lulu

For years, the Northern border burned from wildling raids and Lord Li of Akso needed men. 

Thousands of them. 

His own bannermen were already committed, their forces stretched thin across hundreds of miles of frozen wasteland, and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before the attacks would escalate. 

So he looked South, to the noble houses of the Reach, who are rich in fertile lands and men, who had no stake in the Northern conflicts but might be persuaded to care.

Your father saw an opportunity.

Ten thousand strong, that was your father’s offer. 

Ten thousand trained soldiers, plus supplies for several years, in exchange for a marriage alliance with House Li. It was an enormous commitment, one that would cement Chansia's influence in the North for generations.

When the ravens flew back and forth between Akso and Chansia, your father expected Lord Li to offer his heir because that was how these things were done. 

The future Warden of the North for ten thousand swords.

Instead, Lord Li offered his second son.

Caleb Li of Akso.

Your father had been surprised, second sons were not usually the price for such a massive alliance, but Lord Li was a shrewd man. He had plans for Zayne, his heir, a Northern match perhaps, someone to solidify Northern power, not dilute it with Southern influence, or perhaps, he is still looking for a stronger match from the other Southern kingdoms of Philos. 

And you… 

You were just the youngest of four daughters. 

Your elder sisters had already been wed to powerful Southern lords. You were valuable, yes, but not that indispensable, not the way your older sisters had been, so your Father accepted.

A second son in exchange for a youngest daughter and ten thousand men.

It was a bargain that satisfied both houses.

And then Caleb's first letter arrived, and it was not what you expected.

My Lady,

I hope this letter finds you well.

My father, the Lord of Akso, has informed me of the betrothal arranged between our families.

I confess I am uncertain of the proper etiquette for such correspondence, but my brother Zayne suggested that honesty might serve better.

They tell me our betrothal is a matter of alliance.

That is true, but I find myself hoping it might become more.

My father speaks of honor and obligation.

I would rather speak of the future, of what we might build together, if you will have me.

I have heard many things about your family and you, but I would rather know them from you.

Will you write to me?

Tell me of Chansia, of your family, of yourself.

I promise to do the same, though I fear the North is far less interesting than the South.

Yours in anticipation,

Caleb Li of Akso

You had read it three times, tracing the slightly uneven script with your fingertip.

He had terrible handwriting.

The letters slanted and looped in a way that suggested he had been hurrying or perhaps nervous.

Somehow that made it better.

More real.

Your reply had been formal, exactly what your septa had taught you.

But Caleb's second letter was warmer, and his third warmer still, and by the time summer arrived, you found yourself becoming a permanent fixture in the rookery, waiting for the next raven from the North to arrive.

He wrote to you about the North.

About Akso Castle perched on a hill overlooking the rest of the North, about winter roses that somehow bloomed even in frost, about the godswood where his mother used to pray before she died.

The godswood.

He wrote of it often, he tells you about the heart tree, the ancient weirwood tree with its bone-white bark and blood-red leaves, the hot springs that steamed even in the deepest winter, the sense that the old gods watched over everything. 

The North kept the old ways, he explained though you already know this. The Northerners prayed to the nameless gods of the forests, not the Seven, not the new gods brought by the Andals when they invaded Philos.

We will be married there, if you will have it, he wrote. In the godswood, before the heart tree, with the old gods as our witnesses, as is the Northern way. I hope that does not frighten you.

It did not frighten you. It felt right, somehow, sacred.

He wrote about his father, Lord Li, stern and commanding, a good lord respected by his bannermen and loved by all the North.

He wrote about his older brother Zayne, wise and serious, who had taken over most of their father's duties even though he was barely twenty autumns old.

Zayne frightens people sometimes, Caleb wrote in one letter. He does not mean to. He carries everything so quietly that others mistake his silence for coldness. But I have seen him sit up all night with a sick horse, and once I found him in the library crying over a book of poetry from the Age of Heroes. He pretends to be made of ice, but he is more than that. I wish others could see what I see.

You had smiled at that, charmed by Caleb's obvious affection for his brother, but you have not thought much about Zayne Li beyond the knowledge that he existed.

He was the heir, the future Warden of the North.

You would be marrying the second son.

That was fine.

That was more than fine, because Caleb's letters made you laugh.

They came with gifts sometimes, small things, nothing ostentatious.

A pressed winter rose, its pretty blue petals preserved between sheets of parchment.

A silver brooch shaped like a songbird, because you had mentioned loving the larks that nested in your mother’s gardens.

