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

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

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

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

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

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 The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steel striking wood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

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

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

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

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was harsh—but it was honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was when his hand moved.

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

But Robb was faster.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet now there was no denying it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted you to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And behind her, you stood.

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

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

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

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

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

He imagined a life without you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hall went still.

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

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

All eyes turned to Robb.

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

It found you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strange, unexpected calm.

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

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

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

For the first time, it felt like choice.

You saw the flicker of genuine irritation cross his beautiful features. It was the look of a man interrupted during a holy ritual.

"Cease that noise," he hissed, his voice a jagged blade against your ear. "It is a singular honor to be touched by the Brightflame. You sound as if you are being put to the rack."

"Forgive me, Aerion," you gasped, your fingers clawing at the expensive silk around you. "I will... I will be silent..."

The pain flared again, and as your breath hitched into a broken sob, his lips curled in unease. He pulled away, the sudden absence of his heat feeling like a slap.

"I have no desire to continue if you are going to make that noise," he grumbled, throwing his head back and cursing under the Seven. "You are… tedious."

The words began to distort, deepening into a low, rumbling roar that sounded like the ground cracking open—

You woke with a violent jolt, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The morning light was a brutal intrusion, cutting across the massive Targaryen bed. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, but it wasn't the nightmare. It was the air. The chamber was sweltering. It was a thick, stagnant heat that made the fine silk sheets cling to your damp skin.

You shifted, and the movement sent a sharp reminder of the night before through your hips. Turning your head, you saw it: the rusty bloom of blood on the white Myrish lace. The proof of his entry, yet the evidence of a conquest he hadn't bothered to finish.

The last thing you remembered was the cold. After he had climbed out of the bed, cursing your name and your feeble spirit, you had lain there shivering in the darkness, watching the silhouette of him at the sideboard. He had stood there for almost an hour, naked and unashamed, pouring cup after cup of Arbor gold, as if he was alone in the world.

You didn't remember falling asleep. But as you looked toward the hearth, you saw the remains of a fire that must have been a pyre. The iron grate was warped from the intensity of the heat he had stoked before leaving.

He had let you cry. He had called you tedious. He had walked out on your union. But at some point in the dead of night, he had looked at your shivering form and decided that if he wouldn't hold you, the fire would.

A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the heavy oak doors shattered your thoughts. You tried to bolt upright, but a white-hot flash of pain flared in your loins, forcing a gasp from your throat as you sank back into the sweat-soaked pillows.

Before you could call out, a flutter of handmaidens rushed in. Their faces were masks of practiced neutrality, though the heat of the room made them squint. As two servants moved to hoist you up, their hands cool against your feverish skin, you saw a third woman, the eldest, begin to strip the bed efficiently.

"Wait," you rasped, your voice dry from the stifling air. "Why are you taking those?"

The servant didn't look up as she bundled the white Myrish lace, the copper-scented stain of the marriage blood folded into the center. "The Prince’s lord father and the court require the proof, My Lady. The bedding must be witnessed to confirm the union is consummate."

You watched in numb disbelief as the woman walked away with the evidence of a lie. The servants lowered you into a steaming tub, the water scented with crushed mint and oils meant to soothe the bridal ache. As the heat of the water met the soreness of your body, your mind spiraled.

Could last night truly be called a union?

The memory was a jagged shard: Aerion’s weight, the sudden, intrusive thrust, and then his immediate withdrawal. He hadn't finished. He hadn't found pleasure. He had simply looked at you as if you were a goblet of soured wine and poured himself out of the bed.

You gripped the edge of the porcelain tub until your knuckles turned white. The rumors of the Brightflame had painted him as a monster. A man who delighted in the suffering of others. You had expected a beast who would feed on your pain, a man who would find your agony an aphrodisiac and force himself until his lust was spent.

But Aerion was a different kind of cruel. He was vain.

His rejection stung worse than his entry. He didn't want a victim, but a mirror that reflected his own perceived divinity. By crying, you hadn't just felt pain; you had insulted his ego.

A cold dread settled in your gut. In the House of the Dragon, to be boring was to be disposable. If Aerion grew bored of you, you weren’t just a failed wife; you were a political liability. And Aerion was a volatile man. He could discard you, replace you, or kill you, and the world would simply call it the whim of a dragon.

The gown the maids laced you into felt less like a garment and more like a set of gilded shackles. It was a heavy, blood-red velvet with black silk embroidery. The exact shade of the robe you had seen Aerion wear before. In the mid-morning heat of Summerhall, the fabric was punishing, a sweltering weight that clung to your skin, yet you said nothing. To complain would have been to show the same weakness that had turned his stomach the night before.

You found yourself lingering in the shadowed curve of a stone hallway, pretending to admire the sun-drenched gardens through the arched windows. In reality, your mind was a chaotic mess.

Where was he?

The last image you had of your husband was a silhouette against the firelight, pouring wine while you slept. You had sent a servant to find him, not out of wifely devotion, but out of survival. If you stumbled into Prince Maekar, his father, or the impeccably honorable Prince Baelor, what were you to say? “My husband found my pain boring and left me before the sun rose”?

The danger in this house never came for Aerion; he was the storm, the wildfire, the source of the rot. The danger was entirely yours. You were a bride who had failed to fire the blood of the Brightflame, and in this family, that was a precarious place to be.

"My Lady? You look as though you are a thousand leagues away."

The voice was warm, steady, and entirely unexpected. You jumped, your heart leaping into your throat, and your hand flew to the heavy velvet at your chest.

Standing there was Prince Baelor. He looked at you with a kind gaze that felt entirely out of place in this den of dragons.

"Forgive me," he said, offering a slight, courtly bow. "I did not mean to startle you. I trust the morning finds you... well?"

The question was a trap of politeness. He was looking for the glow of a new bride, but all you had was the memory of an oven-hot room and the dried blood of a half-finished night.

You forced a brittle smile, your voice steady despite the way the heavy velvet of your gown seemed to be suffocating you.

"I am well, Your Grace," you lied, the words tasting like copper. "The morning is... peaceful."

Baelor smiled, though his eyes, which seemed far more observant than Aerion’s, searched your face. He began to speak of the festivities planned for the morrow, a social gathering where the lords and ladies of the court would expect to pay their respects.

"I should very much like for you to be there," Baelor said, his tone turning light, almost teasing. "And do see to it that you bring that stubborn nephew of mine. The people are eager to see the new couple, and Aerion has never been one to shy away from an audience."

At the mention of your husband’s name, your mask must have slipped. Perhaps your breath hitched, or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of the night finally bled into your expression. Baelor’s smile faltered. He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a murmur.

"Has he been treating you well? My nephew is... a difficult man, even on his best days."

"He has been everything a Prince should be," you answered, the irony nearly choking you.

Just as Baelor opened his mouth again, the servant you had sent earlier hurried down the hall. The girl was out of breath, her face pale, and she skidded to a halt before you. She glanced at Baelor, her eyes wide with hesitation, then looked back at you.

"Go on," you assured, your heart beginning to thud. "Where is the Prince?"

The girl swallowed hard, her voice a trembling whisper that carried far too clearly in the quiet corridor. "He... he was sighted at the mews, My Lady. And then... they say he was seen entering a house of ill-repute in the town. He has been there since dawn."

The world seemed to go very still.

It wasn't heartbreak; you didn't love Aerion enough for his infidelity to break you. It was the sheer, staggering humiliation. To be left in a bed of blood and sweat, abandoned in a room he had turned into a furnace, only for him to seek out a common whore before the sun had even fully risen? It was a public declaration of your inadequacy. It was his way of telling the world and his family that his new wife was so "tedious" he required professional entertainment to wash away the boredom of her.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at Baelor. You knew the pity that would be etched into his face, the judgment of a man who actually understood the meaning of honor.

The sunken feeling in your gut curdled into a poisonous rage as you realised he had just branded you a failure in front of the entire Seven Kingdoms.

The rest of the day was a long blurring exercise in avoidance. You moved through the shadows of Summerhall like a ghost, dodging the sympathetic gaze of Prince Baelor and the judgmental eyes of the court. Every whisper in the corridors felt like a serrated edge against your skin, every muffled laugh reminding you where your husband had spent his morning.

You were the bride of the Brightflame, a title that should have commanded terror and awe. Instead, after only a single day, you felt like a discarded trinket.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting shadows across the stone floors, you finally retreated to the bedchamber. You sat at the foot of the massive bed. His bed. Now, by law and by blood, it was yours and his.

