the sun no longer sets me free

“Just ninety, I’d say.”

“I’m not jesting.” you muttered, holding up a piece of silk fabric to the sunlight spilling through the window, showering you in gold. “Margaery, I think I like this one better.”

“Better than lighter blue?”

“Yes.”

Margaery tilted her head and motioned at one of the maids who was working on the skirts of her gown to bring the silk fabric to her. She was standing in the middle of her room while the seamstresses and the maids worked fast to get her sizing for new gowns, and though you had expected her to be more excited to meet her possible betrothed, she looked calm as ever.

“As I was saying, what if I end up being the only one left?” you insisted as she hissed in a breath when one of the seamstresses pricked her accidentally. “Everyone is getting married, you’re getting married—”

“I’m not getting married yet,” she said. “Knowing my family, it’ll take them a year or two to smooth everything out. I’m just getting betrothed. Besides, unlike what you seem to believe, marriage is not going to be all fun and games.”

You sat up straighter in bed and grabbed a ribbon to wrap it around your finger.

“Father has ordered his guards to not let me ride at full speed, because he thinks I might get hurt,” you grumbled. “When I marry, I’ll go horse riding every day, and ride at full speed all I want.”

“That’s nothing new, you’ve been coddled your whole life—”

“I’m not coddled!” you protested, your voice going high-pitched. “I’m just…um, well taken care of. Besides, you’re the one standing there in silks and sapphires, that’s not being coddled?”

She winked at you. “I’m just well taken care of.”

You threw the ribbon at her and reached over the edge of the bed to grab a slice of apple from the plate.

“You have no reason to worry, I’ve planned it, remember?” she asked you. “The moment I am married, I’ll convince your father to marry you into whichever family I married into. I’ll even ask my grandmother to support me.”

“And if my father still says no?”

“I’ll explain to him what kind of a danger he’s putting you in.”

Your brows furrowed. “What danger is that?”

“When he dies, your brother will be the head of your house, and his wife hates you.”

“Oh trust me, the feeling is mutual,” you retorted. “I can count with one hand the times Elinor actually said something nice to me, I suppose they raised her in a cave. Would explain her lack of sense in fashion as well, but I suppose I cannot expect otherwise from a Wensington. I’m actually surprised she didn’t show up to the feast wearing—”

“She will manipulate your brother as wives do,” Margaery cut you off. “And she will make your life a living hell, and then use your brother to make you marry someone you don’t even want. Your father will have to—ouch!”

“I’m sorry my lady,” the seamstress who pricked her said, and Margaery paused for a second, then forced herself to smile at her. You had to remind yourself to keep a straight face; that expression was way too familiar.

You had seen it on yourself on different occasions; being annoyed, but hiding it behind a perfect smile.

“It’s alright, please be more careful,” she said and turned to you. “Anyways, he will have to agree.”

You pouted your lips and heaved a deep sigh.

“I suppose,” you said sulkily. “Meanwhile I’ll get bored here. You’ll be away how long? Months and months?”

“You can make use of the time.”

“How?”

She arched a brow at you, then cleared her throat, making the seamstresses stop and look up at her.

“I’d like to have the room for a moment,” she said and they bowed, then walked out with Margaery’s maids following them. Margaery fixed the skirts of her half-made gown, then came to sit at the edge of the bed.

“I keep telling you,” she said, “you need to learn what to do to make a man do what you wish for future use.”

“I know what to do!” you protested, your cheeks burning. “I’ve heard my maids talking. And you. And Elinor as well, I’m certain it wouldn’t be difficult.”

“And that’s why you’ve never tried it?”

You flailed your arms. “My father’s guards follow me everywhere, it’s not as if I’ve had the opportunity to be alone with a lot of people!”

She held your gaze in hers for a moment, that infamous smirk of hers curling her lips.

“Shall I offer myself, then?” she asked airily, motioning at the empty room. “I’m afraid I’d want to drag you to King’s Landing with me afterwards.”

“Very funny.” You pouted as you got up from the bed, coaxing a sigh out of her. You walked to her vanity to rummage through her jewelry so that you could busy yourself with something, the drawing her little cousin had made on a parchment making you smile before you lifted your head to find her watching you in the mirror with a wistful look on her beautiful face.

“You don’t have the luxury to be clueless, sweeting.”

“I’m not clueless, I know things!” You paused. “In theory.”

“Not in practice,” she insisted. “Every skill needs honing, and that is no different. What about that squire you have been making eyes at?”

