squealed, closing the book and pushing it under the bed in haste. “You’re back!”

“I am.” He came closer to peck you on the lips before he flung himself on the bed, and tilted his head. “Why are you out of breath?”

Seven hells.

“I was reading poetry,” you said after a pause, waving a hand in the air. “It always evokes feelings in me, I get very emotional.”

Confusion pinched his brows and you took a deep breath to calm yourself, then pushed yourself from the bed to make your way to the big table, earning a groan of displeasure from him.

“Come back.”

You let out a giggle and held up a cup, but he shook his head, so you only filled one cup with wine before you returned to bed. After taking a sip, you put the cup on your bedside table and let him pull you back in the bed so that you could straddle him while he wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your bosom.

“Gods, you smell so good,” he murmured and you stifled a laugh.

“How was your day?” you asked, playing with the auburn curls at the nape of his neck, and he hummed.

“Busy. Yours?”

“Not as busy,” you said. “What’s happened?”

“There’s some unrest between two families up in the mountains,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “Norreys and Burleys. Both too stubborn to speak to each other without drawing swords.”

“Oh my poor love,” you cooed, a smile curling your lips when his shoulders relaxed. “And you must be the peacemaker?”

He nodded. “In person, probably.”

The simple sentence was more than enough to wipe your smile off your face, your body tensing up. The memory of what had happened the last time he was away flashed before your eyes, your stomach doing a painful flip as you gulped. You knew that he had no idea, you had made sure that he would have no idea, but it didn’t mean you were ready for him to leave once again, this time for more than just one week—probably for a moon, with how far the mountains were from Winterfell.

But what were you supposed to say?

I don’t feel safe here when you’re away?

That was out of the question. Lady Olenna would’ve reprimanded you if she heard you even consider saying such a thing; a lady didn’t demand or plead, she made people think they wanted what she wanted all along.

In the subtlest manner, of course.

“Oh my,” you said. “Well, I’m quite excited to meet them then. Do you suppose their wives will come with as well? When you invite those lords here?”

He pulled back to give you a fond smile.

“You misunderstand me, sweeting—”

“I suppose they will, considering the distance,” you cut him off. “And I understand why, if you went off to the mountains to settle such dispute, it’d take what? Almost a moon for you to come back? Gods, it’d break my heart so terribly.” You curled your fingers over the back of his hand so that you could press his palm on the soft swell of your chest where he could feel your heartbeat. “To be away from you for that long. I’d miss you so, so much.”

Robb’s eyes darkened with desire as they lingered on your cleavage, then snapped up to your lips again. “Would you?”

You knew you were supposed to come up with a seductive remark as an answer, this was the perfect moment; and yet what you ended up saying was more of a heartfelt confession rather than some southern wordplay.

“I know the whole north says it’s just because we’re newlyweds, but…” You lowered your glances, your heart skipping a beat at the heat of his gaze alone. “Robb, I don’t believe anyone understands how much I crave you, all the time. It’s intimidating sometimes.”

He swallowed thickly, his other hand sliding up to cradle your cheek, tracing the line of your bottom lip with his thumb as he tilted your head up.

“And why is it intimidating, my beautiful wife?” he asked, the deep rumble of his voice sending a pleasant shiver through you before he pressed open-mouthed kisses on your chest while tugging at the front laces of your gown. “My heart is at your command forever, you know this.”

You had to try really, really hard to focus and pull yourself together through the haze of want, especially with the way you could feel the proof of his desire under you.

“I thought, for—” A curt laugh escaped you. “I feared for a moment just now, that you would go to them and not the other way around. But you would not, surely?”

He paused for a second, then he lifted his head to look at you; his eyes heavy-lidded like he was as intoxicated with your presence as you were with his.

“Of course not.”

You nodded, batting your lashes. “They’ll come here instead?”

“Aye,” he murmured. “They’ll come here instead.”

You couldn’t stop the proud smile lighting up your face before he grabbed your waist and flipped you under him, making you squeal.

“Robb! My love, we have guests for dinner—”

The buzzing in your ears only seemed to grow louder every time your thoughts wandered back to what happened at the Godswood a few hours ago. Your throat closing up as you tried to think through the mush in your head.

You should have never let it happen. You should have stepped away, should have stopped him, or should have stopped yourself.

A shaky breath escaped your lips as another sob clawed its way up your throat. You sat on the floor of your chambers with your knees drawn tightly against your chest, your back pressed against the wooden door. It felt as though if you moved even the slightest bit, everything inside you would shatter completely.

You could still feel him. The softness of Valarr's lips against yours. The warmth of his hand cradling your cheek. The steady beat of his heart where your body had rested against his.

Even now, it lingered upon your skin, and every memory made your own heart ache with emotions you did not wish to name.

A tear rolled down your cheek.

How could you do this to Berena?

The thought alone made your stomach twist. You had already taken one sibling from her. Now you had kissed the man who was meant to become her husband. Your sister deserved happiness, she deserved to become queen, and most of all, she deserved a prince who would love her.

Instead, you had stood beneath the heart tree and kissed the very same prince. Your breathing became uneven as another wave of guilt crashed over you.

It had not only been him, the guilt would have been bearable if Valarr had forced himself upon you. But the reality was far from it.

You had kissed him back. A selfish part of you had melted into his touch, and had wanted the kiss to last just a little longer. That thought alone made you squeeze your eyes shut.

"What have I done..." you whispered brokenly into the silence before a knock sounded against your chamber doors. The noise made you flinch.

"My lady?" Meera's voice came softly through the wood. "Please, let me in."

You swallowed hard and tried to steady your breathing.

"Meera..." Your voice cracked the moment you spoke, and you pressed your forehead against your knees. "Please, for the Old Gods' sake...leave me alone."

The last words dissolved into another sob before you could stop them. Silence lingered for only a heartbeat before Meera called again, her voice full of worry.

"My lady, at least tell me what has happened."

You stared blankly at the floor. What could you possibly tell her? That you had kissed your own sister's future husband? That you had destroyed everything before it had even begun? That despite every ounce of guilt tearing you apart, some shameful part of your heart still remembered the kiss with unbearable tenderness.

"I saw Prince Valarr," Meera continued carefully. "He looked troubled. The prince wished to speak with-"

"GET OUT!" The words ripped from your throat before you even realised you had spoken them. "I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR ANOTHER WORD ABOUT-"

Your voice broke and rest of the sentence died inside your chest. Your breathing came in ragged gasps as tears streamed freely down your face. One trembling hand clutched at the front of your dress, pressing desperately against the ache in your chest as though you could somehow stop your heart from breaking apart.

"Meera..." you whispered between uneven breaths. "I-"

Another sob interrupted you.

"I cannot..." Your hand flew to your mouth in an attempt to muffle the pathetic sounds of your crying.

On the other side of the door, Meera remained silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke again, her own voice sounded painfully small.

"My apologies, my lady. I will leave."

Her footsteps shifted, and for a brief moment, you thought she was gone.

"The prince..." she said hesitantly. "He asked me to tell you that he wished to apologise."

Your heart clenched so painfully you thought it might stop altogether.

"He said," Meera paused before continuing, "that he will wait. He said he would wait until you found it in your heart to forgive him."

Then the footsteps finally retreated down the corridor. The castle fell quiet once more, and you buried your face against your knees as another broken sob escaped you.

If only he knew. He was the one asking for forgiveness, when it was you who could never forgive yourself.

The snow crunched beneath your boots as you walked, each step sinking into the untouched white until crimson began to stain your footprints behind you. The deeper you wandered into the Wolfswood, the darker crimson the sky became. What had once been pale winter light slowly bled into violent shades of red.

