House Stark was unsteady since the passing of Old Man Cregan. Within the span of your own life, the lordship of Winterfell had changed thrice—it had not been through treachery or rebellion, but through misfortune and blood. The North was not disloyal—far from it—but the rules of Jonnel and Barthogan were troublesome, even if they had the best of intentions.

The Boltons were fond of saying, “a peaceful land, a quiet people.” And they spoke true in this—the North did not hunger for whispered plots; what mattered was endurance. That fires burned, that the granaries were full, that children lived to see the thaw, and that the wildings stayed north of the Wall.

Now, your grandfather, Brandon, sat as Lord of Winterfell, having outlived all his brothers through his father, Cregan—and with that, your place as a Stark had shifted.

There were few Stark girls or women left of marrying age. Most of your aunts and cousins had already been wed, widowed, or dead themselves. And there were no children to speak of between your uncle, Rodwell, your grandfather’s eldest son, and his lady wife, Myriame Manderly. Your sister, Berena, who had wolf’s blood in her veins, was far more likely to gut a man than bear his children. Your other sister, Alysanne, was already spoken for and betrothed to the young heir of House Locke, a vital vassal to House Manderly. It left you as the sole daughter yet unbethrothed, waiting to be bound in marriage for the strength of House Stark and the continued survival of the North.

There weren’t many Lords left in the North, not if Grandfather Brandon wanted you to be with child soon after the first bedding. Perhaps, you could marry within the Vale, for your mother had been a Royce at birth, and not many houses were willing to have their heirs bed a wolf, no matter how ancient the Starks’ lineage was. But that was only a hope, a childish one; what remained within you was confusion and doubt because Grandfather Brandon was planning something.

He spent hours in his solar and Winterfell’s godswood, alone and deep in thought. He would visit the crypts and only returned moments before supper began. And as the weeks passed, you could’ve sworn the lines in his face were deeper, his hair becoming grayer.

And you worried for him, naturally; he was your grandfather before he’d ever been the Lord of Winterfell, and some of your first memories were of him, holding you on his knee as he whispered tall tales. He made you proud of the North, of the blood of the First Men that ran through your veins, of the responsibilities owed to your people.

But you never asked what he thought of during those long weeks, what he had planned for you. You watched from a distance as you completed your duties alongside Mother—one day, you would be a lady of your own keep, and these duties would follow you there.

And then a single raven left, carrying a letter sealed with House Stark’s gray direwolf in its talons.

The days passed, and something tense fell upon your parents and grandfather.

Again, you remained in the dark—all you truly knew was that your grandfather had summoned your parents to his solar, and they had left, stony-faced, an air of certainty around them—but you had your suspicions, of course.

Lord Brandon, as your grandfather, as the head of household and Lord of Winterfell, was within his rights to dictate when and who you’d marry. But your grandfather was a good man and had considered your parents’ opinions: a good and worthy match for your station.

Or, at least, that was what Mother said underneath the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree, for she was the chosen one to break the news to you.

You were to marry, and your lord grandfather had set his eyes upon House Targaryen. He did not explain why, and you lacked the courage that Berena had to seek answers.

Still, if your parents were truly displeased by your grandfather’s decision, they did not show it, not to you, and certainly not in front of the household.

Your lady mother was born as Lorra Royce and had grown up in the Vale, proud of her First Men ancestry, and became comfortable with the politics of the South, for before her troth to your lord father, Beron, she had split her time between the Eyrie and Runestone.

She had always been honest with you. There was no true love between your parents, not the sort of love that had reportedly occurred between your grandfather and Lady Alys Karstark, your grandmother, or in the songs performed during the harvest feasts. But she loved you, and all the children she had with Beron, and as husband and wife, they respected each other.

It was because of her that you and your sisters never entertained the stories of true love, knights rescuing and marrying their ladies. There would be no Florian and Jonquil for you. But you did earnestly hope for something like your parents’ relationship—mutual respect and trust.