You gasped, the fire on your face growing even hotter as you whirled around on your heels. “I haven’t been making eyes at anyone! I just thought he looked pleasant, that’s all.”

“Mm hm. And did you talk to him?”

“No,” you admitted and took a step forward when she rolled her eyes. “No, listen! I was going to talk to him, but then I got—then I got scared.”

She stifled a laugh. “You got scared of a squire?”

“Well, not of him, but…” You threw your head back as she got up from the bed as well to approach you. “What if he thought me a fool?”

“Who cares what he thinks? His opinion holds no weight.”

“What if he thought me ugly?”

The glint in her eyes softened and she tilted her head.

“No one in the entire realm would ever think of you anything less than beautiful.” She cupped your cheek to trail her thumb over your cheekbone, her voice low. “They do call you the Blossom of the Reach, in case you forgot. The bards and the knights.”

“Elinor says it’s because my father refuses to let me marry, so they think of me as more beautiful than I am,” you mumbled as her hand slipped from your cheek. “I shouldn’t let it mislead me and overestimate myself, she says.”

“And I say Elinor is a bitter, jealous bitch,” she replied, her melodic voice a complete contrast to her insult. “So who are you going to believe? Me or your brother’s idiot of a wife?”

You bit back a laugh. “You, of course. I’d trust you with my life, but Margaery—”

“Your beauty is a weapon but as my grandmother always says, a lady needs more than just beauty to survive.”

“I can win hearts with words,” you said, then huffed out. “That is if my father lets me marry, ever!”

“He will. I’ll make sure of that, just be patient.”

You clicked your tongue, then reached out to touch the embroidered bodice of her gown, narrowing your eyes.

“I’m still not sure about this gown,” you admitted, making her scoff. “I mean, roses and tulips?”

“Those are crocuses!”

“Well they don’t look it—Margaery, I’m serious, have you considered maybe that’s why your seamstress keeps pricking you?” you asked, coaxing a laugh out of her. “I’m telling you, it’s a sign from the Gods against this pattern!”

That wasn’t a sign. You would remember it way later, in the middle of the night, miles away from Highgarden.

The real sign was the squiggly drawing of a wolf chasing a lamb that Margaery’s little cousin had left on her vanity, but you were too busy giggling with Margaery to notice that.

   .❄️.

It hadn’t been that difficult to push your worries to the back of your mind as usual. Your father’s castle had many things that you could busy yourself with, and for the rest of the week, you had managed to distract yourself with other things; your father didn’t look like he would deem anyone suitable for you anytime soon as usual, not to mention he was too busy strengthening your house’s influence on others to even consider any kind of marriage for you.

Surprisingly, you would soon find out all of those lines would cross in one specific point.

“My lady, your father is asking for you.”

You looked up from the bouquet you were gathering in your arms, then got off your knees and held the flowers out for her.

“Here, Alyn,” you said. “Would you please give these to Eadith? She has been sad lately, maybe these will cheer her up.”

“Of course, my lady.”

You put the flowers into her arms, then made your way through the gardens to enter the castle. You hummed a song to yourself, dragging your fingertips over the walls and nodded at the guards at the entrance of the dining room before stepping inside to find your father and your oldest brother Alton sitting at the table.

“Hello father,” you chirped and went to kiss him on the cheek, then smiled at Alton. “You sent for me?”

“Yes my blossom,” your father said, pinching your cheek. “Please sit down. Were you in the garden?”

“I was!” you said, taking a seat. “My maid Eadith, you know her, she has been rather upset lately, so I figured some flowers could help her feel better. I always feel better when I have flowers in my room—”

“Sister, congratulations are in order,” Alton cut you off as if he didn’t want to waste any time listening to you. “Father has found you a suitable match.”

Your head snapped up, your breath catching in your throat.

…Married.

You were to be married.

You could feel your heart slamming against your ribcage as you stared at them. “W—who?”

 “Robb Stark of Winterfell,” your father said, clasping his hands on the table. “Heir to Lord Ned Stark.”

Disbelief crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making you swallow thickly. You opened your mouth, closed it again when you couldn’t find your voice, then cleared your throat and tried it again.

“Starks of Winterfell?” you rasped out. “As in—as in the North?”

“I’m told he is an honorable young man,” your father said, oblivious to your reaction. “and if he’s anything like his father, I’m certain you are going to be well respected and kept safe as the future Lady Stark.” 

“Elinor will help you with choosing your gowns,” your brother added while you shook your head, your eyes wide. “We are to leave in—”

“But the Starks are in the North!”