You wanted to stop. Gods, you wanted to turn around. Every instinct screamed at you to run back the way you had come, but your legs refused to obey. They carried you deeper between the ancient pines, your breathing growing harsher with every step as unease settled heavily inside your chest.

Then you saw him. Standing beneath the heart tree was a lone figure, his back turned towards you. The thick fur cloak resting across his shoulders was one you would recognise anywhere.

It was Donner's.

Your stomach twisted painfully. "No..." you whispered, though your feet continued moving of their own accord. "Please, Don't."

The distance between you vanished far too quickly. The moment you stopped behind him, the figure slowly turned, and your breath caught.

Donner stared back at you. Blood covered his face, dripping diwn from the wound carved across his brow and soaking the fur around his shoulders. A sword pierced clean through his throat, the blade protruding from the back of his neck. His lips trembled as though forcing themselves to move despite the steel lodged inside him.

"Y...you..." His voice came out wet and broken. "G...coward..."

Tears filled your eyes instantly. His blood pooled around his boots, spreading across the snow until it reached your own. Before you could move, another presence settled behind you, and a hand rested lightly upon your shoulder.

You turned to see Berena standing there. A silver crown rested upon her head, but blood poured endlessly from her eyes, staining her cheeks and the front of her dress. She looked at you with an expression so full of heartbreak that it shattered something inside your chest.

"Why?" she whispered, and her voice cracked. "Why did you do this to me, sister?"

"I didn't..." you breathed desperately. "Berena, I-"

Another hand grabbed your shoulder, and you spun again. It was William, his face was unreadable, and his eyes, once always so full of warmth whenever he looked at you, were empty.

"You betrayed her." His voice was calm. "You betrayed all of us."

"N-no..."

More footsteps echoed behind you.

Alyssane.

Errold.

One by one they emerged from the crimson forest until they surrounded you completely, their faces pale, their eyes hollow.

"How could you?"

"You betrayed her."

"Traitor."

"She trusted you."

"You selfish coward."

Their voices blended together, getting louder with each moment that passed until they no longer sounded human. Your hands flew to your ears, but it did nothing to silence them. The forest spun around you, and your breathing turned frantic as your throat tightened painfully.

You tried to inhale, but nothing worked. You clawed desperately at your neck, your lungs burning as panic consumed every inch of your body. The sky above had turned entirely red now, the snow beneath your feet turned into rivers of blood.

This wasn't real.

It couldn't be.

It was another dream.

Gods, you hated these dreams.

Then, two arms wrapped carefully around you from behind, shielding you from everything else. The voices faded, and the crimson blurred. Your heartbeat, frantic only moments before, slowly found another pair of calm heartbeat.

"I am here." The voice was soft, and it sounded safe. You knew it instantly.

Valarr.

You turned within his embrace. He was looking down at you with those mismatched eyes you had begun recognising anywhere, concern etched across every feature of his face. His cloak surrounded you like a shield against the cold, one hand resting carefully against the back of your head as though afraid you might shatter beneath his touch.

Without thinking, your fingers clutched desperately at the front of his doublet.

He pulled you closer, and your forehead rested against his chest, right above his heart.

Each beat of his heart chased another shadow away until the blood disappeared from the snow, the crimson sky softened back into pale winter clouds, and every accusing face dissolved into the morning mist.

You looked back up at him, and he smiled.

How could one man look so beautiful? You thought to yourself.

"My lady," he murmured gently, and you nodded without realising. His thumb brushing lightly against your hair. "My lady..."

His voice sounded further away this time. "Please..." Another knock echoed through the silence.

"My lady."

The warmth vanished, and your eyes flew open. A loud knocking echoed through your chambers. For several confused moments you simply stared at the wooden floor beneath you, your mind still trapped somewhere between dream and reality. Then the ache spreading across your back made itself known, followed by the stiffness in your neck.

You had fallen asleep beside the door.

A groan escaped you as you slowly pushed yourself upright, rubbing a hand across your face. Every muscle protested the movement, and your head throbbed dully as memories from the previous night came rushing back all at once.

The Godswood.

Valarr.

The kiss.

Your chest tightened.

Another knock sounded, followed by a voice.

"My lady?" Sara called from the other side of the door. "Are you awake? Lady Stark has asked for your presence at breakfast."

You squeezed your eyes shut.

"Sara..." Your voice came out hoarse. "Please, I do not wish to attend breakfast."

A brief silence followed before Sara answered carefully. "Forgive me, my lady. But Prince Baelor has requested that everyone be present. He said there is an important matter he wishes to discuss."

Your heart lurched violently. A cold knot settled in your stomach.

You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead briefly against the door before forcing yourself to answer.

"...I will be there."

The words barely left your mouth above a whisper, but they were enough. You turned slowly towards your room, already feeling the weight of the day pressing down upon your shoulders before it had even begun.

The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than any journey you had ever taken through Winterfell. Every step echoed against the stone corridors, slow and reluctant, as though your own body wished to turn around and lock itself inside your chambers again. Your head still ached as you pressed the heel of your palm against your temple, hoping it might somehow silence the memories before they drown you completely.

Then a familiar voice called your name. You froze for only the briefest of moments before looking over your shoulder.

Valarr stood a few paces behind you, dressed as impeccably as ever in a black doublet embroidered with crimson dragons, a fur-lined cloak resting across his shoulders. His hair looked slightly untidier than usual, as though he had run his hands through it one too many times, and the dark circles beneath his mismatched eyes made it painfully obvious that sleep had escaped him just as surely as it had escaped you.

You turned back around and resumed walking.

"My lady... please." His footsteps hurried after yours, careful but determined, and there was something in his voice that made your chest tighten painfully. He sounded exhausted.

"Please, just let me-"

You stopped so abruptly that Valarr nearly walked into you. Turning to face him, you found him halting barely two steps away, his hands instinctively clasping behind his back as they always did whenever he grew nervous. His eyes searched your face desperately, and the hope lingering inside them made what you were about to do hurt all the more.

"Look," you began, forcing every word past the lump lodged in your throat. "Whatever happened yesterday..."

"Yes," he interrupted quickly, relief flashing across his face. "I wished to apologise. I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I only-"

"It was a mistake."

The words hung between you like the sharp edge of a blade.

You watched the colour slowly drain from his face. His brows knitted together, confusion giving way to something quieter, something infinitely sadder.

"I would be grateful," you continued before your own courage abandoned you, "if you could forget it ever happened, Your Grace."

For a long moment, he simply stared at you. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. His hand lifted almost unconsciously, reaching towards yours before stopping halfway. Slowly, almost uncertainly, he lowered it again.

"...A mistake," he repeated quietly. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in something that almost resembled a laugh, though there was no humour behind it. Only disbelief.

"My lady..." His voice cracked ever so slightly before he cleared his throat. "If you would only allow me to explain and apologi-"

"There is nothing to explain."

You could feel your resolve beginning to crumble beneath the wounded look in his eyes, and that frightened you more than anything else. If you stayed another moment, you knew you would take every word back. You would tell him that you remembered every second of that kiss. That a part of you wished it had never ended. That your heart still betrayed you every time he looked at you like this.

You could never allow yourself to say those words. So you bowed stiffly, avoiding his gaze altogether before turning on your heel and walking towards the Great Hall as quickly as your trembling legs would carry you. You did not look back. You could not.

By the time you crossed the great wooden doors, your heartbeat had become so loud that it drowned out almost every other sound in the hall.

Nearly everyone had already gathered.