What had you truly expected? You had arrived at Summerhall less than a week ago, but the stories had reached your ears long before that. They spoke of a prince who saw himself as a god among men, a man whose vanity was eclipsed only by his cruelty.

You let out a shaky sigh as the dread began to coil in your stomach again. If he returned tonight—and a part of you prayed to the Crone that he would stay in his brothels until dawn—he might decide to finish what he started. Your mind raced, replaying the agony of the previous night. You bit your lip, reminding yourself of the whispers of older women: the first time is for the man, the rest are for the wife. It was supposed to get easier. It had to.

You steeled your heart, clenching your fists in the thick fabric of your skirts. You couldn't cry tonight. No matter how much it hurt, you had to remain silent. You had to be the bride he wanted.

If Aerion deemed you useless, if he decided on a whim to nullify the marriage because you were too "tedious" to bed, the political fallout would crush your family. The Targaryens needed this alliance to steady the realm, and your father needed the crown's favor to keep his lands. You were the bridge between two powers, and you could feel the stones crumbling beneath your feet.

You weren't just fighting for your dignity anymore; you were fighting to be useful enough for a monster to keep.

Suddenly, the heavy latch of the door clicked. The sound echoed like a smith's hammer in the silent room. You sat frozen at the foot of the bed, your heart performing a traitorous skip at the sight of him. No matter how many times you braced yourself, Aerion’s beauty remained a violent assault on the senses. The spun-silver of his hair, the aristocratic lines of a face that belonged on a coin. But as the firelight caught him, the breath died in your throat.

His lip was split, a jagged crimson against his pale skin, and a deep cut at the corner of his mouth was still sluggishly weeping blood.

The anger that had been simmering in your gut for hours was momentarily eclipsed by an involuntary jolt of concern. You rose to your feet before you could stop yourself, your heart leaping into your throat.

Aerion paused, his violet eyes narrowing as they landed on you. He looked at you with a slow, dawning realization, as if he had truly forgotten that a wife was waiting for him within these four walls.

"Ah," he murmured. "You are still here."

He didn't wait for a response. He began to saunter across the room, his movements fluid despite the obvious signs of a brawl. He tugged at his leather gloves, tossing them onto a side table with a careless flick of his wrist before reaching for the fastenings of his heavy robe.

"Aerion, what happened?" The name slipped past your lips unbidden. You didn't think of him as a prince in that moment, only as a man who was bleeding in your presence.

He paused, his back to you, his shoulders tensing under his tunic. He turned his head just enough for you to see the sneer curling the uninjured side of his mouth. "You will address me by my title, wife. I did not give you leave to use my name as if we were commoners in a hayloft."

You ignored the bite in his tone, despite the instinct screaming at you to stay back. "Your mouth is ruined. You need to tend to it, or the wound will fester. It looks deep."

You didn't realize how frantic you sounded, or how strange it was to be fretting over a man who had treated you like a nuisance only hours before. To you, he was a monster, yes, but he was your monster, and the sight of him damaged felt like a crack in the world's foundation.

Aerion turned fully now, his eyes darkening with a flare of genuine pique. He opened his mouth to likely bark a retort, but he stopped. He caught the look in your eyes. The genuine, wide-eyed worry that you couldn't quite mask.

A dark smile spread across his face, one that didn't reach his eyes. He probably saw your concern as a weakness to be exploited. He dropped into the chair by the hearth, leaning his head back and exposing his throat.

"Fine," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he watched you through hooded lids. "Since you are so eager to play the healer, make yourself useful. Tend to it."

His mocking tone set your teeth on edge, but you clamped your jaw shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another outburst. You moved across the room stiffly, retrieving the small wooden chest of ointments and linens you had seen the servants use earlier that morning.

You pulled a low stool directly in front of his chair, invading his personal space with a clinical necessity. As you sat, your knees nearly brushing his, you dipped a clean cloth into a soothing wash and began to carefully dab away the dried crimson from his chin.

Close up, the cut was even deeper than you’d realized, a jagged tear in his perfect skin. You couldn't help but frown. You wanted to demand how he had gotten it. What brawl in what gods-forsaken alleyway had led to this, but you knew the game. He would only weaponize your concern against you.

So, you stayed silent. You focused entirely on the wound, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze. His violet eyes were fixed on your face, tracking the movement of your lips, the furrow of your brow. It took every ounce of your resolve to keep your eyes on the task and not meet that predatory stare.

"Look at you," Aerion suddenly drawled. "Such a doting bride you’ve become overnight. Does it please you to touch your master, little bird?"

The mention of his "doting bride" snapped something inside you. The memory of the servant’s whisper—sighted at a house of ill-repute—flashed in your mind. The genuine concern you had felt moments ago curdled, replaced by bitterness.

You pressed the cloth a little firmer against the wound than was strictly necessary, causing his eyes to narrow.

"I am merely ensuring you are presentable, My Prince," you said, making sure to lace his title with a frost that matched the ice in your veins. You finally flicked your gaze up to his, meeting the fire in his eyes with a flat look of your own. "Prince Baelor reminded me today that the court expects your presence at tomorrow’s event. It would be... unsightly... for the Brightflame to appear with a common brawler’s mark on his face."

The name Baelor acted like a douse of cold water on his vanity. Aerion’s face instantly contorted, his lip curling back in a snarl that reopened the very wound you were trying to close.

"Baelor," Aerion spat, the name curdling like sour milk in his mouth. He leaned back, a dark huff of annoyance escaping his chest. "My uncle thinks he can manage me like a restive stallion. They all do. They think the Dragon can be tethered by schedules and social niceties."

You offered no reply. You were tired of his grandstanding and his ego. You reached for a small vial of pungent, stinging spirits, the kind the Maesters used to cauterize infection before it took hold. You soaked a fresh linen and, without warning, pressed it firmly against the split in his lip.

Aerion jerked, a sharp hiss of air escaping through his teeth as he recoiled. "Seven hells, woman! What is that? Are you trying to finish what the cudgel started?"

You met his outraged glare with a blank look that masked the trembling in your knees. "It is necessary, My Prince. Unless you wish for your face to swell and fester by dawn?"

He clicked his tongue in a sharp show of irritation, but he didn't pull away again. He sat there, simmering, his brow furrowed in a deep frown as you continued your work.

The silence that followed was heavy. You became lost in the task, focusing on the jagged line of the cut and the heat radiating from his skin. Still, you were hyper-aware of the way his chest rose and fell, and the way the firelight caught the silver threads of his hair.

When you finally finished, you pulled back to inspect your work. That was when you made the mistake of looking up.

You met his eyes, and the air seemed to vanish from the room. He hadn't been looking at the fire or the walls; he had been studying you. His violet gaze was intense and unblinking, tracing the curve of your jaw and the pulse at your throat.

Suddenly, the space between you felt electric. The "tedium" he had complained of last night was gone, replaced by a suffocating pull of a man who knew he terrified you and found it intoxicating. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your breathing grew heavy, betraying you. You hated him, you feared him, yet in the sweltering heat of the room, your body seemed to lean toward him of its own accord.

Aerion didn't move away. Instead, he slowly, agonizingly, inched his face closer to yours. You could smell the wine, the iron of his blood, and the scent of smoke on his skin. It was a repulsive mixture, yet you were paralyzed all the same.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily. He was so close that his wounded lip was almost brushing yours. You expected him to take you right there, to replace the memory of the night before with something equally violent but final.

Then, just as the tip of his nose grazed yours, his lips curled into that familiar, devastating smirk.

He retreated abruptly, the tension snapping like a frayed cord. He stood up in one fluid motion, towering over you as the heat of his presence vanished.

"Better," he drawled, his voice restored to its arrogant pitch. "At least you are good for something other than weeping."

The humiliation hit you like a physical blow. You sat there on the stool, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, while he turned his back to you and began to unlace his tunic, completely indifferent to your existence.

The banquet hall was a sea of shimmering silk and clattering gold, but the air felt thin, as if the Targaryen presence alone consumed all the oxygen. You sat stiffly in your chair, the heavy velvet of your gown a stifling reminder of your new station. Beside you, Aerion was a study in brooding, lethal elegance. In his dark red velvet, he looked every bit the prince of the blood, his face set in a stony mask.

To a stranger, he might have looked like a solemn lord deep in thought. You knew better. You watched the way his jaw remained tight and how his fingers drummed a restless, erratic rhythm against the table. Aerion was bored.