Your father heaved a sigh, running a hand over his face. “My dearest…”

“The North is so far away from here,” you insisted. “And I heard all kinds of things about there, father! You cannot—”

“Sorry, am I late?” Your second oldest brother Silas’ voice cut you off, and you heard the familiar footsteps before he tugged your arm to pull you up. “If you’ll excuse us, father.”

“Father please, you must listen—”

Silas all but dragged you into the hallway, nearly deaf to your protests until he pushed you into your room and closed the door. 

“No!” you exclaimed. “No! Tell them I’m not going!”

“Sister—”

“Has everyone lost their mind?” you asked, stomping on your foot. “The Starks are in the North!”

Silas took off his gloves and undid the forearm braces of his shiny, spotless armor before he put them down on the table, then filled a cup of wine for himself and you. In addition to being one of the most sought after knights in the Reach, he had also always been your favorite among your brothers. When you were a mere child, he would always sneak into the kitchens to bring you cakes whenever you begged him to do so after bedtime, he would explore the castle grounds with you—even the cellars that were forbidden to you—, and he would play knight and princess with you to ‘save’ you from your other brothers who pretended to be monsters.  

Alton never took any part in any of that, saying he had no time for your silly play pretend.

“Good to see you were paying attention to the Septa while she was teaching you the families.” Silas handed you the goblet and sat down. “The Starks are in the North.”

“I’ve heard people eat people in the North!”

He let out a laugh. “That’s the other side of the Wall.”

“So you claim.”

“So I know. I’ve met Northerners, you haven’t.”

“I’ve heard about them!”

“To repeat, I’ve met them. I assure you, they do not eat people.” He took a sip of his wine. “Do you honestly think father would send you off to the North to get eaten?”

“I didn’t think he would ever send me there to begin with!” You put your goblet down and gestured at the door. “No. I’m not going. I’ll cry for days and days if he insists, and then it’ll make me ugly, and then no man will want to marry me, including the Stark heir.”

He rolled his eyes. “Blossom…”

“I’m not going, I said!”

Silas took another sip of his wine, completely calm opposed to your anger.

“What do you know about Starks?”

“They were the Kings of Winter for eight hundred years, until Aegon’s Conquest,” you said, impatience laced in your voice as you stomped on your foot. “Silas, Margaery is going to King’s Landing, tell father—”

“Don’t get distracted,” he told you. “What else do you know?”

“Wolves of Winterfell. They follow the old gods. Um—Winter is coming.” you recited, looking up at the ceiling to remember everything the Septa taught you. “The head of their family is the Warden of the North, its been that way since Aegon the Conqueror.”

“And ever since then, there’s never been a Stark who broke their oath.”

“Good for them, I’m still not going,” you growled. “Tyrells are sending Margaery to King’s Landing, did you hear me? And I’m supposed to go to the North?”

“You are going to the North,” he said, ignoring your pitiful whine. “No matter how much you yell and scream. But if you calm down and listen to me for one moment…”

“I barely know anything about them, or their customs or—or—”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “Want me to start with your betrothed? Robb Stark is around your age, tall and very handsome.”

That managed to distract you from your fuss for a moment, but then you chided yourself in your head, sticking your nose up in the air.

“Has one of your hundred lovers told you that?”

“Do you wish to snark at me or know more about your betrothed?”

“What I wish to know about my betrothed is a list, and at the top of that list resides the question where on earth has North come from?” you asked, pacing in the room. “Father has never mentioned it as a possibility, neither has Alton!”

“That’s because neither of them thought of it,” he said silkily. “Until I told them to.”

You stopped dead in your tracks and gawked at him in silence for a couple of seconds.

“You’d betray me like that?” you asked, your voice trembling as he heaved a sigh, then got up from his chair to come to hold you by the shoulders.

“Sister,” he said, his gaze locked in yours, “I know that you do not see it now, but I’m doing you the biggest favor anyone in our family could ever do. Including father.”

You shoved him back so that you could glare at him, anger coursing through your veins like wildfire.

“You’re doing me a favor by sending me off to marry a Northerner?”

He wiggled his brows. “A good looking Northerner. Don’t think I didn’t see you making eyes at that squire, apparently looks do play a part in your interest.”

“I’m not jesting, nor am I laughing.”

“Fine,” he said with a groan. “Why do you think I’ve been volunteering going to all these banquets and weddings and everything in father’s name?”

“So that you can find numerous lovers of course.”

“So that I can find a man who’s suitable for you,” he corrected you. “Even I did not think it’d serve our house’s future this much, but the Gods have been good.”