The long tables were filled with northern and southern lords alike, conversations flowing freely despite the early hour. Your family was already seated at the High Table alongside the royal family, and as you approached, you felt more than one pair of curious eyes following you. Whether they were wondering about yesterday's trial or simply waiting for whatever announcement Prince Baelor had summoned everyone for, you neither knew nor cared.

You offered polite greetings before slipping into your usual seat beside William.

Your brother barely spared you a glance before sliding a platter of eggs towards you.

"You look like you've been dragged through a battlefield," he observed casually, already halfway through his own breakfast.

A tired sigh escaped you.

"I feel like it."

William hummed thoughtfully before piling another spoonful of eggs onto your plate.

"For what it's worth," he said, lowering his voice, "Father thinks Prince Baelor is finally going to ask for Berena's hand today."

Your fingers froze around your fork. The words struck harder than they should have.

You swallowed carefully, forcing the tightness from your throat before managing what you hoped resembled a smile.

"That...would be good."

"Hm."

William looked at you properly now, suspicion flickering across his face.

"...You are happy?"

You let out a weak chuckle and forced yourself to meet his gaze.

"Of course I am. Our sister will become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms one day."

The words tasted bitter. Before William could question you further, movement near the entrance caught everyone's attention.

Valarr had entered the hall. Against your better judgement, your eyes found him instantly, and his gaze was already searching for you.

When your eyes met, he didn't look away. There was no anger in his expression, only a sadness so open that it made your chest ache. He offered you the smallest smile, hesitant and hopeful all at once.

You looked away first, and a gentle hand settled over yours. You turned to find Berena standing beside you. She smiled warmly, the same gentle smile she had worn your entire life, and squeezed your hand affectionately before taking her seat. The simple gesture made guilt crash over you so violently that you had to look down at the table just to steady yourself.

How could you have done this to her?

Before you could drown any further in your thoughts, Prince Baelor rose from his seat.

The hall gradually fell silent.

"Lords and Ladies," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room, "Forgive me for gathering everyone so early this morning. I wished for all present to witness a proposal that I believe will strengthen the bonds between the North and the Crown."

A hush settled over the hall. You folded your hands tightly beneath the table, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling growing inside your chest.

"I believe everyone here knows that my heir, Prince Valarr, has reached an age suitable for marriage."

Prince Baelor smiled.

"And I can think of no greater honour than joining our two great houses together."

Your pulse quickened.

This was it.

Berena.

Everything was finally falling back into place. You forced yourself to breathe.

Prince Baelor turned towards your father, warmth softening the diplomatic smile on his face.

"Therefore, Lord Stark... I wish to formally offer a betrothal between my son, Prince Valarr Targaryen..."

You closed your eyes briefly, silently praying that your own foolish heart would finally learn to let go. That this was what was supposed to happen and should happen.

"...and your eldest daughter, Lady-"

The world stopped, and your eyes flew open. For one endless heartbeat, you were convinced you had imagined it.

The hall remained utterly silent.

Your father looked just as stunned as you felt. Your mother blinked in open surprise. Even William had forgotten the fork halfway to his mouth. Around the hall, whispers began spreading like wildfire as nobles looked between you and Valarr in complete disbelief.

You turned towards the prince, but he was already looking at you. There was no surprise in his eyes, and beneath it, something quieter.

Hope.

Prince Baelor continued speaking, his voice warm despite the formal setting.

"If the lady herself is willing, Lord Stark, then I ask that you consider this proposal. Take whatever time you require. Yet I believe my son would be blessed with no finer wife...and the realm itself would be fortunate to one day call her their queen."

You barely heard the final words because you couldn't breathe. Slowly, almost mechanically, your head turned towards Berena.

She had lowered her gaze. Her fingers rested quietly in her lap, but you noticed the rapid blink of her eyes. You knew that look. You had seen it ever since childhood whenever she fought to keep herself from crying.

No.

This was wrong.

You had to stop this.

You need to refuse this.

You need to fix it.

You opened your mouth, but before a single word could escape, Berena's hand closed firmly around your wrist beneath the table.

The grip wasn't painful but pleading. You looked at her, she still hadn't raised her head. Only the smallest shake of it.

You stared at her in confusion, your own heart breaking all over again. A moment later, Berena quietly excused herself from the table.

Without looking at anyone, she turned and walked out of the Great Hall, leaving you frozen where you stood, her warmth still lingering around your wrist.

Your mother was the first to recover from the shock. You saw her lean towards your father, whispering something that you could not hear before she rose from her chair. Her eyes lingered on Berena's retreating figure for only a heartbeat before she excused herself and hurried after your sister, the worry etched across her face impossible to miss.

Your father remained seated. His eyes found yours across the hall, and for the first time since you had entered, you could not bear to look at him. Your lips trembled as you lowered your gaze to the table, your heartbeat echoing so loudly inside your ears that Prince Baelor's voice became nothing more than distant noise.

You had to fix this.

The moment the conversations resumed around the hall and the initial shock began to settle amongst the gathered nobles, you muttered a hurried apology and excused yourself before anyone could stop you. Your chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as you hurried towards the doors, your only thought being Berena.

You would apologise.

You would tell her that none of this should have happened.

That you would fix it, no matter what it took.

The corridors of Winterfell were strangely empty as you strode through them, your footsteps echoing sharply against the cold stone walls. Every turn brought you closer to your sister's chambers, yet your thoughts refused to settle. They crashed into one another in an endless storm of guilt, shame and fear until you could scarcely breathe.

"Gevie."

His voice stopped you in your tracks. The warmth that voice usually carried only made something inside you snap.

You turned around sharply. Valarr was hurrying towards you, his expression still carrying that unbearable mixture of hope and worry that had followed him ever since breakfast. His eyes searched your face desperately, as though he believed he could still fix whatever had broken between the two of you.

This time you felt nothing but anger. Before he could take another step, you crossed the distance in an instant.

Your hand caught the front of his doublet, shoving him backwards until his back struck the stone wall with a muffled thud. Your forearm came across his throat, pinning him there as your breathing turned ragged.

Valarr let out a startled gasp, his mismatched eyes widening in complete shock.

"How dare you!?" you hissed, your voice shaking with fury. "Did you tell your father what happened last night? Is that why this is happening?"

"N-No," he managed between shallow breaths. "My lady, I-"

You pressed harder against his throat.

"Why?" Tears blurred your vision. "Why would you do this to Berena? Is this some princely obligation? Because if this is about last night, then I already told you to forget it. It was a mistake."

Your voice cracked.

"It should never have happened."

"Gevie, please listen-"

"NO!"

The word echoed down the empty corridor.

"Listen to what? Listen while your father humiliates my sister before the entire North? Listen while everyone watches the man they all believed she would marry humiliate her?" Your chest rose and fell violently as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "I never once said I wanted to marry you. So why? Why would you allow this? Do you go around marrying every woman you have kissed?"

Valarr opened his mouth again, but you were no longer capable of stopping.

"If this is because of my honour, then I do not care about that honour." You laughed bitterly through your tears. "To the hells with my honour. Berena is kind. She is gentle. She will make a wonderful queen, and you will learn to love her."

Your voice became little more than a whisper.

"So please...just tell your father this was a mistake, please let him know that-"

Something changed in Valarr then. Until now he had stood there, letting every word strike him without protest.

This time, He moved. His hands caught your wrists—not roughly, but firmly enough that you could not pull away—and before you realised what had happened, he had gently but decisively switched your positions.

Your back met the stone wall, his breathing was just as uneven as yours. For the first time since you had known him, Prince Valarr raised his voice.

"I cannot love her because I love you!"

The words struck and your mind went completely blank.