Once, unexpectedly, a smooth black stone he had found by the river while they were hunting, which he said reminded him of your eyes in the moonlight.

I have not seen your eyes in moonlight, of course, he had written, but I imagine them often. I hope that is not too forward. Zayne says I should be more reserved, but he also says I should be myself, and I find those instructions contradictory.

You had kept that letter in your bureau, taking it out sometimes late at night to reread by candlelight.

You met Caleb Li for the first time in autumn, when your father hosted a gathering for the Northern lords.

The great hall of Chansia Castle was blazing with light, candles in every sconce. The Northern lords arrived in a procession of black horses and dark cloaks, and you stood at your father's side in a gown of deep blue silk, your hands folded demurely, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You saw Caleb before he saw you.

He was laughing at something one of the other young lords had said, his head thrown back, dark hair catching the firelight. He looked exactly like his letters, warm, open, alive in a way that made everyone around him seem dimmer by comparison.

When his gaze found you across the hall, his expression transformed into wonder.

He crossed the hall like he was being pulled by invisible strings, barely remembering to bow to your father before turning the full force of his attention on you.

"My lady," he said, and his voice was exactly what you had imagined, warm and slightly rough, like honey over cobblestones. "I... you are more beautiful than I dreamed. Forgive me, that was probably too forward. Zayne is going to kill me."

You had laughed, you could not help it, and his answering smile was so bright it was almost painful to look at directly.

"I do not mind forward," you respond, and watched color rise in his cheeks.

"In that case," he said, offering his arm, "would you allow me to bore you with terrible conversation? I promise not to step on your feet at least twice if we dance."

He had kept his promise.

He was an awful dancer, all enthusiasm and no rhythm, and you had laughed so hard you could barely breathe.

Later, when the feast wound down and the other guests had dispersed into smaller groups, you and Caleb secretly escaped to gardens where the night air was cool and sharp with the promise of coming winter.

"I brought you something," he pulled a small wrapped bundle from his coat. "I was going to wait, but I am terrible at waiting for things."

Inside the cloth was a comb, simple wood inlaid with small chips of blue stone that caught the moonlight.

"For your hair," he said shyly. "The stones are from the mountains near Akso. They remind me of winter roses, and I thought you might like having a piece of home. Of our home, if you will have it, if you will have me."

You looked at him, at this man whose letters made you laugh and sent you flowers and was so earnest it made your chest ache.

It is not love, not yet, but the beginning of it, the possibility of it.

"I will have it," you whispered softly, meeting his eyes. "I will have you."

His kiss was gentle and tasted like the wine from dinner and something sweeter underneath. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

"I am going to make you happy," he promised, his eyes full of warmth. "I do not know how yet, but I will. I will spend every day learning how to make you smile."

You believed him.

You met Zayne Li exactly once before everything changed.

It was at the same gathering where you first met Caleb, but Zayne had spent most of the evening in your father's solar, discussing politics and trade agreements and all the serious matters that second sons were not expected to worry about.

You had glimpsed him across the hall a few times, tall and dark-haired like Caleb, but broader through the shoulders, his face carved into more severe lines.

He looked like winter itself had taken human form.

Near midnight, you had gone to the library seeking a book, and found him there instead, standing by the window with a goblet of wine, staring out at the darkness.

"Oh," you said, freezing in the doorway. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not mean to intrude."

He turned slowly, and you got your first clear look at him.

Caleb had been right.

He was frightening, in a way. The stillness of him, the severity. No smile, no warmth, only that steady, assessing gaze that seemed to see straight through you.

"You are not intruding," he said. His voice was deeper than Caleb's, rougher, with none of his brother's easy warmth. "This is your father's house."

"Yes, but..." You trailed off, uncertain. "I was looking for a book."

"Then by all means, look."

He turned back to the window, dismissing you, and you should have left.

You should have grabbed a book and fled, but some stubborn part of you wanted this man to see you as more than his brother's pretty betrothed.

"Caleb speaks very highly of you," you said.

"Caleb speaks highly of everyone."

There was no inflection in his voice, no indication of whether that was criticism or affection.

"He says you are kind. That you pretend to be cold but you are more than that."

That got a reaction.

The slightest tension in his shoulders, a tightening around his eyes.

"My brother is an optimist."

"Is that so bad?"

"It is when it leads to poor judgment."

The words stung, though you were not certain why.

"You do not approve of the betrothal."

"I did not say that."

"You did not have to."

He finally turned to face you fully, and in the firelight, his eyes were a strange color, hazel-green, like frozen moss.

"My approval or lack thereof is irrelevant. The betrothal serves both our houses well. You will make Caleb a suitable wife, I am certain."