You threw your hands up in the air in frustration. “What are you talking about?!”

“Sit down.” He put your goblet into your hand before pushing you into the chair by the desk, then took his own seat as well. “And listen to me, alright?”

You pouted your lips, but kept quiet.

“Father will not live forever,” he told you. “And I’m the second son, so my influence will be none. Alton will be the head of our house, and he already thinks of you as a tool to be used, to entice whatever lord that will serve the future of our house the most. Unfortunately, most of those lords are also vile creatures, and I do not want to have to kill whatever lord he plans to marry you off. I will if I have to, but then that’s going to be a political mess.”

You tried to keep your expression flat despite the twitch of your lips. “You’d kill a lord if he treated me poorly?”

“Obviously,” he said with a small smile. “But to repeat, that’ll be a political mess, and I hate Alton but not that much. I’d say the Gods punished him enough with that wretched wife of his, who by the way, hates you and wants nothing more than to see you suffer.”

“That’s not my fault!”

He made a noise of disbelief, then reached out to pluck a grape out of its stem from the plate on the table. “You forget I was present at the dinner when that enmity began.”

“Yes, and do you remember what she said? She said father spoiled me rotten and that my future husband would have a hard time undoing that!”

“I remember that, and I remember you saying, and I quote, It’s not my fault your lord father sold you off to my brother like a prized cow, my lord father loves me more than that.”

“I was a child!” you insisted, your voice going high-pitched. “I was one and ten! And father made me apologize even though I was not at fault. I cannot be blamed if she cannot forgive and forget.”

“Either way, the moment Alton takes over, she will make sure he sells you off to the wealthiest lord like a prized cow just to take revenge,” he told you. “I need to get you out of the Reach by then. As I’ve said, that’s why I’ve been meeting so many lords and heirs, and Robb Stark might just be the only decent heir left in Westeros, which is why father is agreeing to this match.”

“And Alton?” you asked. “If he didn’t think there was something to gain—”

“Oh there’s a lot to gain.”

You pulled back slightly to raise your brows at him. “What’s there to gain?”

He sipped his wine and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

“Tell me,” he said. “Who’s our biggest rival in the Reach?”

“Tyrells,” you said. “But we get along well now. Margaery is my best friend, you know that.”

“And where are the Tyrells most focused on right now? Where are they sending Margaery?”

“King’s Landing. South.”

“Who’s more powerful? The king and his family in the South, or the Starks in the North?”

“The king rules the realm,” you said as he shook his head. “Of course he and his family are more—”

“Wrong answer. The king, his army, and his lords’ armies are nothing compared to the Northern army. All those banner men Starks have? If they wanted, really wanted, they could wipe out all the King’s Landing with it.”

You tilted your head in confusion. “But Silas, the South—”

“Is nothing without the North,” he finished your sentence. “Let Tyrells marry their way into King’s Landing. Our family must do the unexpected and unite with Winterfell, because the moment there’s a war, and so many people say it’s coming, the one with the biggest army will be the most powerful. And with so much as the threat of the Northern army on our side, we could rule the Reach—and before you say Margaery.” He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. “She’ll be married and away from here, no direct harm will come to her. I’m saying the threat of the Northern army, not actual war, Tyrells would surrender without bloodshed. They’re too smart.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to wrap your mind around the idea.

“Even if that were to work, Northerners don’t marry anyone from the Reach,” you said slowly. “We’re too different. They see us as too polished, we see them as…” You searched your mind for a polite way to put it. “As discourteous.”

“And yet, Lord Stark said yes to this union,” he said. “Maybe it has something to do with our endless livestock and crops, or maybe he sees more than others do, like me.”

You turned your rings around your fingers to keep your mind and hands busy. “Father has made this arrangement with Lord Stark only?”

Silas could tell what you really meant from your tone ever since you were children, and from the soft smile on his face, this was no exception.

“Lord Stark loves his children as far as I can tell, he wouldn’t have agreed to it without asking his heir as well.”

“He—” You licked your lips. “Robb Stark said yes to this union though he never met me?”

“I will not pretend to know what he thinks, but he’s a young man, so it probably has something to do with your reputation as the…” He grinned. “As the Blossom of the Reach.”

You scoffed and reached for the plate of fruit on the table to pluck a grape out of its stem to throw it at him, and he caught it mid-air.

“That title means nothing, and Northerners have a completely different understanding of beauty than the Reach,” you told him, your stomach doing a painful flip. “If it played any part in his decision, he’s bound for disappointment upon seeing me.”