The prince who blushed whenever you smiled at him, who apologised even when someone else stepped on his foot, who barely possessed the courage to meet your eyes some days...was standing before you with tears in his eyes, confessing his heart as though it were the simplest truth in the world.

Your heartbeat hammered painfully against your ribs. "I don't care-"

"But I do."

His voice was quieter now. He swallowed hard before continuing.

"I care, Gevie."

His fingers loosened around your wrists, though he never stepped away. His eyes searched yours desperately, carrying so many emotions that you could not begin to name them.

You tried to speak again, but he gently lifted a trembling hand, resting it lightly over your mouth.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "Please...let me speak this once."

You stared at him, his face was only inches from yours now.

"No...I never told my father what happened in the Godswood." He drew a shaky breath. "He summoned me because he wished to speak of you and Lady Berena."

You frowned at him as he smiled sadly.

"He told me that Lady Berena possesses every quality the southern court expects from its future queen. But then..."

His eyes softened in a way that made your heart ache.

"He told me that you...you are what the realm truly needs, what I truly need. And hearing my own father say those words made me realise just how blind I have been."

A tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

"My feelings were so obvious that everyone could see them...except me."

He laughed quietly at himself, though it sounded painfully hollow.

"For the first time in my life..." he whispered, "I realised that perhaps...perhaps I could be selfish. That maybe I could want something simply because my own heart desired it."

His voice broke completely. "And what it desires," he closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, "...is you."

The corridor seemed to disappear around you.

"When I look at you," he continued softly, "everything else becomes quieter. The expectations, the duties, the crown, they all disappear, and all that remains is you."

Another tear escaped him as you drew in a shaky breath through your nose.

"Whenever I look at you, it feels as though the Gods themselves wrote your name into every corner of my fate long before I was born."

He leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours, and his voice became barely more than a whisper.

"So no, ñuha jorrāelagon..." His breath trembled. "I will not tell my father this is a mistake." He let out a shaky laugh through his tears.

"Because it isn't. Because I love you."

The confession settled between the two of you with terrifying certainty.

"And for once in my life..." he whispered, "...I wish to be selfish." You felt his lips brush softly against your forehead as he placed a gentle kiss there. Then, he stepped back, putting the distance between you that he knew you needed.

You could only stare at him. Your thoughts refused to move, and your heart refused to obey.

After a long silence, Valarr spoke once more.

"But," he smiled sadly, wiping at his own eyes, "that does not mean I will ignore your wishes." He straightened himself. "If you truly do not want this, I will leave."

His voice remained calm despite the tears still shining in his eyes. "I will return to the King's Landing, and you will never have to see me again. But my heart will spend the rest of my life searching for you. I will grow old still wondering how your laughter sounded. I will die hoping the Seven Gods might allow me to see you one last time before the Stranger takes me."

His eyes held yours so gently that your chest physically hurt.

"Because my soul" he whispered, "has already become yours."

He reached for your hand one final time. His lips brushed across your knuckles with the same tenderness as before. Then he looked back up at you.

"And no..." The faintest smile appeared through his tears.

"I do not go around marrying every women I have kissed."

A small, embarrassed laugh escaped him.

"Because you are the first person i have kissed, and you will be the last."

With that, Valarr slowly released your hand. He bowed once, and turned around. You watched him disappear around the corner until the sound of his footsteps faded into silence.

Only then did your knees weaken. You leaned back against the cold stone wall, your breathing uneven, your fingers still tingling where he had held them.

Your heart and your mind had become a battlefield, and you did not know which one would win.

Chapter 12 [Weekly updates (Hopefully ;-;)]

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The question made him look over his shoulder with a grin while he put his doublet on.

“Like who?”

“A messenger. A friendly envoy if you will, just within the north.”

“But who?”

“Someone else,” you said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Theon.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You think Theon, of all people, would be a good envoy?”

“Not really,” you admitted. “He’d be terrible at it, but perhaps he’d get lost on his way there. One could hope.”

 “Nah, he’d still find his way back,” he commented, fixing his sleeves. “So we’d just end up disrespecting House Hornwood.”

Your stomach turned again, making you grimace but you cleared your throat, then pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them.

“Then tell Lord Hornwood he can come here rather than you going there,” you whined, aware of the petulant tone of your voice. “We’ll throw him a feast and such.”

There was a playful glint in his eyes as he made his way to bed and sat on the edge, entwining his fingers with yours before he lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it.

“Lord Hornwood is too old for journeys, my love,” he said. “My father visited his banners, now I must in his absence.”

You heaved a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Come on,” he cooed. “No sulking.”

You tilted your head, your mood taking a rather strange turn for some reason that remained a mystery to you at least for now. If it were any other time, you would have remembered how Lady Olenna had once told you and Margaery that there was a big line between luring attention and demanding it, and how you were never, ever supposed to demand it in an outright manner. A lady had to be subtle in such mind games so as not to appear needy and walk the line between admiration and nonchalance expertly, however, the words that left your lips were anything but subtle:

“Does this not upset you at all?”

Robb was rather confused at your question. “What?”

“We’ll be away from each other for a week, and you’re very willing to go to Castle Hornwood,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle.

“Lamb…”

“I’m just saying, it bothered you before but it appears to me you’re no longer bothered but more willing, as if—” you started but the rest of your sentence was claimed in a kiss, the pestering thought disappearing into the fog in your mind. His hand cradled your cheek while your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, not willing to let him go even when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours with a smile.

“I am both bothered and very unwilling to go to Castle Hornwood and leave you here,” he assured you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It’s torment to be away from you for an hour, let alone a week. You know this.”

You traced the tip of your finger over the direwolf clasps at the front of his doublet.

“It was different, when my father was here,” he added. “Before, attending to these things was a chore. Now it’s my duty.”

Of course.

How could you forget about the biggest currency in the north along with honor?

Judging by the chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest, he could tell what you felt about duty from your mere expression.  

“I’ll miss you every second of it,” he told you, nudging your nose with his before stealing another kiss from you and making you giggle, but your head whipped around when a servant knocked on the door.

“M’lord, your horse is ready.”

Your shoulders dropped as he let out a huff, then kissed you again and got up from the bed. He grabbed his cloak to fasten it while you let yourself fall back on the bed, and the moment he opened the door, Grey Wind darted inside. He jumped on the bed with a whine as if he was complaining about the trip he was being forced to go before he plopped down on you, resting his head on the furs on your stomach.

“I know, I know,” you said softly like you were speaking to a babe, scratching behind his ears. “I’ll miss you too, my sweet.”

“You spoil him too much,” Robb commented while you planted kisses on top of the direwolf’s head.

“He deserves to be spoiled,” you said, earning a yawn that turned into a small ‘awoo’. “Do you not my love? Are you the sweetest baby in the entire realm? Are you?”

“Grey Wind,” Robb said, “come. Time to go.”

The direwolf licked your hand, then jumped down from the bed with a huff to make his way out of the room, but even his gait was sulky, making you bite back a smile. Robb came closer to peck you on the lips.

“Be careful.”

“You too,” you said. “Miss me.”

“You too,” he answered with a grin before he left the bedchambers and closed the door behind him. You pouted, then let out a groan and pulled the furs over you.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Very well. A week, then.”

 You couldn’t go back to sleep, so you figured you’d start the day earlier than usual.

By the time you were done with your bath in your own bedchambers and your maid finished helping you with your gown and hair, your nausea was even worse due to distress. You had debated going to Maester Luwin, but you knew he was busy with Bran, so you decided to take care of it yourself and asked your maid for a cup of hot water. After she brought it to you, you gave her leave until it was time for breakfast which was more than an hour away, and put the cup on the table before you made your way to the chest of herbs Arys had brought you.