The warnings you had received before arriving at Summerhall echoed in your mind: A bored dragon is a dangerous one. When the Brightflame lacked amusement, he became a predator searching for a spark to ignite.

One by one, noblemen stepped forward to present gifts for the new union. They offered finely balanced daggers and ornate shields to Aerion, and rare silks to you.

"May these silks find their way into a gown that matches your radiance, My Lady," one lord remarked, bowing low.

You felt Aerion’s head turn slightly toward you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the smirk. The one that always felt like a private joke at your expense. Surely, this wasn't a look of pride in his wife. No, you knew that look: it was the look of a man admiring a well-dressed hound.

The atmosphere shifted when a minor lord from the Reach stepped forward. He was older, perhaps too emboldened by the wine, and his congratulations took a turn into the intimate.

"A fine match, truly," the lord boomed. "We all look forward to the fruit of this union. A house is only as strong as its legacy, and a son of the Brightflame would be a terror to the realm's enemies."

The table fell into an expectant silence. You felt a cold weight sink into your stomach as every eye in the hall drifted to you, searching your face for the first sign of a royal heir.

You thought of the dried blood on the sheets and the cold rejection of the night before, and your face burned with a shame they couldn't possibly understand.

Beside you, Aerion went perfectly still. He didn't look at you. He looked down at the nobleman, his violet eyes darkening until they looked like bruised plums.

"A son," Aerion repeated.

"Indeed, my Prince!" the lord laughed nervously, unaware of the precipice he was standing on. "It should not be long now, with a bride so fair—"

"You dare?"

The words cut through the hall like a whip. Aerion leaned forward, his face contorting into a mask of unadulterated rage.

"You dare stand in my hall and command me when to father a child?" Aerion’s voice rose, vibrating with a volatile energy that made the wine in your glass tremble. "As if I am a stud horse to be bred on your schedule? As if the Dragon's blood answers to the whims of a common lordling?"

The lord’s face drained of color, his mouth hanging open in shock. The entire hall froze. It was a reaction so disproportionate, so violently uncalled for, that it felt as though the air itself had caught fire.

"Take him," Aerion commanded, as he pointed at the trembling lord. "Scourge him. Let his back bleed for every word that crossed his wretched tongue."

You looked toward the high table in a panic. Prince Baelor had his face buried in his hand, a gesture of profound exhaustion, while Prince Maekar looked at his son in utter disbelief.

"What is this nonsense you are spitting now, Son?" Maekar’s voice boomed. "The man offered a blessing, nothing more."

"He offered an insult," Aerion snapped, his eyes flashing with wildfire light as he turned on his father. "I do not like being disrespected in my own hall. Nor do I care for commoners counting the moons of my wife's blood."

Maekar’s lip curled in a sneer of pure frustration. "If you have no stomach to father a child, then so be it. If the girl does not inspire the blood of the dragon in you, we shall find another use for the match. But stop this theater."

The words struck you. If the girl does not inspire the blood.

The insinuation hung in the air, toxic and heavy. Maekar wasn't just blaming Aerion; he was suggesting that you were the failure. You were the inadequate bride, the woman so "tedious" or plain that a prince of the blood couldn't even bring himself to bed her. You felt the eyes of the other lords and ladies turn toward you. Some weary, some pitying, all confirming your worst fears.

Behind you, Aerion was still barking orders at the guards, his voice a distant roar over the ringing in your ears. The humiliation of the morning, the heat of the night before, and the shame of this public rejection converged into a single blinding point of pain.

You had reached your limit. You didn't care about the political fallout. You didn't care about the King’s peace. You didn't even care if Aerion dragged you back by your hair.

You stood up abruptly, the heavy screech of your chair cutting through Aerion’s tirade. Every head in the hall snapped toward you. Without a word, without a bow, and without looking at the monster you had married, you turned and walked off the dais.

The velvet of your gown felt like a leaden shroud as you strode toward the exit. You knew that walking out on the royal family was a crime that could be met with a cell or worse, but as you pushed through the heavy doors and into the dark night, you realized you were too far gone to care anymore.

The cool night air hit your skin like a mercy, but it couldn't reach the feverish hum of humiliation beneath your ribs. You stumbled toward the edge of a stone fountain in a secluded corner of the gardens, the scent of night-blooming jasmine cloying and thick. You waited for the sound of iron, for the guards to come and drag you back to face Aerion’s wrath, or perhaps for the Prince himself to find you and make you pay for your public defiance.

Instead, the sound that reached you was the uneven, heavy crunch of boots on gravel.

You spun around, only to see Prince Daeron swaying slightly as he approached. In the moonlight, his silver-gold hair made him look like a ghost of his younger brother, but the resemblance ended there. His eyes were bleary, and his posture lacked the predatory tension that defined Aerion.

He pulled a small, dark flagon from the pocket of his tunic and offered a lopsided smile. "Do you mind? It’s far too loud in there, and the wine is better out here where I don't have to watch my father’s face turn purple."

You nodded silently, shifting to give him space on the stone bench. You felt a heavy weight in your chest; you were the catalyst for that noise, the bride who had broken the royal protocol.

As Daeron sat, the smell of sour wine and old sweat followed him. He was the Drunkard Prince, Aerion’s elder brother. The one who preferred to hide in a bottle rather than play the games of the dragon. You studied his profile, marveling at how two men born of the same blood could be so jarringly different. Daeron was soft, gentle in a way that felt like a bruised fruit; Aerion was a jagged piece of obsidian, beautiful and meant to cut.

"Did he hurt you?" Daeron asked suddenly.

You pursed your lips, the question echoing Prince Baelor’s from the day before. It seemed to be the only thing anyone ever asked about the wife of the Brightflame. Did he hurt you?

You thought of the wedding night. Aside from the singular violation of your virginity, Aerion hadn't laid a violent hand on you. When you had sobbed in agony, he hadn't forced you. He hadn't been the beastly rapist you had feared; he had simply been... revolted.

"No, My Lord," you whispered, the words brittle and hollow.

You and Daeron lapsed into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the wet sound of him swallowing more wine. The garden air was cool, but it couldn't wash away the stagnant heat of the banquet hall that still seemed to cling to your skin.

Daeron let out a long, ragged sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He fought it, you know. My brother. He was quite nearly feral when Father first spoke of an arranged match. He raved about dragons and purity, about how no mortal line was fit to mix with his." He gave a humorless chuckle. "It got so bad they were ready to foist the duty onto me. They almost made me the one to stand at that altar with you, My Lady."

The statement hit you like a physical weight, making your chest ache with a fresh wave of inadequacy. You felt sunken, a pawn that neither brother truly wanted, a burden that had been tossed back and forth between a drunkard and a madman. You looked down at your hands, the red velvet of your skirts looking like a pool of blood in the moonlight.

Suddenly, Daeron turned his head, his bleary eyes catching yours with a strange lucidity.

"But then he saw you," Daeron murmured. "The moment Aerion laid eyes on you when you arrived at the gates... he changed. He became strangely obedient. He stopped his screaming and simply... agreed."

You nearly laughed aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. The idea of the Brightflame being obedient or moved by a single glance was a fairytale that didn't fit the man who had called you “tedious” and left you alone on your wedding night. You didn't believe a word of it. In your mind, Aerion had simply found a new toy to break, a new audience for his vanity.

You remained silent as Daeron continued to ramble, his voice growing thicker as the wine took hold. You realized he was trying to make you sympathize with a brother he likely feared as much as he loved.

And yet, despite the scars of the last three days, a small, treacherous part of you felt a flicker of something. Not quite sympathy, but a devastating curiosity. You knew Aerion was a monster, a volatile storm of ego and cruelty that you should never pity. Your instincts screamed at you to run and keep your heart behind iron bars. But as you sat there in the dark, you couldn't help but wonder if the fire he had built in your room that first night hadn't been an act of cruelty, but the only way a dragon knew how to say he was watching you.