“Come on.” He gave you a look of disbelief. “You cannot possibly believe any man would be disappointed upon seeing you as their bride.”

You could feel your cheeks burning before you pressed your palms on them to soothe the fire, then dropped your hands, still pouting.

“…So you’ve met this Robb Stark?”

“Five moons ago, at a Tully wedding,” he said. “One of his cousins was getting married, he was there with his mother and father.”

You nibbled on your lip. “And he—he’s not terrible?”

“Not even close. His mother’s Tully charm and his father’s Stark honor made a pretty impressive combination.”

You stole a look at him and cleared your throat, trying to appear nonchalant.

“And when you say good looking…?”

“Oh I was beginning to fear you’d never ask,” he said with a chuckle. “Yes, sister. He’s very good looking, and trust me, every lady in that ballroom was tripping over themselves to get his attention. All the lords set their daughters loose on him like archers with their bolts.”

“And he wasn’t mean?”

“Not at all, he even complimented them. Which was even more heartbreaking for them, I suppose.”

“And he wouldn’t be—” You paused for a moment, thousands of horror stories about husbands and wedding nights and afterward echoing in your ears. “When we wed, he won’t be cruel to me?”

The look in his eyes softened as he heaved a sigh, then got up from his seat to approach you and knelt down in front of you to hold your hands.

“I do not believe so,” he said. “And if he is, you will send me a raven, I’ll kill him, smuggle you out of Winterfell, and we’ll move to Dorne to enjoy the sun and the scenery for the rest of our lives. Away from Starks and our family.”

A small giggle escaped you. “We cannot do that, Silas.”

“I can,” he said. “Northern lord and his huge army or not, I will not let anybody hurt you and get away with it.”

You squeezed his hands. “Thank you.”

“Just promise me something.”

“Of course.”

“Now that your safety is ensured and that your husband will be to your liking, you must keep in mind that you’re getting married for our family,” he said. “I don’t know what you and Margaery have been talking about or what kind of expectations she put in your head, but if the subject of falling in love came up, you must know it cannot—”

“Oh, of course I do not expect to fall in love,” you said with a laugh. “I am to mesmerize my husband and make him love me, not the other way around. I’m aware, everyone has been telling me that for years and years. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.”

“You’ve been throwing a fit over not being married lately, so I figured maybe you started believing you’re missing out on love.”

“Believe that—what am I, a child?”

“You always will be in my eyes,” he muttered more to himself. “So, what are your expectations of marriage then? Just a good looking husband?”

“Well, that and I want to have fun!” you said, bouncing on your feet. “It’s less to do with the husband and more to do with me, to be honest. I want—I want to go to feasts, see new places, wear pretty stuff and go horse riding and feel free without father’s guards watching my every move.”

“You make marriage sound like a game, it’s not—”

“And I want people to admire and praise me,” you added, counting with your fingers, ignoring him rolling his eyes. “And later on have babies so that I can dress them up and admire how cute they are. Marriage is the only way I can get all of that.”

“And our family to get to where we want,” Silas reminded you and you nodded fervently.

“Of course.”

 “Do not forget that love is the death of duty,” he told you. “And our duty is to elevate our family, so your loyalty must lie with us, not your husband’s. Even if he thinks otherwise.”

“I know.” You shifted your weight. “But mayhaps I can make friends with my husband. I hope.”

“Mayhaps, but if someone is going to fall in love, it’s not going to be you,” he told you, his tone stern. “Ever. It’s going to be Stark, so that he does what you want. By extension, what we want.”

You swallowed thickly as the familiar insecurity hit you out of nowhere but you raised your chin, trying to look more confident than you felt.

“Silas?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I can?” you asked. “Be honest. Do you think I can make him love me?”

A gentle smile curled his lips as if he was astonished by your naivety.

“Oh my sweet sister,” he said, heaving a sigh. “Trust me. You’re going to bring the North to his knees.”

                                        .❄️.

Winterfell – A moon later

Robb hadn’t been able to find air in any corner of the courtyard the whole day.

His mother had insisted all of them to look their best, which meant him, Jon and Theon all paying a visit to the barber. Though he was sure his mother had one hundred other things for him to do so that he could look ‘appropriate’, he and Jon and Theon didn’t go back into the Keep, instead they decided to hang around the yard and watch the rest of his household to prepare for the guests.

And his lady wife to be.

He took a deep breath, willing the air into his lungs before he motioned for the flask of ale Theon had brought with him. This was yet another reason why he had dragged them to the far corner of the inner ward; he had a feeling neither his mother nor his father wanted to risk him going overboard especially today.