“Where are you?” you sang to yourself, going through the carefully labelled pouches in his impeccable handwriting. “Where are—yes!”

You skimmed the instructions, then took out a generous amount of mixture of leaves and put them in the cup, the smell making you scrunch up your nose. You still had to go through the ledgers the Winterfell carpenters had given you days ago, which you figured you could do while you waited for the tea to brew, so you grabbed the ledgers and the cup, then went to sit on the bed, carefully placing the cup on your bedside table and opening the ledgers on the bed. It was a rather boring task, but the outcome was going to be so lovely for so many people, so you forced yourself to go through the first couple of pages until you decided the tea was ready. You took another sniff, then held your breath and downed it in one go, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“Gods, Arys…” you grumbled to yourself. “Could’ve put something sweet in it.”

You put the cup back on your bedside, but before you could turn back to the ledgers, small yet rushed footsteps approached before the door opened and Rickon appeared at the threshold, with Shaggydog right behind him.

“Oh good morrow my sweet!” You beamed at him. “You’re awake already? It’s rather early.”

He pouted and took a trembling breath like he was on the verge of tears, causing you to push yourself off the bed to rush to him and crouch down to his eye level.

“What’s happened?” 

“Robb left?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “They say he left.”

“Oh, for a week only!” you assured him, gently pinching his chubby cheek. “He’ll be back in a week. Remember how he and Lord Stark left earlier with Jon and Theon? It’ll be like that.”

“Will he see Sansa and Arya?”

“No my sweet, Sansa and Arya are in the south.”

“Will he see mother?”

“She’s also going to the south,” you managed to say. “Robb is right here in the north.”

“Where in the north?” he asked and you pretended to think for a moment.

“Remind me, which house has a bull moose on their flag?”

“House Hornwood!” he exclaimed and you gasped.

“That one, yes!”

“Their flag is orange,” he said, proud of himself for knowing it. “Orange and brown.”

“I’m told they live near,” you said. “And when Robb is back, we’ll have so much to tell him about what Winterfell was like in his absence.”

He looked over his shoulder to Shaggydog, then turned to you.

“I want to go see Frost,” he demanded. “To give her breakfast. She eats funny.”

“We can do that,” you said. “She’s probably awake already. But before we go, do you remember what I said about how we ask for things when speaking to a lady?” 

He thought for a moment, a frown pinching his forehead.

“Can we go see Frost…” he mumbled. “Please?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “That’s such a good job, Rickon! You remember!”

He gave you a toothless smile, his giggle echoing in the room while he jumped in his spot in excitement.

“And thank you!” he added in a haste. “We say please and thank you to ladies.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You are so smart, that’s exactly what we say!” you encouraged him. “I almost forgot about that part, it’s of utmost importance!”

He nodded, his curls bouncing around his head as he did.

“Alright, let’s go to the kitchen to get some carrots,” you said as you stood up and took his small hand into yours. “And then we can go give Frost her breakfast, she’ll be so happy to see you!”

The breakfast passed without any issues, and around noon you sent your ladies-in-waiting to the seamstress because apparently Barbrey’s cousin and her husband were soon coming to Winterfell, and seeing that Barbrey wanted to make her jealous, she needed opinions on her new gown. You stayed in the Great Hall, chatting with some of the guests and listening to their many opinions about your plan to have the carpenters make toys for the children who would come to Wintertown with their mothers.

“Galbert disagrees if I must admit, but I think it’s a great idea,” Lady Erena said. “Orphans get jobs, children get toys, and their mothers get some comfort seeing their children happy.”

“Well, yes but in the upcoming winter…” Lady Lynara heaved a sigh. “My lord husband disagrees as well. He thinks it unnecessary.”

“And what do you think?” you asked her and she hummed.

“I myself think it may offer some comfort to those mothers and children, but will it not interrupt the carpenters' usual work? Teaching the craft takes time and effort. Those orphans will walk in without any skills.”

“The carpenters will be compensated for their time and effort,” you said. “And most of the orphans end up without jobs, I’ve learned. It is hard without a family.”

Lady Lynara scoffed. “Winter is hard, my lady. They must learn the ways of life without you throwing them opportunities.”

You tried not to roll your eyes at her.

“Winter is indeed hard, so it is our responsibility to make life easier to everyone who’s in need,” you said. “Of jobs or comfort or opportunities.”

Lady Erena nodded her head. “I agree wholeheartedly,” she said. “I told Galbert the same thing, we must help. For example, our sons are nearly men grown, they have no need for toys. I’ve already sent a raven back home, all the toys from when they were babes will be given to carpenters in the nearby villages, so that they’ll have an idea of what to create.”

“Thank you, Lady Erena,” you said with a bright smile. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“My lord husband says it’s a very southern way to approach winter,” Lady Lynara pointed out, and you tried to keep your expression calm.

“It is true that in the south, we don’t have people who have to move from their homes to survive the winter,” you said. “However, I truly think that if we—”

The sudden sharp pain that hit you out of nowhere took your breath away mid-sentence, and something churned in your lower abdomen, the ache familiar and strange at the same time. Lady Erena frowned slightly.

“My lady?”

Your head whipped up, and you tried to smile as if you couldn’t feel the warmth between your legs.

“Forgive me I—um,” you stammered. “I just remembered an urgent letter I must send, if you’ll excuse me.”

You left the Great Hall, walking as fast as you could with small, deliberate steps, praying to the gods that the blood sticking your underclothes to your skin would not drip to the ground until you got to the safety of your bedchambers. If it were any other time, you would have gladly stopped and chatted with multiple people in the hallway but now you could barely nod at the in acknowledgment as you passed by them. The dull throbbing got worse with every second, and it was only when you hurried into your chambers that you realized your hands had balled up into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

How long had it been since you had your last moon blood?

You quickly shed your gown down to your chemise that already had a growing red stain on it, straining your mind to remember when you’d had your last moon blood. The knife that turned in your abdomen made you double up as the wave of pain rippled through you, and you squeezed your legs in a pitiful attempt to block the blood from dripping to the ground, pressing a hand on your stomach. It made no sense, your moon blood had never been as painful on your first day, nor had it been this heavy, it always started light—

The idea crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making your breath hitch.

…Oh.

This was not your moon blood.

Something sunk its claws into your heart, your whole body freezing in terror. For a moment, you stayed right where you were, bent from the waist, your eyes wide yet unseeing, unblinking. There was an ache at the back of your throat, a sob already forming there, but the cramps snapped you out of it and you forced yourself to take a deep breath, as shaky as it was.

“Okay,” you whispered, forcing yourself to grab at the edge of the table so that you wouldn’t lose your balance, tears burning your eyes. “Okay. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

It was not the tremors that ripped your breath from your lungs this time, but the utter disbelief that it was happening; it was happening to you, right here and right now, miles away from anyone you could call for help. The arm of the sofa supported you for a moment, but as soon as you took another step your legs gave out and you crumpled to the floor, swallowing a sob while you blindly pushed the plush furs aside. A strangled cry ripped itself from your chest when the invisible dagger drove deeper into your guts and you curled up on your knees, one hand shooting up to wipe your nose, the other already stained with blood—

And to your absolute terror, that was when the door opened.

“My lady, I called out but…” Jorelle stopped talking at once when she stepped in, her eyes darting over your collapsed figure and the skirt of your chemise, drenched in blood.

Oh no.

No no no, this could not be happening.