Suitable.

Not happy.

Not loved.

Suitable.

"I will make him more than suitable," you said, lifting your chin. "I will make him happy. I will…"

"Happiness is a luxury," Zayne cut in, his voice flat. "Duty is what endures. If you can give him both, then you are better than most."

He walked past you toward the door, moving with that careful control that made him seem older than his years. But before he left, he paused, not looking back.

"He loves easily, my brother," Zayne said quietly. "He gives his heart away like it costs him nothing. Do not make him regret it."

Then he was gone, and you stood alone in the library with your heart beating too fast, uncertain whether you had been warned or threatened.

You did not think about Zayne Li much after that night.

He was a footnote in your story, a stern older brother who would fade into the background once you married Caleb, moved North, and be granted your own keep and lands.

He would be the Lord of Akso someday, and you would be the wife of the second son, and your paths would rarely cross.

That was what you thought.

You were wrong.

The visits continued over the next eighteen months.

Caleb came to Chansia for the midwinter feast and stayed a fortnight. 

You walked the gardens together every day, your septa trailing at a discreet distance. You talked about everything, about his childhood, your studies, the books you loved, the future you would build together. 

In spring, you traveled North to Akso Castle.

The journey took three weeks, your father's men escorting you through increasingly cold and barren landscape. Septa Josephine rode in the carriage with you, wrapped in furs and complaining about the cold with increasing frequency the further you traveled.

Lord Li greeted you in the courtyard, older than you remembered from that autumn gathering, his iron-gray hair and ice-chip eyes seeming harsher here in his own domain. Your septa stood beside you, silent as a pillar, as he studied you with the assessing gaze of a man evaluating whether you would be strong enough for the North or his son.

"My lady," he said with a slight nod. "Welcome to Akso. I trust the journey was not too difficult?"

"It was manageable, my lord. Thank you." You smiled politely as you curtsied. 

He stared at you for a long moment, taking in your southern clothes, your softer features, everything that marked you as foreign to this place. Then his mouth twitched in what might have been approval.

"You will need warmer cloaks," was all he said before turning away.

Septa Josephine was immediately swept away by the steward’s wife to see to your chambers and the unpacking of your things. The moment she disappeared through the castle doors, Caleb closed the distance between you.

He pulled you into an embrace that made the guards politely look away.

"You came," he breathed against your hair. "You actually came North."

"Did you think I would not?"

"I hoped, but hope and certainty are different things."

You stayed a month at Akso, learning the castle, meeting the household, spending every possible moment with Caleb. Septa Josephine accompanied you everywhere at first, maintaining the appearance of propriety, though she gradually allowed you more freedom as it became clear that the Li household was honorable.

The godswood became your favorite place, the weirwood tree with its carved face, the hot springs steaming in the cold air, the sense of peace that settled over everything.

Caleb brought you there often.

"My mother used to pray here," he told you once, his hand in yours as you sat by the spring. "She said the old gods listened better when you spoke honestly. No pretty words, no formal prayers, simply truth."

"What would you tell them?" you asked curiously. "If you spoke honestly right now?"

He turned to you, his expression serious.

"I would tell them that I am grateful that I was given you when I expected nothing, that I am falling in love with you and I hope, I pray, you might be falling in love with me too."

Your answer was a kiss, and when you pulled away, you murmured against his lips, "I am."

Summer brought Caleb to Chansia for the harvest festival. Ten days of celebration, of stolen kisses in hidden alcoves, of promises made under stars.

Autumn brought him again, this time for five weeks. Long enough that the servants began to whisper. Long enough that your septa began to frown at how much time you spent alone together, always clothed, always proper, but alone nonetheless.

"People will talk," Septa Josephine warned this time.

"Let them," you said, reckless with the certainty of your coming marriage.

She had been right, they did talk. 

The younger, newer servants gossip like ravens fly, constantly, with no regard for consequence. By the time Caleb departed, your reputation had been questioned. Not ruined but tainted by the simple fact that you had spent too much time alone with a man you were not yet wed to. 

It did not matter that you are betrothed to him.

It did not matter that nothing had happened.

Your father was furious, but you did not care. 

"The wedding must happen soon," he told you. 

But then winter finally came, and with it, war.

The raven arrived in the dead of night.

Wildling raids along the Northern border had escalated into organized attacks, coordinated assaults, thousands of raiders pouring over the Wall. Lord Li was calling his banners. 

The war Chansia's men had been promised for was finally here.