< part I ends >

in between atsumu being swarmed by fangirls at every single chance they get, getting caught in the crossfire of balls being thrown across the court by the twins, breaking up their stupid cat fights and getting smacked in the process, falling victim to suna’s compilation of embarrassing photos, staying behind late at the gym to clean up the extra mess they’ve made, you were always caught in the middle of it all.

you hadn’t minded the weird turn of events though as you gained three unlikely best friends, well two and a half because suna was honestly on thin ice.

suna and his cool and composed demeanor yet chaotic energy. his tendency to not give a fuck if it does not concern him directly, but you often found him caring about you and the scolding you got because of their mess. suna and his most prized playlists which he sent you at 3 in the morning when you were so, so tired but ultimately couldn’t fall asleep. suna and his pretty emerald eyes which lingered on you too long for you could handle. suna and his goddamn memes without context. suna and–

a light shove finally broke your trance. you tuned out the world as you were having lunch with the boys and didn’t even notice as thoughts of him plagued your mind when he was right there in front of you. you glanced up to see him eyeing you with an eyebrow raised, but he continued to eat wordlessly.

“can i have this,” you grinned, snatching a box of meiji strawberry chocolate, a fat stack sat in the middle of the table that wasn’t there before you got so lost in your thoughts. “where’d this come from? these are my favorite.” you turned to atsumu, popping a few pieces into your mouth.

“finish your food first, idiot,” suna called out, reaching over to snatch the box in your hands, earning him a glare from you.

“did you miss an entire season?” it was osamu’s turn to scold you. “were you that out of it that you didn’t notice a couple girls handing those over?”

“guess so,” you shrugged, turning to the blonde twin who was apparently busy gulfing down the rest of his lunch, you grimaced. “who is it this time, tsumu?”

he halted, bringing his eyes up slowly. “they’re not for me,” he mumbled, mouth stuffed. he proceeded to tilt his head in suna’s direction.

"our sunarin is a big boy now," osamu teased, smacking suna's back. you winced but suna smacked osamu right back, this time you laughed.

out of curiosity, you sneaked a peak at suna's reaction to the twins' teasing and to the gesture in general (since you were too busy daydreaming about him that you never noticed it happen).

“shut up, i don’t have time for any of that anyway,” he deadpanned. “relationships are nothing but a chore. all the clinginess and the constant demands,” he shuddered at the thought.

somehow, your heart sunk. selfishly so, it wasn’t your sympathy for the girl who tried to make a move on suna, but for yourself. you wondered if he felt the same way towards your “clinginess and constant demands”—the way you cared and looked after not only him, but the twins too and the rest of the boys. “eat slowly before you choke, dumbasses.”, “rin, change your shirt already you’re all sweaty and you’re gonna catch a cold.”, “you barely drank any water, finish the whole thing!”, “stop fucking fighting before i tell kita! rin- help me you idiot!”, “tsumu learn how to rest before i smash your kneecaps and put you to rest myself. and you need to take practice a bit more seriously.”, “you still need good grades if you wanna keep playing, i’ll help you study. that’s non negotiable.”

the sun had begin to set as you walked out of the gym with the twins, stretching your arms tiredly.

“where’s rin?” you asked, glancing around.

atsumu grinned, arms behind his head. “he went to talk to the strawberry chocolate girl.”

“he probably likes her too, or at least finds her attractive,” osamu commented as he paced backwards so he could face you and his twin.

“right! he was so defensive at lunch,” atsumu cackled. “he was just shy,” he cooed in a high-pitched voice, batting his eyelashes and clasping his hands together to make a show of a lovestruck girl. you rolled your eyes as osamu joined him, pretending to fawn and over their other friend.

“oh, there they are,” osamu announced, coming to a sudden halt causing you to bump into him. your eyes trailed where he pointed. suna’s back was turned to you, but you could make out of the girl’s pretty features and blushing expression. despite how suna made it seem like he was strongly against the idea of dating, their conversation seemed to show otherwise. the girl wasn’t in tears nor did she have a pained expression, not even apathy in her features. she was… flattered, smiling—giggling even. and suna wasn’t closed off. he didn’t shy away and didn’t seem like that was the last place he would have wanted to be.

atsumu hauled you away, talking about giving them a bit of privacy which was rich coming from him. the image had already ingrained in your mind and it wasn’t until you were alone in your room did you finally feel something. you felt as if your heart was doing multiple somersaults into the pit of your stomach. knowing suna, he was probably in denial and being defensive, mostly because the same two people who suggested that in the first place.

days have passed and you were still unable to shake suna’s words off. you often found yourself holding back from scolding and nagging him like you used to, like you still do with the twins, afraid that he found you overbearing and annoying which was the last thing you wanted. as cool and laidback suna was, he was still incredibly intimidating. knowing he would never reciprocate your feelings was one thing, but you didn’t want him to be repulsed by you even if you were only doing things out of care.

suna found himself causing you more trouble than usual, doing things he knew you hated so you could scold him, smack his arm, and chase him around the empty gym as he provoked you, but you never did. today he was particularly determined to get a reaction out of you.

it was early in the morning, the groupchat the four of you shared was blaring with notifications already but suna decided to put his phone on silent, waiting for you to spam him messages and missed calls in case he had slept in again. as much as you wanted to do just that, you kept to the gc.

rin’s not replying or reading the gc.

atsumu started flooding his phone instead. he decided to doze off in class next to you. surely, you would smack him awake, right? wrong, he woke up with scribbles and doodles on his hands and his hair tied up with hellokitty clips. he only glared at the twins, but said nothing. at lunch, he only ate about three chuppet ice pops—where exactly he got them from you weren’t sure. but you wouldn’t let him eat ice pops for lunch right? he was almost excited to see you narrowing your eyes at him, but you only muttered “gross” under your breath, to his disappointment.

the whistle rang through the gym, signaling a break. you handed each of the boys their water bottle and made your way to where your three friends were sat. atsumu lifted his shirt. you reached for his towel and wiped the sweat off his back. suna’s eyes widened in the slightest and looked away, lips pursed in annoyance. he couldn’t keep his stare away for too long though, not when you were wrestling him to the ground, laughing and generally messing around.

without thinking, suna pushed himself off the floor, wraped an arm around your waist and basically plucked you off of atsumu. the four of you stared at each other in surprise. it was unbearably quiet and awkward.

“…rin? why are you acting weird?”

he only then freed you from his grasp. “you’re being weird.”

the twins exchanged looks with one another. thankfully practice resumed before it got anymore awkward, if that was even possible.

he tossed the nth box of strawberry chocolates to you which you barely managed to catch as you walked side by side out of the gym. he never seemed to run out of them. you eyed him confused, but he kept his eyes straight ahed with no particular emotion on his pretty face. you remembered the incident early and felt heat creep up your cheeks.

“hey! i want one too,” atsumu yelled after both of you, waving as he ran to catch up.

neither you or the twins mentioned anything about what you saw the other day, and any conversation about the strawberry chocolate girl, as atsumu called her, was quickly shut down by suna.

“rin what would your little girlfriend feel if she knew you were giving her gifts away,” osamu taunted as he seemed to appear out of thin air. unconsciously, your heart clenched out of guilt.

“the hell are you talking about, i don’t have a girlfriend,” suna grumbled before turning to you. “and i buy those. for you.” he placed his hand on your head gently until you saw hints of red on his cheeks. he mustered up a blank expression as he pulled his hand away. you stared up at him dumbfounded. osamu fell silent as he grasped the situation. his brother didn’t get the memo though.

“we weren’t gonna say anything but we definitely saw you being all lovey dovey with the strawberry ch—mfph!” osamu had him in a headlock, his hand over his mouth as he hauled him away muttering a bunch of excuses.

suna raised an eyebrow at you as you kept your eyes glued to the twins, your heart already hammering in your chest. you refused to glance at him though you could feel him staring at you. “so that’s why you’ve been avoiding me,” he mused.

“that doesn’t explain why you’ve been acting weird,” you replied, finally turning to face him with a scowl.

he laughed it off. “i don’t know what exactly you saw but i turned that girl down that day.”

“she seemed a little too happy for someone who just got rejected,” you snarked, looking down at where your hands fidgeted with the box of candy he gave you.

“i might have told her she was pretty or something,” he deadpanned, a hand combing through his parted hair.

you hated the way his words made you feel. “she is,” you mumbled despite the dull pain in your chest.

“she’s not my type though. so you can stop avoiding me now.”

“that’s not why i was avoiding you.” you looked up at him through your lashes, carefully trying to find the right words to say. “i didn’t want to be clingy or annoying, even though we’re just friends.”

realization dawned on him, thinking back to what he said before. “i don’t… i don’t think you’re annoying.” his hand moved on its own to cup your cheek which startled both of you.

“but you said-”

“i know what i said and i mean it. but i never thought of you like that. i just saw it as you being caring.”

your breath caught in your throat. you could only softly gaze at him, eyes glossed over and a smile aching to show on your lips.