Jorelle was the last person who was supposed to see you like this. She was the one whom the north loved and supported, the one who they thought was the better option for your status; the very same status that was now hanging by a thread, with you bleeding on the floor. Anyone who saw you in this situation would be able to tell what was happening, and the moment the word got out, the moment the north suspected you were unable to provide an heir to House Stark?

It wouldn’t matter how much Robb loved you, or how much you mesmerized him.

You were no fool, you knew very well how it worked. Beyond uniting your families, beyond all those grains and food your family would provide the north in winter and beyond how much House Stark would pull your family up in influence and power and status, this marriage had one, very specific expectation from you and Robb; to make sure the Stark bloodline continued.

An heir and a spare, minimum.

Though there were exceptions, the lack of heirs in a marriage usually came with two options, the annulling of the said marriage, or the husband siring heirs from a mistress and legitimizing them. In both of those options, you and your reputation would be dragged through the mud, and you would either be sent away with the whole realm knowing the reason, or you would turn into a living ghost right here in Winterfell, with no influence, no power, no respect or love.

And those banners and important families of the north would push Jorelle into the picture, especially now that she was the one who had caught you in such position and was surely going to use this to her advantage, as every other lady in the south would have.

It was all but a gift to her by the gods.

If you weren’t rendered speechless by the fear that took your body and mind hostage, you could’ve at least tried to come up with an excuse, as feeble and weak as it would’ve been. Jorelle seemed as frozen as you were, but her head whipped around when the chattering of the servants got louder with approaching footsteps. Her hand shot up to grab the door handle to pull it to herself when it rattled, your eyes widening as you pushed yourself to sit up, your whole body shaking.

“No—” you started but she shushed you, then opened the door just a little to slip through the crack and closed it before anyone could peek inside.

“Would you like to be louder?” She snapped at the servants at the door. “My lady is taking a nap, and she does not want to be disturbed. Shall I tell her whatever you’re talking of is more important than her rest, or would you like to shout into her bedchambers while you’re at it?”

The servants mumbled something you couldn’t hear.

“And Kyra, I expected better from you.”

“I apologize, m’lady. I was just going to check whether—”

“She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Jorelle repeated. “Nor does she want anyone’s chatter or footsteps in the hallway, her sleep is very light. Make sure everyone stays away from this hallway until she wakes up.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

The sound of footsteps grew faint and Jorelle entered the bedchambers again, bolted the door, and rushed to you.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked. “Do you want me to get Maester Luwin?”

Pain burned down your lower back, and there were tears in your eyes, but that didn’t stop you from gritting your teeth to force yourself to glare at her.

“No,” you managed to say, your voice hoarse as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It’s just my moon blood, leave me be.”

Jorelle gave you an exasperated look before she ran to the corner of the room to grab the fresh towels for your morning baths. She helped you up, then slipped the towel under you and gently sat you down, a worried frown pinching her brows while you tried your hardest to mimic Margaery despite the cold sweat dripping down your back.

“If you utter a word of this—”

“I won’t,” she cut you off. “This goes to the grave with me, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

That made you pause halfway through your threat.

“And so will what you’re going to answer me right now,” she said. “Has anything happened before the wedding? With Lord Robb or anyone else?”

“What? No!”

“If it was conceived on your wedding night, at most it’s been six weeks,” she murmured more to herself. “That’s good. That’s early. Bleeding should stop in a couple of hours, the worst part at least—my castle is quite crowded,” she added when she saw the quizzical look on your face. “You’re not the first woman I’ve seen who’s having a miscarriage.”

You wetted your dry lips. “If anyone hears…”

“They won’t, because once the bleeding lessens, we’ll burn the towels in the hearth,” she said. “Things get lost in a big castle all the time. No one will ever know, including the servants.”

You winced when you tried to shift your weight, your movements rigid and short. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting over your face before she reached out to take your hand between hers, making your head snap around.

“It’ll help,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Not with the pain I’m afraid, but the rest.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again when no sound came out, so you gulped and tried again.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, and she squeezed your hand in an attempt to assure you.

“It’ll be okay.”

No it wouldn’t.

You knew it wouldn’t, so did she.

But neither of you could do anything but just sit there and stare at the flames in the hearth, waiting for it to pass.

Jorelle was right, the worst part of bleeding was the first hour, and though the deep ache were still there, you were either getting used to it, or it was getting slightly better. Silence filled the room for almost an hour, the only sound your gasps of pain from time to time along with the crackling of wood in the hearth.

But after a while, you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat and turned to her.

“You didn’t have to help me.”

“Yes I did.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to tell you since we met, I have no intention nor desire to be your enemy.”

You would have laughed if you had the energy. “The whole north thinks otherwise.”

“I care not what they think,” she said. “I don’t know why people are under the impression that I’m somehow a rival to you, but I’m not. There was only friendly affection and a promise of potential companionship between me and Lord Robb, and contrary to what everyone seems to think, I am not devastated over our broken arrangement, if you can even call it that. There wasn’t a betrothal.”

“No,” you admitted. “There wasn’t. But you know how these things work, if they wanted to push you...”

“They can push me all they want, I won’t move,” she said. “I won’t. He is in love with you, and you’re in love with him, what others hope for does not matter. Besides, even if you two weren’t in love, I still would not try to jam myself in between, I respect myself way too much to do that.”

Well, that hadn’t crossed your mind before.

This kind of thinking simply didn’t exist in the south. If there was any possibility of more power, no one stopped to think before they stabbed people in the back, personal feelings and pride and respect all came second when one could climb higher in status even at the expense of others.

And most of the time, it was indeed at the expense of others.

“Anyone else in your place would not hesitate,” you couldn’t help but point out, “back in the south.”

“This is not the south,” she said. “Things in the north work a bit differently. For which I’m glad.”

For some reason you doubted that; power was tempting, in the south or the north.

“And your family?”

Jorelle made a face.

“Well, my mother hates you,” she said with a chortle. “I wouldn’t take it personally. Everyone in the north wanted their daughter to wed Lord Robb, she’s no exception, though she was more intense than any other. I used to think she wanted me to wed him more than I wanted to wed him.”  She paused for a moment. “Now to think of it, I’d say she wanted to wed him more than I did.”

A burst of hysterical laughter escaped you and echoed in the room, surprising even yourself.

“I’d keep an eye on her if I were you,” she added, a grin playing on her lips. “She is as ambitious as a southron, and she would indeed leave my father for your husband.”

Gods, this was the worst time to be laughing.

Yet, you didn’t seem to be able to stop yourself even though you covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. You doubled over, resting a hand on the floor to support yourself while your shoulders shook, tears running down your cheeks from amusement or the pain, you could no longer tell. A hiccup escaped you, the ache in your chest as heavy as the one in your abdomen while you tried to breathe through the sobs and Jorelle sat up straighter.

 “No no no, we’re not crying right now,” she said in a rush. “We’re not crying, we’re talking of other things—um, so I didn’t tell you because you hated me, but funny thing, speaking of southrons, your brother asked me to be his mistress.”

Your head whipped up, your vision still blurry with tears while she nodded with wide eyes.

“I know,” she said. “I came up with one thousand retorts since he left. I’ve been writing them down, and I think I’ll turn it into a book and send it to Dorne on a ship.”

“Which—what?” you stammered, already distracted. “Which one?”

“Of the ships?”

“Of my brothers!”

“Perceon.”

“Perce?!” you exclaimed and wiped your nose in a haste. “Seven hells, Perce was who you were talking about in the kitchens?”

“Oh yes.”