Not that he would. He didn’t think he could get drunk even if he wanted to.

“Robb, are you listening?”

He took a huge sip of the ale, absentmindedly petting Grey Wind who laid at his feet and watched Jon’s direwolf Ghost prancing in the yard. “Hm?”

“You look frightened,” Jon said with a grin and he shot him a glare.

“I’m not frightened,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

Theon stifled a laugh. “Of your impending marriage?”

“No Theon, I’m thinking of the grain stocks for winter,” Robb deadpanned. “Of course I’m thinking of my impending marriage—can we not call it impending? It sounds…”

“Close?”

“Frightening?”

He shook his head slightly while Jon leaned forward, a rare, playful glint shining in his eyes.

“Are you worried she’s going to be ugly?”

At least his half-brother was having fun and not brooding for once, all thanks to Robb’s misery.

“No way,” Theon answered before Robb could retort. “Come on, this lucky prick got the prettiest girl of the Reach.”

“She could still be ugly,” Jon pointed out. “Mayhaps they’ve been lying.”

“Good point, Snow,” Theon teased him. “Robb, have you thought about what you will do if she turns out to be ugly?”

“I will do my duty no matter how she looks,” Robb said sternly, then paused for a moment. “Obviously I’d prefer it if she…if she isn’t ugly but I’ll honor our marriage and be faithful either way, as my father has.”

Jon shifted his weight upon the mention of their father being faithful, and Robb shot him an apologetic look, but couldn’t say anything to change the subject before Theon intervened again.

“Hey, maybe we’re worried about the wrong thing. Maybe she won’t find you pretty.”

That made his head whip around. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“She’s from the South, no?” Theon asked. “Knights and lordlings from the South are all delicate. And flowery.”

Robb made a face. “Flowery?”

“They can come up with love poems on the spot.”

Jon smirked at Robb. “Do you know any love poems?”

“Do you?” Robb shot back and Jon raised his hands, signaling surrender.

“I’m not the one marrying the Blossom of the Reach,” he said. “She probably expects that of you, and a lot of chivalry.”

 “I am chivalrous,” Robb defended himself and Theon made a noise of disagreement.

“Not chivalrous like that. Southern folk think Northern folk are too blunt, especially in the Reach.”

“And how have you gained this infinite knowledge of the Reach overnight, Greyjoy?” Robb gestured at him. “Did it come to you in a dream?”

“Hey, I’ve acquainted myself with a bunch of Reach girls,” he said with a wiggle of his brows. “They like it slow and gentle.”

Jon grimaced while Robb shook his head.

“I always assumed my lady wife would be someone from the North,” he muttered. “Someone who…who understands it here.”

“And yet, you said yes when your father asked you.”

“Because mother and father both want it.” He ran a hand through his curls. “Even if they don’t tell me. Greensteds are the second biggest family in the Reach, they have an endless supply of crops and livestock. We’re going to need that in the upcoming winter, it’s more beneficial than me marrying any other Northern house.”

“But you know nothing about her other than that?”

“I met her brother a couple moons ago,” Robb said. “He’s a lot of fun despite being from the Reach, and if she is anything like—wait, I take that back. That’d be like me and Sansa being similar.”

A silence fell upon them before Jon took a deep breath.

“It’ll be a bit strange,” he mused. “I can’t imagine you as someone’s husband.”

“You don’t need to imagine it Snow, we’ll see it soon enough,” Theon said, squeezing Robb on the shoulder. “Once she and all the other guests are here, there’s the wedding. Tying them together, forever.”

Robb let out a nervous laugh and took another sip of his ale, then turned his head when he heard a familiar voice.

“Mother said I can sit with you.”

He suppressed an exasperated groan. “We’re talking of grown men things, Bran. Go practice archery.”

“I can’t!” Bran protested. “They moved my targets to make the yard more beautiful for the guests.”

“They put them in the crypts,” Jon muttered, and Robb shrugged his shoulders.

“Fine. Go sit with Sansa.”

“Sansa is stitching something for your betrothed.”

Robb frowned. “Stitching what?”

“How should I know?” Bran plopped down next to him and made a grab for the flask in Robb’s hand. “Can I try that?”

“You cannot,” Robb said, holding it out of his reach with one hand and pushing his head back with the other to keep him at arm’s length, making Bran yelp in frustration like a pup. “Mother would kill me. Go play with Arya.”

“Mother made her sit with Sansa.” Bran said sulkily. “And all Arya does is boast about how better she is at archery than me anyway.”