“so if it’s not much to ask i want you to keep nagging me, preferably more than you nag the twins. preferably not just as a friend.” his voice was barely above a whisper.

your face broke into the brightest he’d ever seen you smile before you jumped to wrap your arms around his neck. chuckling, he swiftly wrapped his arms around your waist and spun you around, burying his face in the crook of your neck and gently set you down.

“what the fuck just happened,” atsumu’s head popped from behind a wall nearby followed by osamu.

“i told you so, you owe me five onigiris now.”

you untangled yourself from suna to shoot them a glare. he reached over to grab your hand and place a chaste kiss before you walked over to the twins and start heading home.

“you did not just place a bet on my love life you idiots!”

“it was samu’s idea!”

“I’m too busy. Maybe some other time.”

By now, you were too familiar with such words from your boyfriend. You tried to be understanding, but after hearing that for so long, you were giving up.

He dangled the offer of ‘some other time’ to keep you hoping, yet rarely followed through. And it was as if everytime you did get to do something together, business whisked him away. It may have been selfish, but you wished that for once he would say no, opting to stay with you instead. You held onto that hope until you couldn't see it anymore.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

You sighed at Takeomi’s words, “Thought I made it pretty clear. This relationship isn't working out anymore.” When you were met with silence, you kept going, “This is me ending things.” If that wasn’t clear enough, you didn’t know what was.

“You’re upset. How about we talk things out instead of you making rash decisions,” he said it like it was a fact. You hadn’t been upset in the slightest, having already emotionally checked out of the relationship a long time ago, but his words were nearly enough to change that.

Your eyes slightly narrowed at him, showing him your displeasure. “I’m not upset. And, I have tried to talk this out with you. There’s just been no change on your part. I’m not interested in continuing this relationship.”

Takeomi frowned at your words. You were just being difficult. “Let’s go somewhere together for the weekend. I’ll take the time off. How’s that sound to you?”

“Really? I wanna break up and now’s when you want to actually put in effort?” You scoffed at him. It was so ridiculous that it took you leaving him to have him finally give you what you’ve been asking for. You would’ve laughed if it wasn’t hurtful. It felt as though he just hadn’t taken you seriously. “No… I’m done with this. Maybe if you were around more, you would’ve noticed that I already took out pretty much all of my belongings.” He seemed surprised, indicating that he hadn’t picked up on that.

He gave no response, so you got up, ready to leave for good when he grabbed your wrist. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll bring your stuff right back over here. We’re not breaking up.”

Ripping your wrist from his grip, you took a step away from him and closer to the door. “We are, whether you agree or not.”

Takeomi took a deep breath, seemingly in thought. His eyes drifted to the ceiling for a moment before finally snapping back to you. “Fine. You go ahead and run off. See how far you make it on your own.” While his tone was anything but harsh, the words were too much of a threat.

“I’m perfectly capable on my own,” you spat out at him.

He nodded a bit at you, a small mocking smile adorning his face, fueling your irritation at him. You stormed off to the front door of the apartment, trying to block out his voice as he continued talking to your retreating form. “I’ll be waiting here to pick you back up. After all—” his last words reached your ear before you slammed the door, “You’re my everything.”

The silence Takeomi was left in didn’t bother him. He’d let you get your energy out for a while, but once he decides enough is enough, a few calls here and there and he’ll make sure you aren’t able to survive without him, no matter how capable you may be. Capability will mean nothing when you’re going against him of all people.

He smiled to himself, knowing that he’ll have you back in his arms in no time.

he was so tempted to pull you back into his arms. who cares about the toman meeting when it meant a few more minutes with you?

he sighed and gave in, pulling you closer to the bike bashfully. he looked shy to ask. he'd never spent much time with you after school as he usually ran with his friends. but this time... he just wanted you close.

"ride with me?" he mumbled. "...again?"

you tilted your head slightly. "but... i thought you were gonna hang out with your friends?"

he tugged you forward, forcing a little yelp out of you as you fell into his shoulder. he hugged you tightly, his voice muffled against your chest.

"we never get to hang out for long..." he said. just this once, and no one will notice. maybe he could introduce you to his close friends this time? "it'll be okay. trust me."

you smiled and climbed on again, clasping the helmet buckle under your chin. "okay."

his bike roared to life, zooming down the streets.

[]

he parked his bike nearby, but far away enough so that it'd look like he walked to the meeting spot. your eyes drank the sight of the crowd down there. you knew who mikey was and what he was involved in, but never actually saw it for yourself.

he pouted. "why do you look so surprised?"

you chuckled. "aw, don't pout. i know you're a hotshot, mikey, but seeing all your guys is a different thing."

"not all of them are my guys." mikey whipped out his phone. "anyways, i want you to meet my sister."

you blinked, whipping your head to face him. he already had the phone to his ear. "now?!"

mikey grinned mischievously. "hey emma? i've got someone here, come to where all the bikes are parked."

after a few minutes, his sister came running up with a groan. "what do you want mikey—oh!" emma's jaw dropped. "a girl?!" she pointed an accusatory finger at mikey. "explain yourself!"

mikey smirked proudly and pulled you closer, his arm strung around your shoulders. "a girlfriend."

"girlfr—?!" emma paced in a frustrated circle. "and you didn't tell me?!"

"yeah, cuz it's supposed to be a secret!" mikey retorted, huffing. "and i know you'd just tell ken-chin or something."

emma gaped at the two of you for a moment. you waved meekly, squeaking a "hi, emma. i'm y/n."

she rushed towards you, clutching your hands in hers. "tell. me. everything."

mikey smiled despite his front of annoyance, ruffling both your heads as he walked by. "come on."

as mikey walked, gang members scurried away to make ample room for their president and the two that flanked him: his sister and who they assumed was her guest. he soon reached the platform where all the captains gathered. his crew looked more curious than confused at your presence.

"oi, emma," draken narrowed his eyes at the blonde, the first to pipe up. "you can't just bring whoever you want to these things."

emma opened her mouth to retort, but mikey nudged her side. that was enough to make her revise what she was going to say. "whatever."

you, on the other hand, were confused, thrown into a whole new environment that you knew nothing about. seeing all these violence-prone tough guys made you feel so small and weak.

mikey observed you as your eyes nervously darted across the crowd of toman. he leaned towards you to whisper while his friends were occupied by a chatty emma, his hair brushing against your ear. "just stay where i can see you and you can see me."

"so, at the front?" you gave him a skeptical look.

"wherever you want, i just wanna see your face." he smiled, eyes closed. heat rose to your face as you cast your gaze elsewhere. dork.

you and mikey were pulled from your own little world when emma huffed and puffed at draken.

"ugh, this is boring anyway!" emma turned on her heels. "come on, y/n!"

"oh! okay..." you blinked and gave mikey a parting glance.

the boys watched the two of you race down the steps.

draken scoffed, standing at mikey's side. "why was that girl looking at you like that?"

mikey smiled to himself, his heart thrumming happily. "dunno. might be in love with me or something."

they all laughed at him. yeah, as if!

"emma, slow down—!" you grunted as you wove through all the boys gathered, ignoring their smirking or curious faces as you desperately tried to keep her flowy blond hair in your sight. but it was dark and the black uniforms didn't help one bit.

you paused, looking around.

you lost her. you cursed and just focused on making your way to the back, being alone around all these weird teenagers didn't sit well with you.

"hey."

the firm grip around your wrist sent chills down your spine. you tugged once in a hopes to slither away but with no luck.

"what're ya doing here?"

you turned to see a group of guys surrounding you. your heart dropped into your stomach. your eyes drifted upwards. you couldn't see over their heads; you couldn't see mikey.

"oh, just hanging out with a friend..." you answered. "i'm gonna go now..."

"hold on, you think we buy that?" the one doing all the talking scoffed. "you're a girl here at a gang meeting, what 'friend' are you visiting, huh?!"

you flinched at the tone, unable to find the words.

"wanna know what i think?" he bent down to look you in the eye. "think you're just looking for attention. what, need a boyfriend, sweetheart?"

you hurriedly shook your hands, staring at them with panic. "no! no, i have one! i have a boyfriend." you hoped that would deter them, you desperately hoped they would leave you alone. your head swiveled around. some were taking amusement in the interaction, others were turning a blind eye.

"really?" he asked.

you found yourself glaring at him, despite the uneven match. "yeah."

the boy paused and surveyed you, his nasty gaze raking over you. his lips curled into a smirk. "ha! why should i believe you?"

you resolve crumbled. you whimpered at the failed attempt to get the fuck out of here which did nothing for your case.