Your father mobilized immediately. Ten thousand men, as agreed. Supplies, weapons, everything that had been negotiated.

Caleb came to say goodbye.

He arrived early one morning, just as dawn was beginning to break. A servant woke you up, urgently knocking, whispering words that Lord Caleb is here and requesting to see you immediately. 

You dressed hastily, your hands shaking as you pulled on your robe over your nightdress. By the time you reached the great hall, your mother was already there in her dressing gown, Septa Josephine with her who was trying to protest when Caleb asked to see you alone.

But your lady mother took one look at Caleb’s face, exhausted, terrified, heartbreakingly young in his travel-worn leathers, and made her decision. 

“Let them have this moment,” she said quietly to your septa, then turned as she saw you enter. “Be discreet, sweetling. Use the servant’s passage to your chambers. Make sure no one sees.”

“Mother–,” you began, but she cut you off with a gentle smile and a hand to your cheek. 

“He is going to war,” she said softly. “Let me worry about propriety. You just…” Her voice caught. “You say what needs to be said.”

So you led Caleb to your chambers, through the hidden passages meant for the servants. Your heart is pounding, from fear, from the knowledge that this might be goodbye. 

"Father wants me at Driftmere, the Northern border," he said without preamble, sitting on the edge of your bed like his legs would not hold him. "My men leave in three days."

Your stomach dropped. 

The Northern border was too close to the Wall, too close to where the wildlings were.

"Zayne will be with Father in Anlan, at the Eastern front. They are splitting our forces. Zayne commands the cavalry, I take the infantry to reinforce the border fortifications." He grabbed your hands, held them too tight. "William will be with me. Zayne's best friend, from House Poole. Zayne asked him to watch over me, to keep me safe."

"Because Zayne thinks you are not ready?" 

"Perhaps he is right." Caleb's laugh was bitter. "But ready or not, I march in three days."

You pulled him close, and somehow you both ended up lying on your bed fully clothed, his arms around you, your head on his chest listening to his heartbeat. The sun was beginning to rise outside your window, painting the horizon in shades of pink and gold.

"Look," Caleb whispered, turning your face toward the window. "When we are married, when you come North, some mornings the sun rises over the mountains just like that. Pink and gold, and the snow looks like it is on fire. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." He paused. "Except for you."

Tears slipped down your cheeks. 

"Do not talk about after. Talk about now." You begged.

"Now I have to leave you," he said, voice breaking. "Now I have to march to war and pray I am strong enough, brave enough, lucky enough to come back."

You pressed closer to him, breathing in his scent, leather and pine and something uniquely him that you wanted to memorize.

"When you come back," you said fiercely, "when this war ends, we marry immediately and we will have children. Many children."

"Many?" He managed a small laugh. "How many?"

"At least three," you said, trying to sound certain, trying to make the future feel real. "Two boys and a girl, perhaps. Or two girls and a boy."

"What will we name them?"

You were quiet for a moment, thinking of the future you so desperately wanted to build. 

"For a girl... Jasmine, after the flowers I will miss most when I come North."

"Jasmine," he repeated softly. "I love that. She will be beautiful and sweet-smelling and remind you of home."

"And strong," you added. "Strong enough for the North."

"Like her mother." His arms tightened around you. "And for boys?"

"You choose," you murmured. "They will be your sons. Northern names for Northern boys."

"No," Caleb said quietly. "Names we choose together, when I come back. We will sit in the godswood by the hot springs, and we will plan everything, their names, their futures, the life we will build." His voice broke. "When I come back."

You turned in his arms, looked up at him. His eyes were wet, his expression raw with fear and love and desperate hope.

"Promise me you will come back."

"I promise," he responded. "When this is over, we will have everything we have dreamed of."

"Promise me," you repeated firmly.

"I swear by the old gods and the new, I swear it."

The sun rose fully, flooding your room with golden light. Outside your door, you could hear servants beginning their morning routines. 

The real world was finally calling.

Caleb pressed one last kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.

"I have to go," he said, though he made no move to release you.

"Not yet," you begged. "Please, just a few more minutes."

So he held you until your septa's scandalized knock came at the door. Until the world outside demanded his attention. Until there was no more time left.

When he finally stood, adjusting his cloak, you memorized everything about him, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the exact shade of his eyes in the morning light, the curve of his mouth when he tried to smile for you.

"I love you," he said at the door, his hand on the frame. "Remember that. Whatever happens, remember that I love you."

"I love you too. Come back to me, Caleb. Please come back." 

He smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. 

"For you? I would fight through a thousand wildlings."

Then he was gone.