“But you—I didn’t—” You hiccupped, trying to pick the right words. “I wasn’t aware you two were…”

“I’m as confused as you are, because we were not.” She motioned at you, flailing her arms. “We danced at your wedding, and then at the Harvest Feast, and I thought, well, he is very handsome.” A blush spread over her pale cheeks. “So I didn’t mind him courting me, but he wasn’t courting me. He asked me to be his mistress right after he almost kissed me.”

“Almost kissed you?” You sniffled. “He asked you to be his mistress before you two even kissed?”

“As I’ve said before. The audacity.”

You rolled your eyes.

“The twins came after Arys, so Arys claimed their share of wit in advance,” you said. “That’s why he’s so smart and Perce is an idiot. I apologize for his behavior, I’ll make sure to smack him when I see him again.”  

“But is that what southrons do?”

“Things work differently in Dorne, and Perce belongs more in Dorne than the Reach at this point,” you said. “Mistresses in Dorne have official titles, and they have all the luxuries and none of the responsibilities of the wives. And he won’t wed, so he probably thought it was a good offer—though, this is the first time I hear a man asking a lady to be his mistress before a kiss.”

Her cheeks got redder as she fixed her gaze in the hearth.

“I was going to kiss him before that,” she admitted. “I wanted to, but then I got scared because I was worried I’d be, I don’t know, bad at it—gods, you must think me a fool.”

“I don’t,” you assured her, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t. I was terrified of being bad at it too.”

“Was Lord Robb your first kiss?”

That made you scoff a laugh.

“No.” Margaery’s face flashed before your eyes and you tried to focus. “No, I had a lot of…practice—but the Reach is different!” you added in a haste. “We have different customs and education. The North is stricter in such matters, and you have different priorities.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have some knowledge,” she grumbled, her shoulders dropping. “The south got that right, at least. Some of the north dislikes you yes, but they all agree that Lord Robb is mesmerized by you.”

There was a fist clenching your heart, but you managed to give her a smile.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you rasped out and gestured at the towels you were sitting on, stained in deep red. “I’m on borrowed time.”

She frowned. “That’s untrue.”

“Come on.” You let out a dry laugh. “You know what it means if it started like this.”

“I do know what it means, it means nothing,” she insisted. “My mother lost a babe on her fourth moon before my brother, but she carried my brother very easily, with little to none sickness. My cousin, she had three miscarriages, and now she has twins. Granted they’re little brats, but they’re very healthy, growing like beanstalks.”

You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“And how many miscarriages do you think I’d be allowed to have until the north started whispering?” you asked. “Until all the prominent families started pushing Robb for a replacement, for an heir? They already dislike me, already looking for a fault.”

“He loves you—”

“We’re in the north, Jo,” you muttered. “You tell me what’s more important in the north, love or duty?”

“Loyalty,” she answered. “Loyalty is of most importance in the north, it means everything here. And one miscarriage means nothing at all. You and your husband are young and healthy, you apparently conceived on your wedding night, you’ll easily do it again.”

You turned your bracelet around your wrist, your gaze fixed on it as you sniffled.

“You’ll see I speak the truth once the pain passes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Our maester told my mother to drink water during this, it’s better to be safe.”

She moved about in the room and grabbed the cup that you had drank your tea from earlier to dispose of the pulp, but she stopped dead in her tracks, falling quiet. You looked up from your bracelet and shifted your weight on the towel, pointing at the table.

“There’s another cup over there—”

She cut you off, her voice stern: “Who served you this tea?”

“No one,” you said. “I made it, it’s for nausea.”

Jorelle lifted the cup to her nose to sniff it, then shook her head. “Who told you it was for nausea?”

“My brother Arys brought me many herbs, they’re over there,” you said as she rushed to the chest you were pointing at, then lifted the lid to find the pouch in it. She untied it to spill the crushed leaves into her palm, her frown deepening.

“Did your brother oppose this marriage?”

“No,” you said. “All of them support it. Why?”

“Then you told someone else what was in the chest?”

“No, I—why do you ask?”

“This is not for nausea,” she told you. “This is moon tea.”

Confusion crashed down on you and you stared at her before you huffed out a laugh.

“It’s not,” you argued. “Of course it’s not, it’s for nausea. Arys made sure to write clear instructions on everything, especially after the wedding. He would never make such mistake.”

“I’ve seen moon tea before, this is moon tea.” She held out her hand to show the herbs in her palm. “One of my maids had to drink it in secret, I was with her. I swear to you, it looks and smells like this. And you’re supposed to take it with honey to help with the pain, you’re not supposed to just brew it and drink it as it is.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the warning tone of her voice when she said your name as she took a step towards to catch you in case you fell. The skirt of your chemise was drenched in blood—most of which dried down, sticking the fabric to your skin, making you grimace. The room spun around you, but you forced yourself to focus, blinking away the dots flying in your vision.

If she was not mistaken, if it was moon tea, that meant this was no natural miscarriage. This was not the first sign of a lifelong distress of trying for heirs only to lose them again and again, with the threat of being replaced hanging over your head, this was—

Jorelle’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Who else knew about these herbs?”

“No one,” you said, approaching the chest on shaky legs. “Only my lady maid whom I’d trust with my life. She was here when I ate a sort of root to relax my mind before the wedding, she disagreed but then Eli—”

The thought hit you so hard that your breath caught in your throat and you took a step back, unable to tear your gaze from the chest.

Elinor.

That was what she was doing in your room the morning of their departure, at dawn when everyone else was asleep and you were supposed to be in Robb’s bedchambers. She had seen that chest, she had seen you close it, she could’ve easily sneaked into your bedchambers and…

“Elinor,” you rasped through frozen lips. “My brother Alton’s wife. She did this.”

“But why?”

“Because I—we—” you stammered, the hot rage spreading through your veins like poison. “We had a fight, and I told her I’d ask Robb to march his men to the Reach and root Alton out of his castle to replace him with another brother of mine, and I told her he’d do as I asked. It was a mere bluff because she attacked me and…” you trailed off. “She must have swapped the pouches.”

“She did this because you had a fight?”

“What’s the first sign of pregnancy?” you asked through your teeth. “Nausea. She swapped moon tea with nausea tea, because then I’d be drinking moon tea every single time I got pregnant, and I’d lose it every single time. In front of Robb. Over and over again.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“She wanted to make sure he’d stop loving me, because if he stopped loving me, I’d hold no power,” you managed to say. “All the power I have here goes through him, she knows that. What better way to ensure he wouldn’t be mesmerized by me any longer? Everyone would be asking for an heir and I…”

How dare she?

A snarl twitched your lips, your nails biting into your palms. You squeezed your eyes shut to get rid of the red haze of anger clouding your vision, a thousand needles pricking the top of your head and spreading to your temples. All traces of pain sunk deep under a wave of fury tensing your muscles, the pounding in your ears getting louder and louder until Jorelle spoke.

“I wouldn’t last a day in the south,” she stated, her voice muffled like you were underwater as you opened your eyes again. “This is too much plotting.”

You swayed on your feet for only a second before your spine straightened like a puppet with its strings pulled, as if the southern courtier in you had decided that this was enough slouching with or without the pain; chin up, shoulders squared, a small, yet feral smile baring your teeth. It was clear from Jorelle’s worried gaze on you that you looked rather deranged; the skirt of your chemise drenched in blood, your legs and hands stained red, wisps of hair that were carefully pinned into a braid in the morning now sticking to your forehead with sweat.

When you spoke, your voice didn’t even sound like your own: “Not a good one.”

“Hm?”

“Not a good one,” you repeated. “I’ll survive. She will not.”

“You—”

“I can be patient,” you said, nodding to yourself. “I can and I will be, and I’ll wait for the right time, but I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her, and then I’m going to kill Alton if he knew and didn’t tell me.”