"aw, sad you got found out?" he grinned down at you, shoving his hands in his pockets. "it's okay, we can go somewhere together after this, how about that?"

you scoffed, crossing your arms. "i said i have a boyfriend." who, for all the class he lacked, had way more class than this piece of shit.

that seemed to anger the boy. "quit lyin, we know you ain't got shit."

mikey, please just notice me. you begged silently, hoping for some miracle that'd get you out of this situation.

"did you hear me?" the boy hissed, grabbing your wrists. you gasped and glared at him, pulling against him with all your might. "quit—" he grunted. "cut that out!"

you felt cornered and tears pooled in your eyes. your heart felt almost cold as you let your impulses take over, screaming, "let go!"

mikey was eagerly listening as his captains addressed the gang, but his mind was still looking for you in the crowd. he searched for minutes and still couldn't find anything.

he wilted. was he just a bad boyfriend? not being able to recognize his girl in a crowd?

then he heard murmuring, hushed whispers, before he heard your voice.

"let go!"

his face scrunched and he rose to his feet. let go? who had their hands on you?

he marched to the front of the platform, scanning the crowd with newfound intensity. draken seemed to notice and did the work for him.

"oi!" draken's voice made the gang fall silent. even the guy who acted big froze in front of you. "why the fuck do you have your back turned to your leader when he's addressing you?"

mikey saw a couple boys distance themselves from the commotion, where he saw. anger flared into his body and he itched to beat someone to death.

you were looking at him, completely distraught.

he flew down the stairs, shoving past the members towards you. hatred radiated off him in waves as his eyes never left the sight in front of him. someone—his gang members—were fucking disrespecting you. he felt embarrassed and enraged.

the boy who had pressured you immediately let go. you stumbled backwards before looking at mikey. even now, you didn't know if you should run to him in front of everyone.

your doubts were squashed when he opened his arms. you inhaled deeply. your breath shook as you blinked the tears from your eyes, speedwalking towards him. the silence was killing you. what a reveal, you thought. you didn't care though, just happy to be in mikey's arms.

mikey hugged you tightly, pulling back to observe you for any damage. he ghosted his fingers over your wrists. "did they hurt you?"

you gulped at the menacing edge to his voice. you shook your head. he gave your wrists a soothing squeeze.

the aggressors' eyes flickered between you and their leader.

you smiled sweetly and pointed at mikey, mouthing boyfriend!

they paled.

you grinned. get fucked.

"do you know what you just did?" mikey asked, shrugging off his coat and putting it around your shoulders. he walked past you.

"h-hey... i didn't know—" the guy scrambled backwards, his voice dripping with desperation.

"who cares?" mikey's eyes were cloudy. "even if she weren't mine, are you trying to make toman look bad? if you're gonna be pathetic, do it somewhere else."

the guy took that as a cue to leave, quickly turning around.

"who said you could leave?"

you blinked and he was on the ground, mikey's foot landing gracefully.

"huh?" you mumbled. before you could even process it, he was standing over the other bystanders, holding them by their shirt as he landed punch after punch.

when they were all piles of bones on the floor he stood up, dusting his pants and slipping his hands in his pockets. "you're not welcome in toman. you better not let your faces be seen around here any more or i'll bash your head in."

you pulled the wings of mikey's coat closer to your body. despite the violence, you felt... warm and soothed by mikey's actions.

draken dismissed the meeting and the gang practically ran out of there, eager to get out of mikey's area of impact. the founding members and emma remained.

mitsuya looked sheepish when he asked, "i guess she really was in love with you, huh?"

mikey turned his nose in the air. "of course. why would i lie about that?"

pah scoffed. "do you even know yourself?"

you inched closer to mikey, unsure of your place here. he held you by your waist, reassuring you. your racing heart slowed down, little by little.

"hey." surprisingly, draken looked a little embarrassed, probably because he treated you like some rando when you were mikey's girlfriend. "you... we're not like that brat, okay?"

"yeah, what a disgrace!" pah interrupted, huffing.

"you don't have to be afraid." draken continued, glaring at pah. "just like mikey, we'll look out for you."

you smiled, coming out of mikey's side just a little. "thank you. i'm y/n, by the way."

mitsuya groaned. "oh, now it all makes sense." you voiced a confused hum and he elaborated, telling you that mikey would always go on and on about you. his friends thought you were just a crush of his, and since they'd never saw you they honestly thought you were a figment of his hormonal imagination.

your cheeks burned. "oh... no, i'm totally real."

emma peeked out from behind draken. her eyes were glossy and she sniffed, toddling towards you. "y/nnnn!" she wailed, hugging you. "i'm so sorry!"

you pat her back. "emma, it's not your fault! oh my god. please don't cry!" you looked at mikey for help but he just smiled. that smile faded when he realized that his friends and sister were slowly pushing him outside their little circle, wanting to know everything.

"okay, get off." mikey's demeanor changed in an instant. he slipped in under draken's arm and grabbed your hand, tugging you behind him.

"hey, no fair!" emma exclaimed, running after her brother. "you had her for who knows how long but i can't even get to talk to her for five minutes?!"

mikey sped up, laughing. "she's my girlfriend, not yours!"

"mikey!"

his bright laughter brought a smile to your face. he mounted his bike and made sure you were secure before revving off into the distance, his friends hot on his tail.

you gripped mikey's torso, nuzzling into his back. "thank you."

"don't thank me." mikey replied, quiet. "should've never happened in the first place."

your cheek rested on his shoulder blade, staring at him. his hair cascaded just enough to obscure his eyes from view. "i'm glad i have a strong boyfriend to protect me." you giggled.

his chest puffed with pride. "i am pretty strong."

you rolled your eyes.

"but it's not just us anymore." he turned his head to meet your eyes. "you have a new family, now. and they're all gonna look out for you."

your jaw hurt from how hard you smiled. your heart fluttered. resting your head on his back again, you squeezed him tight.

[]

the peaceful drive soon turned into a competition when the toman captains tried to race mikey down, determined for answers. emma, who rode on draken's bike, was especially vicious.

“anyway, ran haitani came up to our table and offered me a drink! and he was all over me! you have no idea how hot it was, his huge hand squeezing my thighs! the jealous looks of everyone!”

you and your friend exchanged knowing looks at the mention of a familiar name from a loud conversation happening at the adjacent table.

it’s not quite the relaxed evening you expected at this chill bar you entered to refresh with your classmate from university on a friday night, but you shrug it off and let them talk about hot men all they want.

it is only at the mention of haitani’s name that you start really listening. you realize they are talking about hot men specifically from kantou manji gang.

your boyfriend’s gang.

“was sanzu haruchiyo there?” you hear a woman ask, and you sit straight up to listen intently. “he’s the hottest of them all. i would take him over everyone else in his gang on any goddamn day!”

while you agree, there is a churning feeling in your stomach that grows larger at every agreement that follows that statement. it forms a green monster of jealousy and insecurity knowing how known your boyfriend really is, and how many wants him.

“i know, right? have you seen him in that white freakin’ uniform? he’s exactly the type of guy that my dad would be horrified of if i ever dated him, but that’s the charm in him!”

“but isn’t he in a relationship? that’s why among all of them, he doesn’t approach women at all?”

“who cares? you think a man like him would ever want to settle with just one woman? dream on. he’s gonna want all the women in the world!”

“that makes sense. a crazy man like him on the loose isn’t gonna want a leash on his neck. what he needs is an equally wild woman for an adventure!”

you bite your lip and sink deeper in the cushioned couch you’re sitting on, while your friend shoots you an apologetic and comforting smile.

they have no idea that you share a bed with sanzu haruchiyo. they do not know that he comes home to you every night, asking you to clean his wounds for him. they aren’t aware of all the times you cuddle the man in question to sleep, and play with his hair.

they do not know that sanzu will die for you because he is deeply in love with you, and only you.

and in this moment, you forget that too.

as much as you trust your haruchiyo, it kills you to think that they’re probably right.

your boyfriend is all too full of life and vigor, much too exciting to be settling with your boring life. he doesn’t deserve to make himself small and contain himself in your routines. he deserves to live.

you wish you are strong enough to let him go, but still, you do not want to. you love him, and it would kill you to have to set him free.

if you can’t set him free to live the life he was born to live, the least you could do is… be wild enough.

for the rest of the night, you drown yourself in alcohol until you reach past the state of being in the right mind. you are far from sober, and your friend has no idea what to do with you.

so she grabs your phone and gives your boyfriend a quick call. her hands are trembling at the fact that she is talking to a man as dangerous as he is, but you are absolutely out of control and sanzu is the only one who knows how to deal with you.