You stood at your window and watched him ride away, his dark cloak disappearing into the morning mist. The pink and gold sunrise he had described faded into ordinary daylight.

You did not know that the life you would build would be nothing like the one you had dreamed of in his arms.

But in that moment, you still had hope.

And hope, however fragile, was enough.

You did not know it would be the last time you saw him alive.

You received letters from Caleb when you could. 

Not often, he was where the attacks were heavy, fighting day after day against an enemy that seemed endless, but when the ravens came, you devoured every word.

He wrote about the cold. About how winter at Driftmere that made Akso's climate seem mild by comparison. About watching men freeze to death in their sleep, about frostbite taking fingers and toes and noses.

The first winter of the war, you made him a favor. 

You spent weeks embroidering a kerchief of fine linen with winter roses in blue thread, your initials and his intertwined in the corner, and you sewed a ribbon the color of your house along the edge.

You sent it with a raven, along with a letter. 

For the coldest nights, when you need to remember that winter roses survive the cold. That we will survive, that I am waiting for you. 

His response came a month later. 

I will keep it over my heart always, he wrote. When the fighting is the worst, when I am certain I will not survive the day, I press my hand to my chest and feel it there. The winter roses you embroidered remind me that even in the deepest cold, beautiful things survive and that you are waiting for me. And that I have something worth fighting for. 

He wrote about William, who had saved his life twice now. 

Zayne chose well, Caleb wrote. William is the best swordsman I have ever seen. He watches my back the way Zayne would if he were here. I am grateful for him, even if it reminds me daily that my brother thinks I need protecting. He is more than Zayne’s friend now, he is mine too. He keeps me sane when the darkness threatens to overwhelm.

After reading that letter, you sat down and embroidered a second favor. Simpler than Caleb’s, but made with care, a small token of gratitude for a man keeping your betrothed alive. You sent it with the next raven heading North, with a note that says:

For William of House Poole, with my deepest thanks for protecting what I hold most dear. 

Weeks later, Caleb wrote back. 

William was moved beyond words when he received your favor. He keeps it tucked in his armor, says it brings him luck. He swears he will keep me safe if only to one day meet the lady kind enough to think of him. You have made a loyal friend, even if he is one you have never met. 

That summer, you made a third and final one, a plain kerchief of linen with House Li’s sigil for Zayne. It felt like a proper thing to do, a gesture of courtesy for your future good-brother. You sent it without fanfare and without an expectation of response. 

Months passed before you received any acknowledgement. 

A raven arrived, not from Caleb, but from Zayne himself. The letter was brief, formal, but there was something in the carefully chosen words that felt almost warm compared to the last you saw him. 

My lady, I received your favor. Your courtesy is noted and appreciated. I am grateful for your kindness. The favor is kept safe. 

Zayne Li of Akso. 

That was all, but somehow, it was enough.

When you mentioned it to Caleb in your next letter, his response made you smile despite everything. 

I am told that my brother actually smiled when he received your kerchief, Caleb wrote. His men said they had not seen him smile in months. One of them joked that perhaps the Ice Lord was melting. Zayne apparently gave him extra watch duty for the comment, but kept the kerchief nonetheless. I think perhaps my cold brother is not immune to kindness as he pretends. 

In another letter, Caleb wrote about the enemy more. About how the wildlings fought with a ferocity born of desperation, how they seemed willing to die by the thousands to push South.

In the second year of the war, he wrote about something he had forgotten to mention. 

I realized I never told you the most important part of our future, his letter began. When Father grants us our lands, we will need a house name. I have been thinking about this for months, and I believe I have found it. 

House Xia, he wrote. It means “summer” in the old tongue of the East. I know it sounds strange for a Northern house, but hear me out, you are my summer. You are the warmth that keeps me alive in this frozen hell. You are the light that breaks through the darkness. When I think of our future, I think of warmth and light and life, I think of you. 

For our sigil, I think of a snow leopard holding a winter rose in its jaws. The leopard for the North, fierce, protective, and able to survive the harshest conditions. The winter rose for you, for the beauty that blooms in the deepest cold, for a life that we will build together. 

Enclosed was a sketch, rough but clear. The snow leopard, powerful and elegant, with a delicate winter rose held gently in its mouth. The contrast was striking, strength and beauty. The North and the South, Caleb and you. 

You cried when you read it, pressing the letter to your chest. 

You respond immediately. 

House Xia is perfect. The sigil is perfect. You are perfect. 

When you come home, we will make it real. We will plant winter roses around our keep, and our children will grow up knowing that even in the coldest winter, beautiful things survive, that love, our love survives. 