“Did he say who?” you questioned Mother from your place on the twisting roots of the weirwood, its melancholy face hovering over your shoulder.

Around you, the snow was deep, except for the cleared footpatch of cracked stone. As you and Mother spoke, your matching breaths were evident in the air.

“No, only that he has his intention upon a prince.”

Something uneasy settled in your stomach. As isolated as House Stark was, word did eventually travel to Winterfell of the members of the royal family. There weren’t many members that you could marry—or would want to—and that was if the King and Hand agreed to the troth.

The leaves shifted in the wind, a gentle sound that whispered in your ears. You wished to hear the Gods’ guidance but heard none. Instead, your thoughts betrayed you: House Stark was royal once, too. Would it be so difficult to marry a Targaryen?

A shiver spread down your spine. It wasn’t from the cold—nay, it was from the sensation of being watched. You stared at the heart tree, perhaps for too long, as Mother called your attention away.

“Come, sweetling, you ought not to be here. It is too cold, and your hem is wet.”

You glanced down at that, and, yes, your hem was wet. Smiling sheepishly, you followed Mother into the Great Keep, the snow crunching underneath your winter boots.

The snows waned, but the cold remained, and Berena—who’d taken it upon herself to keep an eye on the rookery, taking note of everything that came and went—told you of the raven, bearing the royal seal, when you were busy swatting Errold and Rodrik for their insolence. Errold and Rodrik weren’t much younger than you—born in quick succession of one another—yet it didn’t stop you from terrorizing them into a tentative obedience. That was what older sisters were for, of course.

You were glad for Berena and Alysanne, whose steady hand was beginning to weave a maiden’s cloak despite your protests that it was too soon, for nothing was set in stone yet, as your confidants. You had yet to have conversations with your other brothers, but you were sure they might have already been told by your parents or Grandfather Brandon, for they trained harder, quipping about protecting you from “pompous Southron cunts.”

Mother had scolded them for their language, had even cuffed Artos’ ear for it, and you did not hide your laughter while she did so. You and your siblings were a riot, and the cause of the many grays that streaked Father’s beard and Mother’s hair.

“Have you heard anything?” you asked Berena while everyone’s attention was on Donnor and Willam, who were fighting with blunt iron swords. She slipped you a piece of dried fruit, and you accepted. The taste bloomed in your mouth, sweet and cold: winter peaches—your favorite.

“Nothing at all. You know how our lord grandfather is.” She chewed and swallowed her own peach slice. “But I did ask around in Wintertown.”

At this time of the season, Wintertown was at its peak population, a little over fifteen thousand. The town, just outside of the main gate, was teeming with northernmen from all corners; it was a sharp contrast from the spring and summer, when four-fifths of the homes were vacant. You were not surprised that Berena had been underfoot in Wintertown, taking advantage of the new pool of information awaiting her silver tongue.

“Well?” you prompted, curiosity taking hold.

“Prince Baelor’s son is the image of chivalry, but he’s married already. Prince Daeron is—well, he’s known as Daeron the Drunken. But we knew all that already.”

You nodded along to Berena’s words. “What of Prince Aerion? Or Prince Matarys?”

Berena winced, and you knew your answer well enough. A rumble was a rumble, and there was a reason some merchants spoke of drunken and ill-tempered princes. 

“Let us hope you’re to be trothed to Matarys; he may be younger, but there wasn’t a negative word for him, much like his father and brother.”

Prince Matarys—he was third in line for the throne, was he not? The thought made the hairs on your neck stand up. It was too close for comfort—perhaps you should begin preparing yourself to grovel for a match with your Royce kin or in the North. They would understand.

Wyman, Grandfather Brandon’s captain of the guard, approached, and he told you of your grandfather’s request for your presence in his solar. You bid your excuses to Berena, who waved you off without a care in the world, and Wyman walked with you, a step behind you like a loyal, protective shadow. An unnecessary doing, for even a nameless maiden could walk the kingsroad in her name-day gown and go unmolested while a Stark was in Winterfell.