“y/n, please! you can’t go there!” your friend pleads with you as she pulls you away from the rowdy part of the bar where the dance floor is.

it is full of creeps and people who want to get laid, and you are definitely not available for all that. but that’s part of getting wild, right?

fuck midterms! fuck your due essays! fuck university! tonight, you will be wild enough to keep up with your boyfriend, and then maybe he’ll wanna stay with you!

“it’s going to be fine!” you slur your words drunkenly, matching with the wiggling of your feet as you squeeze yourself in the ocean of people and dance with whoever stands next to you.

your friend loses sight of you, and you gain more freedom to just dance to the rhythm of the booming music. you do not care whose body you’re touching or whose drink you just accepted. you just let loose.

you have never done this before, and as much as you respect anyone who parties like this since it’s their life and they can do anything with it, it doesn’t feel like yourself. but then again, you are on a mission.

“fucking hell!”

suddenly, a strong grip wraps around your wrist and you are being forcefully dragged away from the dance floor. you giggle in your drunken state when you see your boyfriend’s back, who is currently seething with rage as he pulls you outside of the bar.

“what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” he shouts as soon as he gets you alone. “you’re gettin’ fucking drunk now, huh? dancing with other men?! you know how i could’ve snapped their necks!?”

you giggle adorably and you place your palms on his chest flirtatiously. you can’t help it when he’s in his white kantou manji uniform, and with his beautiful hair tied up in a ponytail like this.

“l-like it, hmm? wild e-enough… for you, baby?”

he doesn’t understand what the hell you’re saying but he does know that you are too drunk to keep yourself upright. he erupts in another string of continuous curses and he scoops you in his arms, to settle you inside his car, and take you home.

“h-haru… y’like me like this? wild? hmm?” you continue asking him over and over again until you get home. he still doesn’t understand, and his eyebrows almost meeting is enough clue of that.

he almost throws you on the huge couch as soon as you arrive, but he cares for you too much to ignore you so he wets a cloth to clean you with it.

sanzu haruchiyo is angry. this is the angriest you have ever seen him, but he continues wiping your body with the cloth, and it kind of sobers you up.

“i have no idea what you’re fucking thinking. first, you fail to tell me that you’ll be drinking in a bar with a friend and i would like to know that so i wouldn’t be taken by surprise like this! and then you get absolutely wasted? and dance with men! for what?!”

he is seething, and you want to start by saying sorry. but instead, you run to the bathroom to vomit out all the alcohol you downed earlier. despite his anger, he follows you to the toilet and he runs his hand up and down your back to caress it.

“there, there, it’s going to feel better now,” he comforts you, but you know his disappointment for tonight is still there.

sanzu flushes the toilet and pulls you up, guides you to the sink, and helps you wash your mouth while holding your hair for you.

you burst into tears at how gentle he handles you despite the fury going on in his system. you feel like shit, and you are both sorry and insecure.

finally, you face your angry boyfriend. he closes the distance between you until your back meets the sink and he cages you between his arms.

“explain.”

he is melting at the sight of your tears but he is dying to hear your explanations. he wants to know that you love him still, and that you don’t want other men. he needs to know that you’re not doing this because you want to break up with him. he needs you to let him know that you love him… because he loves you.

“i-i’m sorry, haru,” you manage to say in between your sobs. “i didn’t know what to do. i was scared.”

“scared? scared of what?” he asks, because how could you be scared of anything when you have a boyfriend who is head over heels for you who can just annihilate all the things that you hate?

“of losing you!”

“how could you ever lose me, huh, baby doll?” his tone softens, because at long last, he finally knows that you are afraid to lose him just like he is afraid of losing you. “that still doesn’t explain why you’d get yourself drunk like that. doesn’t make sense to me.”

“because… you keep so many secrets from me. m-makes me think i’m not worthy enough to know what you’re doing because… i’m not wild or crazy enough!”

is that what this is? sanzu hates invalidating your feelings, but shit. that explanation is fucking nuts.

“baby, i don’t keep secrets. i tell you about my day. but there are things i’d rather not let you know because… it’ll keep you safer that way.”

“so, it’s not because… i’m boring?”

he cups your face with his hands, “you entertain me just fine, baby. what the fuck is this about not being wild enough, huh? who told you you need to change anything for me? i don’t fucking care for all that.”

“it’s just that, i heard women talk about you. a while ago. they said people like you won’t want to settle down or something… ‘cuz it’ll bore you…”

“you can tie me down right now and get me fuckin’ married and i won’t complain for shit, baby. all i want is to be with you. they clearly do not know me.”

you stop sobbing but hiccups linger, making sanzu grin at how adorable you look like this. he wipes your tears away with his thumbs and he sighs loudly.

“and here i was getting worried you just wanted to dance with other men ‘cause you finally realized i wasn’t good enough for ‘ya.”

your eyes widen in surprise. “no way! that will never happen! i love you so much! how could you think that?!”

“but that’s exactly what you’re doing to me…”

his voice calms you down and you realize that he is right. “i know… i’m sorry, haru. i know you love me.”

he nods and kisses the tip of your nose. “only you. you don’t have to change anything for me. don’t have to be crazy. i can be crazy for the both of us, baby.”

the shiver that ran down your spine at the husky words was inevitable, your eyes darting over to where he pointed to show you the place was just a couple feet away from where you were standing. it didn’t help that the boy said it with so little emotion.

“thanks for telling me… i just really need to drop by at the nearest local duty pharmacy,” you responded. under the halfway functioning street light, you recognized a very tall boy, perhaps around your age, so 15 or 16 years of age.

the dragon tattoo on the side of his head drew your attention. it didn’t necessarily elicit bad thoughts, it just looked very unique.

“i’ll accompany you.” his offer took you by surprise; it wasn’t like you had been used to others being nice to you before. when he continued walking towards your destination, you quickly joined him, barely able to catch up with his long strides.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“how could a person be a best friend, mentor, older brother and father all at the same time? you made the impossible possible.”

hanging out with the boys was exhausting, to say the least. there wasn’t anyone you particularly disliked, but they could be a lot. you didn’t really mind that they were all part of a gang, all that mattered to you was that none of them had ever made a move to hurt you or others.

“i’m saying, that’s not how you solve that question!”

rolling your eyes at the first division commander discussing with you, you threw your arms in the air. you were currently all lounging off in the warehouse, with you having joined them after they had finished a meeting.

draken always insisted on you never, ever joining a meeting of the tokyo manji gang. he would never want you to get involved with their business.

“baji, are you seriously telling me i’m in the wrong?” you shoved your purple flip phone out of the pocket of your school uniform skirt, unlocking it to click onto the calculator function. “you must be stupid if you think that three times 24 is 72–”

the whole warehouse went quiet after that. blood rushed to your face, your entire head and ears feeling steaming hot as the brunette started laughing at you. the others were too immersed in their own thoughts to listen.

“who’s the stupid one now?” bending down to your height, baji flashed you his cocky smirk, revealing sharp canines. your eyes stung with tears of humiliation.

before he could tease you a little more, because you were so easy to tease, a hand shoved the boy with long hair back to create a distance between you and him. it was him.

“baji, that’s enough.” draken’s firm voice made said boy shrug and back off. “it’s just a dumb mathematical equation.”

when you sniffled and crossed your arms in front of your chest, turning away deliberately to hide your embarrassed self from the others, a palm settled on the top of your head.

looking up, you saw draken grinning down at you ever so gently.

“don’t worry about it, everyone makes mistakes.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“i failed to tell you. i thought my actions would be enough to prove what i felt. perhaps you knew all along, but decided not to talk about it. you were always thoughtful and considerate. but i wasn’t special.”

it was a gloomy day for you today. you were excited to see draken, putting in a lot of effort while getting ready and wearing one of your best outfits, just to see that he hadn’t joined the otherd at the usual group hangout today.

“wasn’t it emma’s birthday today?” mitsuya recalled. mikey wasn’t there either. unbeknownst to you, baji’s eyes wandered to look at how you’d react.

as someone who wore her heart on her sleeve, you were terrible at masking how you felt. he didn’t miss the way your face fell.

draken and emma were always close to each other. of course they were, as her brother and draken have been inseparable since middle school. you couldn’t compare to her. you’d just met him not even two years ago.

you were slowly realizing that despite him doing a lot for you and always being there for you, you perhaps didn’t mean as much to him as emma did.

after all, draken was nice to everyone.