His next letter carried even more details. 

Father has officially approved the name and sigil. House Xia, cadet branch of House Li. Father has yet to choose lands that he will grant us but when this war is over, we will ride to wherever our lands will be, and begin building our life. Our children will be Lord and Ladies of House Xia, carrying both our legacies, Northern strength and Southern grace. 

The letters continued through the second year and the third, though they grew shorter as the fighting intensified. Caleb wrote of small victories, of grounds gained and lost, of endless cold and exhaustion. But always, always, he wrote of coming home, of the future you would build. 

At first, you told yourself it was the winter storms. Ravens could not fly in blizzards and could not navigate when snow fell so thick it blotted out the sky. 

It was nothing. 

It meant nothing. 

When a letter finally came, five months after the last one, your hands shook so badly you could barely break the seal. 

Forgive my silence, my love, Caleb wrote, and his handwriting was shakier than you remembered, the letters uneven. The fighting has been brutal. We lost half of our forces in a night raid three moons ago. William was wounded, he will recover, but it was close, too close. I thought I would lose him and with him, the last piece of home I have here. 

I am so tired, the letter continued. Tired of fighting, tired of watching good men die, tired of this endless winter that seems like it will never end. Sometimes, I wonder if we will ever see spring again, if I will ever see you again. 

But then I touch the favor you made, and I remember that something is worth surviving, that someone is worth coming home to, that you are waiting for me. Hold on for me, my love, just a little longer. 

You read the letter a dozen times, searching for reassurance you could not find. The tone was darker than any that had come before. The hope that had sustained his earlier letters had thinned to something desperate. 

You wrote back immediately, pouring every ounce of love and encouragement to the parchment. You told him of the spring flowers blooming in Chansia, about how you had started learning Northern customs so you would be ready for your new life, about the names you had been considering for your future children.

You begged him to hold on. 

Two months passed before the next letter arrived. 

William saved my life again, fourth time now. I have lost count. There was a fever going through the camp, half the men were sick and some were dying. I caught it three weeks ago. I do not remember much of it. William says I was out of my mind for days, calling out your name, fighting men who were trying to help me. 

I am recovered now, but weak. William watches over me like a mother hen, says he made a promise to Zayne and he will not break it. I am grateful for him, even if I am tired of being protected like a child. 

The war feels different now, desperate. The wildlings are starving, which makes them more dangerous. They have nothing to lose, neither do we. 

I love you. I will come to you. I swear it. 

You wrote back with reassurances you did not believe. 

You will come home. You will survive this. We will be married, and this war will be a distant memory.

That was the last letter you received. 

You waited for the next one. 

Days became weeks, weeks became months. 

Every time a raven arrived at your father’s keep, your heart would leap, then sink when it was not for you. 

A raven arrived on a morning in late autumn, when the first frost had touched the gardens.

It had been six months since Caleb's last letter. 

Six months of silence. 

Six months of telling yourself that he was simply too busy to write, that the fighting was too intense, that the ravens could not fly in the conditions. 

Six months of lying to yourself because the truth was too terrible to face. 

You were in your mother's solar, pretending to work on embroidery, when your father's steward appeared in the doorway.

His face was ashen.

"My lady," he said to your mother, and his voice cracked. "A raven from the North."

Your mother took the rolled parchment with steady hands, but you saw them trembling as she broke the seal. The parchment was edged in black.

Dark wings, dark words.

You watched her face drain of color as she read, watched her lips press into a thin line, watched her eyes close briefly as if in pain.

"No," you said, standing up so fast your embroidery hoop clattered to the floor. "No, what does it say?"

Your mother looked at you, and in her eyes, you saw the end of everything.

"There was a battle," she said quietly. "At Driftmere, Lord Caleb fell in combat."

The words did not make sense.

They were sounds, meaningless syllables that could not possibly mean what they seemed to mean.

"Fell," you repeated. "Fell does not mean dead. It means wounded. Injured. He could be…"

"Sweetling…"

"He could be recovering! The letter might be old, it might have taken weeks to arrive, he could be fine now, he could be…"

"He is gone," your mother said, her voice breaking. "I am so sorry. He is gone."

"No." You shook your head violently. "No, that is wrong. There has been a mistake. Check the seal, check the name, it is someone else, it has to be someone else…"

"There is no mistake."