You waited dutifully as Wyman announced your arrival to your grandfather, and you entered.

“You called for me, Grandfather?”

He did not smile, and the lines in his face were ever-so present, but his gaze was undeniably warm as he motioned for you to sit down. For a moment, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence. Your grandfather was a man of few words, but when he did speak, his words always caught your attention.

“Winters have gotten colder and longer since the dragons died,” he began, his fingers tapping on the large, ancient desk. “My father, Lord Cregan, would say as much. I hadn’t even been a thought in his mind when the Dance came and went.”

You agreed with the sentiment. No one in Winterfell remembered what winters used to be like before the Dance; you only knew what the Maestar taught, what the songs sang. All you knew of winter was the deep and unnatural chill that went down to your bones, the snows so deep that half your body could sink into it.

“My father made a pact with Jacaerys Velaryon during the beginning months of the Dance. It promised a union between a Stark and a Targaryen.”

Mother hadn’t mentioned this. Had your grandfather told them and then you, or was he reserving this just for your ears?

“It’s a gamble, is it not?” you asked, knowing he wouldn’t scold you for speaking out of turn. Not when it was only the two of you in the solar. You had been thinking of this since your lady mother had told you of his intentions.

“It is.”

It would be amiss to call the thing that spread across your grandfather’s face a smile. It was too sharp, showing far too many teeth and pointy canines. You thought of direwolves—dangerous and untamed. Much like the North, much like your brothers and Berena. Was it too early to begin aching for your home?

“But I have their attention, and they’re coming northward.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Does that include the King?”

“Mayhaps. I have only corresponded with Prince Baelor, and he wishes to convene here.” There was a wry amusement in your grandfather’s voice. He continued, “They plan to sail from King’s Landing, and I’ve already sent word to White Harbor. I don’t trust the southerners to make their way through the snow, even if spring is imminent.”

You laughed because, frankly, you didn’t trust them either, even if winter was soon to be over. It would not do the realm well if the heir to the Iron Throne and his retinue disappeared on the journey, bodies to be buried and preserved in the snow until the spring thawed the snow and ice. It would be a nightmare, a scandal of the highest order.

The realm would say the same if the troth went through.

“I will make a good match for you, a deserving one. My son and your mother asked for it, and I wish for that as well.”

You stared at your grandfather. A certainty settled upon your bones, and you smiled—something similar to the one that’d spread over his face moments ago, but softened with your own warm, blind affection for your family. “I trust you, my lord.”

Throughout your life, you had never seen Mother so frazzled.

Since your grandmother’s death—and because Donnor was yet unmarried, not for a lack of trying—your mother had taken over the duties and responsibilities once belonging to the Lady of Winterfell.

But it was one thing to account for Winterfell’s finances, ensuring that your people were fed and warm in the depths of winter. It was another to accommodate Prince Baelor, his retinue, the Manderlys and their people, and Lords Cerwyn and Karstark, who’d arrived on the behest of your grandfather.

The Manderlys had sent a rider ahead, and they would arrive with Prince Baelor and his retinue in time for supper. While not a surprise, it caused quite a stir among Winterfell and Wintertown. 

“A Targaryen hasn’t set foot in Winterfell since the Dance,” Rodrik followed you to the godswood. He tried to catch up with your longer stride, for you were older and taller than he was.

“He was a Velaryon,” you corrected lightly, bringing the hood of your cloak up. It was snowing lightly, dusting the ground in front of you. It wasn’t anything powerful, not like the snows that had fallen two moon-turns ago, and it didn’t require you to seek shelter inside.

“Not if the stories are to be true.”

You stopped and turned to look at him sternly. “Listen, Rodrik. I won’t have any of that talk when they’re here. Do you understand? And don’t give me any cheek.”