“someone’s grumpy,” baji commented slyly, and this time, you didn’t have it in you to bicker with him. this time, there was no draken to tell him to stop either.

the two missing blondes joined you hours later, with mikey nudging his taller vice’s side teasingly while talking about how sly kenny was for having found that plushie emma had wanted for the longest time.

it made your mood even more sour than it already was, and you pondered about an excuse to leave, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and forget about it.

forget about your stupid feelings for someone whose heart was already taken, and who saw you as nothing more than a friend.

“hey (f/n), that’s a pretty outfit,” mikey commented, “you going somewhere?” draken glanced down at you curiously while you forced a tight-lipped smile on your face. you inwardly thanked the leader of toman for saving you like this.

“yeah. i’ll see you guys.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“would things have been different if i’d just confessed to you while i still had the time? it would have been selfish. she was the first to know and love you, after all.”

ken and mikey had dropped out of high school at 17. they had big plans of opening a workshop for cars and motorcycles. by the time you graduated high school, they already had their small, cozy shop. toman was no more, and everything was well.

objectively speaking, it was. but subjectively? you weren’t too sure about that.

by the time you entered the italian restaurant, the table that caught your eyes was already pretty crowded. it wasn’t a surprise anymore, you were always late, after all.

too late. those two words echoed in your head as you looked at emma and draken sitting next to each other, her blushing feverishly when he removed something from her hair.

that could have been you.

“let’s go.” hearing baji’s voice behind you surprised you, and even more did it to feel his hand on your back, guiding you towards the table. as much as he was a jerk, you didn’t believe he did it out of ill intent to humiliate you.

the hours went by, and you had all eaten to your hearts’ content, now exchanging light jokes and future aspirations to one another. emma mentioned wanting to be a housewife, and the ken getting married to her made you want to throw up everything you’d eaten today.

“how about you?” mitsuya asked you, who had talked the least tonight. “any plans for college?” you smiled awkwardly when you felt draken’s eyes on you.

he had always wanted you to go all the way with your education, having supported you whenever he could. you were more than thankful for that.

“i actually got an admission for law in osaka.” the blonde sitting right across from you smiled so brightly, and you were sure it would have made you melt if emma didn’t have her head on his shoulder.

it was almost childish how you had tried to interpret every single of draken’s actions as a possible chance for something to develop between you two. your chances were long gone.

you had never stood one to begin with.

“i knew you could do it! you were always a smart girl.”

his compliment made you feel worse than it should have.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“you told me to go and pursue my dreams. i knew that if you had told me to stay, i would have. how idiotic of me, right? i ended up leaving and letting you slip from my grasp without you ever having been in it.”

after moving away for college, you hardly visited tokyo anymore. and to be quite honest, you preferred that. it was good to stay away from the source of what had drained you for so long.

draken hadn’t taken advantage of your feelings for him, no. he was the last person on earth who’d be willing to do that. but that didn’t mean it hurt any less to be trapped in a web of unrequited love.

you were in your fourth year of law school when an invitation laid in your mailbox. you just knew from the second you looked at the envelope without even opening it. it was exactly what you’d anticipated it to be.

a marriage invitation, for you to join ken ryuguji and emma sano for the most important day of their lives. you stood in front of the mailbox, staring at the piece of pretty paper for at least twenty minutes, as if it was ever going to change.

he was going to get married. not to you.

all of your dreams of walking down the aisle in a pretty, white dress, approaching him with his sweet smile, crushed to bits and pieces.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“i have never wished you anything else but happiness, and i still do. she makes you happy, and that’s all i could have ever asked for. i saw it in your eyes that day. you never looked at me like that.”

the wedding reception was nothing short of beautiful. catered to everyone’s tastes, it left nothing to the imagination.

the wedding of your dreams had always looked like this.

it was bittersweet how another woman was going to live that dream to the fullest, with the man of your dreams, at that.

thankfully, you weren’t left alone with your thoughts while you waited for the couple to come to the rented hall after they would get lawfully wedded. mitsuya and his sisters kept you company, making sure to recommend you everything they had tried at the enormous buffet.

“pretty sure they’re coming now,” mitsuya informed you as he stared at his wristwatch. you gulped and looked into your glass of soda.

oh what you wouldn’t have given to be in her shoes, taking on his last name… waking up next to him every single day, having his children.

you felt absolutely and utterly horrible. like all those years you’d spent away from this had caught up to you, leaving you to drown in your unrequited feelings.

before you could excuse yourself to the bathroom and ruin your perfectly done makeup by indulging in a five-minute breakdown, you were stopped by a hand finding your shoulder. it felt as if life was sucker-punching you in the gut once again.

“hey, baji.” your voice was low, and you didn’t notice mitsuya leading his sisters away from the table. his formerly wild, brown hair was much shorter now, tied up in a ponytail, and he wore a dark gray tuxedo.

when he opened his mouth, you shook your head. “i can’t take any teasing today. i mean it.”

your words weren’t even harsh, you just sounded exhausted. his grin disappeared, soon replaced by a frown. “i’m aware,” baji stated, “i couldn’t have attended if i was you.”

with a raised brow, you stared at him to explain what he meant. “i’ve known since back then.” you looked down, pursing your lips to stop them from trembling and giving it all away. you were asking to change the topic until the two would enter through the door and make your mood plummet entirely.

baji knew you better than you could have guessed. so this time, instead of poking fun at you, he actually tried to make you feel better

“by the way, i’m moving to osaka for med school for the next semester. i finally got in.”

it still stung when you saw draken and emma entering the hall hand-in-hand. you couldn’t compare that sting to any other kind of physical pain you’d endured in your life, it felt worse than broken limbs or a cut that needed to be stitched.

but he was happy, the way you never saw him be. he had never smiled as purely as he did when he danced with his wife, kissing the back of her hand that now adorned a ring to bind them to each other forever.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ♡•°`.

“i’m sending this letter even after it all. even though i know i’m too late. don’t get me wrong, i have deliberately not added your new address. you will never get this letter. this is just for myself, to liberate what i’d held onto for multiple years.”

you picked up the call after one shrill ring, holding your phone against your ear while your eyes were plastered on the tv. it was your episode today, dealing with your letter.

the show was muted so you could hear exactly what you’d hear on the phone. with a deep breath, you spoke first. “hello?”

“good evening, miss! we are very excited to be hosting you on today’s show for TO ALL THE MEN YOU’VE LOVED BEFORE!” on the screen, you saw the main host move her mouth with a smile plastered on her perfect face.

you sat down on your couch, taking another deep breath. “thank you for having me,” you responded, “i can already guess what you are going to ask me.”

you heard sweet laughter from the two hosts while you were busy picking at a dried scab on your thumb. this was making you more nervous than you’d wished it to.

“if that’s the case, then we would love to hear your thoughts,” spoke the co-host, “our audience is very excited to learn about your motives and what exactly has made you not put an address for the letter to be shipped to!”

the camera angle was switched to show multiple rows of people of all ages sitting and awaiting your response. it made your throat go dry.

“i have made this decision because,” you looked away from the screen, “they have found someone else. and they are very happy.”

the hosts showed faces of surprise. for a second, you wondered why you’d even done this to begin with. but it felt too relieving to speak about this for a bunch of strangers to listen. it felt too relieving to hang up now when you were so close to just letting things go.

“which was why i just wanted to send this letter to… get rid of it. to be able to live on and stop holding onto those feelings that are never going to be reciprocated.” you had no idea if the words you were saying made any sense to them, but to you, they did. they made perfect sense to you, and they described exactly how you felt.

“that is very mature, and we admire you for having collected the courage to take this step.” the host clapped her hands, obviously looking moved. “love isn’t all about having happy endings together, right? sometimes, it means to let go. for their, and for our own happiness.”

hanging up not long after, you sank back in your couch and chuckled to yourself. this wasn’t so bad. in fact, you haven’t felt as good as you did right now in a while.

when the door to your apartment unlocked, you watched a mop of brown hair appear in your peripheral. the smile on your face only went brighter.

“i’m home. did i miss it?”

“just did. let’s rewatch it together, kei.”

“i wouldn’t have it any other way, because it was thanks to you that i found my own happiness, too.”