“You might not have to lift a finger, when Lord Robb hears—”

“He won’t hear.”

“He won’t hear?” she repeated with a tilt of her head. “I understand not telling anyone else, but you won’t tell him either?”

“No,” you said, a strange calmness settling in your mind like a fog. “There are only two people in the world who I could tell about this, both miles away from me. I love Robb with all my heart, but he is not one of them.”

“He’s your husband.”

“And that’s the reason,” you said. “You wanted to learn about the southern ways to mesmerize someone, did you not? Here’s the first lesson. You cannot do anything to break the illusion. Ever.”

“You must be jesting,” she said. “You love him, surely you trust him.”

“This has nothing to do with love or trust, this is survival.”

“Survival?”

You weighed the words in your mind, then scrunched up your nose.

“I recognize that parenting styles are different in the north and the south,” you said, “but in the Reach, me and Margaery and all my friends, we were all taught one thing from the moment we could walk, something they apparently don’t teach anywhere else in the realm. Every castle that isn’t your home is a trap waiting to swallow you the second you take the wrong step.” You pointed at the cup. “This is the wrong step.”

“But how is this the wrong step?” she asked. “He won’t blame you. This was your sister-in-law’s doing, you couldn’t have known.”

“No,” you admitted. “No I couldn’t have, but it matters not. This is how you play the court game, this is why everyone sleeps with one eye open in the south. Robb loves me yes, he would—he would console me, yes.” You gulped when your voice cracked. “But in the long run, it’s still the wrong step. Love is one thing, heirs are another. And if he…”

Every word was a hot coal burning your throat, but you willed yourself to focus.

“It all comes down to power, I’m afraid,” you murmured. “Once you have it, you sink your teeth and your claws in, and you don’t let go. It’s no different than trying to survive in battle, I just make it look pretty.”

A breath of disbelief left her as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her before, and you dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip.

“I love Robb,” you added. “I do. I genuinely love him, which is more dangerous than any other court scheme. But that doesn’t change the fact that my power here, it’s linked to him. My status, my influence, how involved I am in decisions, it all depends on his feelings for me. That’s why I can’t risk it, I can’t afford any flaws.”

“This is no flaw,” she managed to say, and you shrugged your shoulders.

“No, but this is something he might bring up when he’s angry,” you said. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. I’m not going to break the illusion just so that he can use the shards to hurt me.”

A stunned silence fell upon the room and you fixed your hair, ignoring how badly your hand was shaking.

“So, this simply never took place,” you said, making her head whip up. “We will burn the towels as you said, and we will burn my chemise, and I will have the maids draw me a bath. And once that’s done, that’s it.”

“My lady…”

“Nothing happened,” you told her, your eyes locked in hers. “I came here, I took a nap, woke up and had my moon blood. Nothing more.”

It was clear from the expression on her face that she wanted to argue, and though she pursed her lips, it seemed that she still couldn’t stop herself.

“Does it not get tiring?” she blurted out. “Looking at everything that way?”

The simple question pulled your lips into a wry smile and you blinked back the tears, a dull ache making its way to your temples.

“It’s exhausting,” you admitted. “But I don’t have any other windows to look through.”

She held your gaze captive for a moment, the defiant light in her eyes melting into something else entirely; sadness or compassion, you couldn’t tell. An exhale left her, and she shook her head slightly like she couldn’t believe you or herself before she clicked her tongue.

 “Very well then,” she ended up saying. “As you wish. Nothing happened.”

You were no stranger to performing.

It was second nature to you at this point. You, Silas, Margaery, Loras, you were all masters at keeping the mask on and not letting it slip, no matter how heavy it got. Even when you were sick, even when Silas was heartbroken, even when Margaery was angry and Loras was frustrated, that teasing courtier smile didn’t falter, nor did the straight posture or playful words.

It’s your armor, Lady Olenna used to say. Only a fool takes off their armor in front of the enemy.

And you were no fool back in the Reach, and you certainly were no fool here in Winterfell, miles away from every member of your family.

So, you did exactly what you said you were going to do. Once the bleeding lessened, you and Jorelle burnt the towels and your chemise, you changed into a new chemise and asked the maids to draw you a scorching hot bath where you spent nearly an hour, scrubbing at your flesh until the water went cold.

It was all without forethought, like you were sleepwalking.

You would’ve thought you were indeed asleep, if it weren’t for the knife turning deep in your abdomen.

You changed into a gown, made sure to put not just one or two, but three folded pieces of linen cloth in your undergarments, then sat in front of the mirror so that your maid could do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting chattered in the room; Wylla and Lyra disagreeing about some northern lady, and Alys and Barbrey talking about Barbrey’s new gown.

Yet, no amount of chatter could distract Jorelle from watching you like a hawk.

She did join the discussion from time to time, whether to make sure Wylla and Lyra’s discussion didn’t escalate, or answering Alys and Barbrey’s questions about Barbrey’s gown and the seamstress’ suggestions on it, but you could tell she was still worried about you. She had suggested you would take your dinner in your bedchambers, saying that sometimes she did the same on the first day of her moon blood because it made her tired, all the girls agreeing with her.

But with everyone away, it fell on you to host the guests and show them good hospitality as the lady of the castle, and attending dinner with them was a way for that.

The pain had mostly subdued. It felt more like your moon blood and less like a miscarriage, but now you had the most painful throbbing in your temples that didn’t even tolerate the candlelight while you walked down the hallway with your ladies-in-waiting around you.

“And as I was saying, she claims blue will look better—”

“It will look better.”

“But purple is more eye-catching. Wylla agrees, do you not Wylla?”

“Deep purple or light purple?”

“Wait, which one do you think is better?”

“Deep purple.”

“But the beads we bought looked better on blue.”

“Jo, what do you think?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Jorelle brushed Barbrey off, walking beside you. “My lady, I must insist that we cut this dinner short, you have been awake since early hours of the morning, you said.”

“She does have a point, you look rather tired,” Lyra added, brutally honest as always. “Your eyes are bloodshot, perhaps you need some rest.”

You did need rest.

You had no idea whether it was the blood loss or the pain, or the emotional toll of the day, but you felt so tired. Your maid had prepared you a bag full of hot stones that had been in the hearth, so that you could press it on your stomach to help with the cramps, and you had already decided you’d have it with you tonight in bed as well, perhaps that could help you sleep the exhaustion away.

One could hope.

“I’ll retire to my bedchambers afterwards,” you said, your voice calm and composed. “However, we must—”

The hallway spun around you for a moment, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your hand shot up to the wall so that you could support yourself, the voices growing faint with the blood rushing in your ears, heat creeping up your spine while your ladies-in-waiting rushed to you.

“My lady?”

No.

No, you were not going to do that.

You were not going to collapse and give anyone any reason to think you were anything but alright, that was how the whispers started.

You blinked away the black dots flying in your vision and forced yourself to take a breath, your hand slipping from the wall so that you could wipe the cold sweat off your forehead, then cleared your throat.

“I’m alright.”

 Wylla and Jorelle exchanged glances.

“Shall I go fetch Maester Luwin?”

“There’s no need for that,” you said, your heart slamming against your ribcage, “thank you.”

“Maybe Jo is right, let’s go back.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, thank you!”

“Aye, I don’t even like these people.”

“Lyra!”

“Wha—I don’t!”

“We can eat in your bedchambers my lady, I’ll tell one of the maids—”

“No,” you said. “We’re attending dinner here.”

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Lyra insisted while you let yourself linger in your spot for a moment, still swaying on your feet before you took a deep breath.

Nothing had happened.

And nothing was happening.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you managed to say. “Trust me.”