"Then the information is wrong! Someone made an error, they thought they saw him fall but he was only injured, he is recovering somewhere, he will send another letter, he promised he would come back, he swore it…"

"Sweetling, please…"

"He swore it!" Your voice cracked, rose to something close to a scream. "By the old gods and the new, he swore he would come home to me! He would not break that oath, he would not, he is alive, he has to be alive…"

Your mother pulled you into her arms, but you fought against her, pushing away, backing toward the door.

"I need to go North," you said, your words tumbling over each other. "I need to find him. He might be wounded, he might need help, I need to…"

"Stop." Your father's voice, from the doorway. You had not heard him enter. "Stop this. He is gone."

"You do not know that!"

"The raven came from Lord Zayne himself," your father said quietly, holding up another letter. "He writes that his brother’s body was brought to him by the remaining men from Driftmere and that he will lay him to rest in the Li family crypts. There is no mistake, daughter, Lord Caleb is dead. "

The words hit you like a physical blow.

Zayne, who never lied, who was made of duty and honor and cold Northern stone.

If Zayne said Caleb was dead, then…

No.

No, no, no.

"He promised," you muttered weakly, and your legs would not hold you anymore. You sank to the floor, your hands pressed to your chest where it felt like something was tearing open. "He promised he would come back. He swore it. We were going to build our house, we were going to have children, we were going to…"

Your mother knelt beside you, pulled you close even as you tried to push her away.

"He loved you," she whispered. "He loved you so much. He would have come back if he could."

But he had not come back.

He had broken his promise.

He had left you.

Caleb was dead.

The truth of it crashed over you in waves, each one pulling you under until you could not breathe, could not think, could not do anything except keen like a wounded animal.

You do not remember being carried to your room.

You do not remember the maester being summoned, or the sleeping draught he made you drink.

The next thing you remember clearly is waking in darkness, your throat raw from screaming, your eyes swollen shut from crying.

On your bedside table, the black stone Caleb had sent you caught the moonlight.

They remind me of your eyes, he had written.

Beside it, carefully folded, was his last letter. The one where he wrote about the fever, about recovery, about coming home.

I love you. I will come home to you. I swear it.

He had lied.

Or the world had lied to him.

Either way, he was gone.

You reached for the letter with shaking hands, pressed it to your chest, and wished desperately that you could follow him into death.

They let you grieve for two weeks.

Two weeks of darkness and silence, of meals brought and left uneaten, of your mother's worried visits and your father's heavy sighs.

Two weeks of existing in a space between sleep and waking, where sometimes you forgot and reached for a letter that would never come.

On the fifteenth day, your father summoned you to his solar.

You went like a ghost, hollow and insubstantial.

He was standing by the window when you entered, his hands clasped behind his back, and he did not turn around immediately.

"Sit down," he said finally.

You sat.

He was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the gardens where you and Caleb had once walked together. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.

"The war is over," he said. "Victory was declared four weeks ago. The wildlings have been pushed back beyond the Wall."

Four weeks ago. 

Before you even knew Caleb was dead, the war had already ended.

"Lord Li fell in the final attack at the Eastern front," your father continued. "He died securing the victory, and William of House Poole…" He paused. "He fell with Lord Caleb in the same battle.."

William. 

The friend who had saved Caleb four times, who had kept your kerchief tucked in his armor for luck, who had promised to protect him.

They had died together.

You felt nothing. You were too empty to feel anything more.

"Zayne is now Lord of Akso," your father said, and something in his tone made you look up. "The last surviving son of House Li. The last of his family."

The silence stretched.

"The betrothal contract must be honored," your father said finally, still not looking at you. "The alliance between our houses is too important to dissolve, particularly now. The North is in chaos…some of the lords and their heirs dead, succession unclear, the realm recovering from three years of war."

The words took a moment to penetrate the fog in your mind.

When they did, you felt ice slide down your spine.

"Honored?" you repeated. "Father, Caleb is…"

"Dead. Yes, but Lord Zayne lives. He is now Lord of Akso, and the contract requires a marriage between our houses."

The room seemed to tilt sideways.

"You will marry Lord Zayne instead," your father continued, finally turning to face you. His expression was set, immovable. "The ceremony will take place in three weeks, at Akso Castle."

"No." The word came out barely a whisper.

"It has already been arranged."

"No," you said again, louder now, standing on shaking legs. "I cannot. I will not. I was betrothed to Caleb, I loved Caleb, I cannot be given to his brother like…like it does not matter who…"

"Lord Zayne insists," your father cut in, and something about the way he said it made you stop.

"What?"

"The raven came from him directly, not from his steward or from one of his bannermen, from Zayne Li himself." Your father's jaw tightened. "He writes that the contract must be fulfilled. He will honor his family's commitment to the alliance. He expects you to do the same."