Robb ruffled his hair. “You’ll get better.”

“It takes some practice, Bran,” Jon assured him. “That’s all. We will help you.”

Bran turned to Robb when he lifted the flask to his lips again.

“Robb, will you make heirs right away?”

The simple question sent the ale up his nose, and he started coughing while Jon smacked him on the back, ignoring Theon’s bark of laughter. Bran dangled his legs back and forth as he waited patiently until Robb found his breath again, then cleared his throat.

“Who told you that?”

Bran nodded in the direction of the castle.

“Sansa was talking about how she likes taking care of babies and can’t wait for you to have heirs with your betrothed.”

“And do you even know where babies come from, little lord?” Theon asked with a grin and Bran nodded, then pointed afar in the yard.

“They come from the Godswood, father said. Under the weirwood tree, when a husband and wife go there and ask for an heir.”

Husband to a Southern girl he did not even know yet, and siring heirs with her.

…By the Gods, he needed some peace and quiet.

“I’ll be back.” He handed Theon the flask before he got on his feet, Grey Wind lifting his head with a whine. “Grey Wind, stay. Bran, you’re not drinking that, you hear me?”

Bran frowned at him.

“Are you going to the Godswood? You cannot have an heir by yourself, father says one needs a wife for that.”

“Stop talking about heirs, Bran!” Robb called out without sparing him a glance and ascended the stairs, went past Arya who was sitting in a dark corner and—

Why was Arya sitting in a dark corner?   

“Arya?”

Her gray eyes snapped up to his and she flailed her arms. “Shush! I don’t want Septa Mordane to hear you.”

Robb had to give it to her, even though his whole life was about to change, he could at least rely on his little sister hating the Septa as a permanent issue.

“Let me guess,” he said, “you’re hiding from her.”

“From all of them, her and Sansa and mother,” she said as he crouched down to her eye level.

“All of them? Why?”

Arya scrunched up her face, took out a folded piece of fabric from her pocket, and handed it to him.

“Here.”

Robb unfolded it and tilted his head. “Uh…what is this?”

“Mother said Sansa and I should stitch something for your betrothed, and Sansa said her house sigil would be a good idea. So there you go, your betrothed’s house sigil.”

Rob tried to control his expression, biting back a smile. “Arya, her house sigil is not a lamb, it’s a goat.”

Arya glared at him. “That is a goat!”

“Where are the horns?”

“There!” Arya insisted, pointing at the little dots above the stitch and Robb raised his brows.

“Ah. Right.”

“It’s stupid! I only made it because mother forced me, and Sansa’s is prettier as always—”

“No!” Robb said quickly, shaking his head. “I’ll give it to her when she gets here, I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Maybe he could ask her to pretend to love it for Arya’s sake. She had older brothers, she’d understand.

Or not.

“Robb?” Arya’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Are you worried about getting married?”

“I…” Robb held up his pinkie. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

She grinned wide and hooked her pinkie with his. “Promise.”

“I am, a little.”

She nibbled on her lip as he unhooked his finger from hers. “Sansa says your betrothed is a great beauty.”

“That’s what everyone says, yeah.”

“Like Aunt Lyanna?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her yet.”

She made a face. “What if you hate her?”

“I’m not going to hate her,” Robb said with a small smile and Arya rolled her eyes.

“Because she’s beautiful?”

“Because I don’t know her,” he said. “Seems unfair to her if I walked into this expecting to hate her, no?”

Arya thought for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.

“I suppose,” she mumbled. “What if she hates you?”

That was a good question; what if she hated him?

His parents had been blessed with a happy marriage, building their love in time, but Robb knew they were the exception to the rule. Most of the time, royal marriages were based on tolerance and benefits only; a couple of heirs and a lifetime of ignoring each other except official gatherings and celebrations.

He knew that he couldn’t expect her to walk into it smitten with him especially considering they hadn’t even met yet, but he was hoping she was less like the image of the spoiled Southern girl he had conjured up in his mind and more like—

More like someone he could get along with.

…And pleasant to look at, at least. In case the gods were listening.

“If she hates me,” he told Arya, “I’ll ask you to put in good word for me and convince her not to. Would you do that?”

“Yes!”

“See? Then I have nothing to worry about.”

Arya’s smile lit up her face. “I could threaten her to like you if you want!”

“I stand corrected,” Robb muttered to himself and stood up, then pressed a kiss on top of her head. “No one is threatening anyone. If mother asks, I didn’t see you here and I have no idea where you are, alright?”