You stared at him, uncomprehending.

Zayne insisted. 

Zayne, who barely knew you. Zayne, who had looked at you with cold eyes during that one brief visit and said nothing warmer than a polite greeting.

Why would he insist on marrying his dead brother's betrothed?

"Does he even want this?" you asked desperately. "Did anyone ask him if he wants to marry someone he does not fully know, someone who had loved his brother?"

"Want is irrelevant," your father said flatly. "This is duty. For both of you."

"I cannot," you pleaded. "Father, please. I cannot marry Zayne. I cannot go North and pretend to be a dutiful wife when Caleb…when he…"

"You will," your father said, his voice hard as stone. "You agreed to marry a son of House Li, that contract remains binding. The alliance must hold."

"But…"

"There are no exceptions. Your feelings are irrelevant. The questions about your virtue…"

"My virtue?" You inhaled sharply. "Caleb never... we never..."

"It does not matter what did or did not happen. It matters what people think." Your father's expression was unyielding. "The servants talked. You spent too much time alone with him. Your reputation has been questioned since. Lord Zayne is offering you his name and protection and does not care whether his brother bedded you or not. You will be the lady of a great house and wife of the Warden of the North. You should be grateful."

"Grateful," you echoed, the word tasting like poison.

"Many women in your position would be unmarriageable. Lord Zayne is being generous."

Generous. 

As if marrying you was charity. 

As if taking you to replace his dead brother was some kind of favor.

"You are selling me," you said blankly. "Like a horse."

"I am securing your future," your father stated firmly. "You will go North and marry Zayne Li. You will honor this contract. That is final."

There was nothing else to say.

No argument that would move him, no plea that would soften him.

You were a daughter of House Chansia, and you would do your duty.

Even if it killed you.

⚜ Def of terms (based on GOT wiki, awoiaf.westeros.org):

short note before proceeding: these definitions are already simplified but i also added links to the definitions just in case

warden - is the title given to the head of the great houses in the realms of the kingdom.

septa - women who are sworn to celibacy and sometimes serve noble houses as governess or tutors to the daughters of lords

godswood - wooded sanctuaries within castle walls that were set aside as places of worship to the old gods.

weirwood - as described in the fic, these are trees with white barks with red leaves and sap. weirwood found in the godswood are considered as heart trees and have faces carved on their barks.

old gods/new gods - old gods are the nameless gods that were worshipped in the North, the wildlings, and the crannogmen; new gods are the gods worshipped by most of the people in the South, these are the gods of the Faith of the Seven, Seven as in 7 gods (Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger)

maesters - an order of men who are intellectuals (scholars, healers, and advisors) who the serve noble houses

wildlings - or the free folk are the people who live in the lands beyond the wall or beyond the northern border of the kingdom. they have no political authority or hereditary titles except for the leaders they have choosen. okay listen, i love love love the wildlings and i wanted to add the wanderers as House Li's enemies instead of them, but i can't find a good way to fit the wanderers in the story.

The Reach - second largest kingdom in Westeros (i am still unfamiliar with all the locations in the game so i decided to leave the name as is, Westeros is the name of the whole continent in GOT but in this AU, we will refer to the continent as Philos) also the most populated and the most fertile region. if you have watched GOT or read ASOIAF, reader's family is supposed to be based on the Tully's (iykyk) but for this au, i picture them as either the Tarlys or Redwynes.

⚜ a/n #2: i apologize to the people who expected the raf or xavier fics or the final part for warlord!sylus. i had a really bad case of writer's block for several days and i suspect that i also had a burnout, i was writing all the arranged marriage fics at the same time, alternating when i have an idea and i guess i ended up overworking myself. i am doing better now though. i am very sorry again, i don't want to make promises on when i can post them but they are coming.

⚜ tag list: @seraphineash, @suhsun4, @kingraspberry12-blog, @loreleis-world, @hardstrawberrygardener, @sylvirmist-s-cottage, @midiplier, @pixelgalaxy21, @lamen-the-bland, @vibrantlypink, @velvtcherie, @glitterykingdomangel, @kitty-yaps, @niki-is-a-thing, @cathedralofaudra, @mysterios-hoe, @hemmosfear, @viagumi, @txtworlddom, @picnicinthegarden, @strawberri-s0da, @zaynxie, @lilyskygazer, @sailorstar9, @inzanekillian, @thdcre

(if i missed a tag please let me know and i am so sorry T_T)

⚜ tag list: open, please leave a comment, ask, or dm if you want to be tagged.