“Alright!” Arya chirped as he chuckled and made his way into the Great Keep, but as soon as he walked past the dining hall, he heard his mother’s voice calling his name.

By the Gods, he wasn’t going to reach his bedchambers at this rate.

He peeked his head around the doorway. “Mother. Father.”

“Come here please.” His mother motioned at him, and he entered the dining hall to approach her in long strides. She narrowed her eyes, then reached up to touch his curls as he lowered his head to make it easier for her.

“Maybe we should cut it shorter—”

“Mother, no.” Robb shook his head like Grey Wind always did whenever he was annoyed, then straightened his back again and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not a sheep to be sheared, it looks good like this.”

“Are you sure? It still looks a little messy.” his mother fussed, fixing his leather surcoat. “And where’s your cloak?”

“Let him be, Cat,” his father said with a smile. “How do you feel, son?”

Robb swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, clasping his hands behind him and standing tall.

“I feel fine.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” he lied through his teeth while his mother and father exchanged knowing looks. “I will perform my duty for our house and our family. And the North.”

“Robb, here you are!” Sansa’s voice chimed from the doorway and she happily hopped on her steps to him before she extended her hand to hold out a small piece of cloth. “Here. For your betrothed. Do you wish to give it to her when she gets here, or shall I?”

Robb took the piece of cloth from her. “We’re going to decorate the poor girl, it seems.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly upon seeing his mother’s warning glare. “Thank you, Sansa. It looks beautiful, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

The goat looked like a goat, at least.

His mother mouthed something to his father before turning to Sansa. “Sansa, would you come with me to check on the guest chambers?”

“Of course!”

“Robb, have you seen Arya?”

Robb pretended to think for a second and shook his head. “I haven’t, mother.”

“Never mind, I’ll find her,” his mother said, already walking to the door. “Sansa?”

“Coming!” Sansa said and followed her out of the dining hall, leaving Robb with his father who cleared his throat.

“It’s natural to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Robb defended himself perhaps too fast to be convincing, and his father repressed a smile.

“I was,” he said. “When it was time to meet your mother.”

Robb blinked a couple of times in confusion. “Were you?”

“Absolutely,” his father said. “I was younger than you when I met her, you know. Felt more intimidating than battle.”

“Mother can be more intimidating than a sword,” Robb pointed out, making him chuckle.

“But,” he said. “We built a family together. We loved each other more and more every day as we got to know one another, and I’m sure you and your betrothed will too.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” A scoff of dry laughter climbed Robb’s throat. “Mother was from the Riverlands.”

“And?”

“It’s different, but not that different from the North,” Robb said, chewing on his lip. “She—my betrothed is from the Reach. Grew up in a golden cage in a pretty garden, everyone says. The Reach is the opposite of the North, father.”

“It is.”

“What will happen if she’s some coddled Southern girl who faints at the sight of blood?” Robb couldn’t help but ask. “I can’t hold her hand through everything, I have responsibilities to Winterfell and to the North. As my lady wife, so will she. If it is too different than what she’s used to—”

“Then you guide her through those responsibilities,” his father completed his sentence for him. “Your duty is not only to Winterfell and to the North. It’s also to your lady wife, and she holds no less importance.”

Robb ran a hand through his curls again, letting out a breath while his father’s lips twitched.

“Robb.”

“Hm?”

“You do realize that girl is probably more worried than you are?”

That made him pause, his gaze snapping to his father’s gray eyes; Arya’s eyes, he couldn’t help but note for the millionth time, and Jon’s. Unlike the rest of us.

“She’s going to be away from her family whom, as you’ve said, has probably coddled her,” his father said. “At least you’re home. She’s the one coming here, and she has no idea what kind of a man you are, or whether you’ll treat her with respect.”

“Of course I will treat her with respect—”

“But she doesn’t know that,” his father stated. “So even if she is some coddled Southern girl who faints at the sight of blood as you think she is, it’s your duty to be patient with her. You two will be on this long journey together, do not damage it from the start by rushing anything, or expecting her to adapt immediately.”

Robb frowned in deep thought. “I won’t.”

“And,” his father added. “Keep an open mind.”

“Easier said than—” Robb started, but was cut off by Maester Luwin.

“My lord, Lady Stark asks for you.”

His father clasped Robb’s shoulder to squeeze it. “Go outside, get some fresh air. And don’t wander off near the guests’ arrival, you know your mother.”

With that, he walked out of the hall, and Robb threw his head back with a groan, then ran a hand over his face.

“Very well,” he muttered. “Fresh air. Open mind. And whatever else there is.”