“Will you tell Mother?” he challenged instead, a dark brow lifting upon an eye.

“No, I will tell Father, and he will turn you over on his knee because you aren’t too old for it despite your most ardent beliefs.” You resumed your pace, and Rodrik followed. “The Old Gods and the New know you need it.”

“I heard that,” Rodrik groaned.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a secret, Roddy.” Ahead, the gate to the godswood was already open, and you glanced at your youngest sibling. “Why are you following me?”

Rodrik gave you his best attempt at looking innocent. “Because I love my sister very much, and after she is married, I won’t know when I’ll see her again.”

It sounded more like a question than a statement, and you snorted. “Perhaps it may be for the best if you try again, brother. You’re a lousy liar.”

“Aye. We northernmen can be too honest.”

Rodrik sounded like your father then. You looped your arms with his, and you sat together underneath the canopy of the heart tree. “You can tell me the truth.”

“I will miss you. That wasn’t a lie.”

“I can accept that, but you must want something. It’s the only time you’re attached to my hip!”

Rodrik ignored you and seemed deep in thought. “Do you know of Arya Flint?”

You did know of her; you met the girl when she’d arrived at the beginning of winter. She was comely, tall for her age, and strong, which she had to be as she hailed from the high mountains of the wolfswood. Had Rodrik finally caught a fancy?

You did not say anything directly to Rodrik, lest he get agitated and curse you for your intrusiveness, but the amusement still leaked through your voice. “Aye, I do. Is something the matter?”

Beneath a messy shag of hair, Rodrik’s ears pinkened. He cleared his throat before his voice could crack. “I think… I like her…”

“Have you spoken with her, or have you been charmed by eye only?”

Rodrik glared at you in offense. “We have spoken—when she’s practicing archery.”

That would do it, you thought. Much like Berena, Rodrik possessed that infamous wolf’s blood, and he appreciated a good fight more than the regular northernman. You were not surprised that a spirited young girl like Arya would draw his attention.

“And do you wish to court Arya Flint?”

“How am I supposed to know that? ‘Tis why I ask you!”

You laughed heartily. “Roddy, I am not even trothed yet. You ought to ask Alysanne—she corresponds with Edd Locke quite frequently since the troth a year ago.”

“Alysanne is Alysanne, and Edd is Edd.” Rodrik shook his head, and you understood his meaning. They suited each other well—quiet and sensible, but not to be taken lightly or as a jest. “Arya is unlike them both.”

“Why not Berena? I know she spends time with the other mountain clan girls—Knotts, Liddles, and Harclays.” You paused. “Have you considered asking Inara’s opinion?”

“The Reed girl?” Rodrik’s face scrunched in disbelief.

“Or you can face Joy Mormont’s wrath. They’re all fighting girls, but Inara may be your best chance. She can be discreet, and she does not judge.”

At the mention of Joy Mormont, who was nearly Donnor’s height and just as ruthless with a sword, Rodrik seemed to consider the suggestion of Inara Reed more carefully. You had spoken to Inara plenty of times before, for you were of similar ages, and the crannogwoman had one of the purest thoughts you’d ever encountered. It was quite disorientating to see her practicing with her staff when hours before you’d spoken about the best ways of preserving berries for winter.

“What say you, sister?”

“I would say to throw all caution to the wind and to court her.” You gave his bicep a reassuring squeeze. “But you do have a choice in the matter.”

“And you don’t,” Rodrik added for you, and you grinned at him solemnly.

“Aye. We all have our duties, and to marry at the behest of our lord grandfather is mine.”

You stared at each other. Behind you, blood colored sap leaked from the heart tree’s eyes, and the wind blew through the canopy of interwoven branches of the godswood.

“You will make a good wife, a pretty one. I wish you weren’t bound for the south.”

“As I’ve said, nothing is certain… Prince Baelor wins respect easily, just like the King. For all we know, this is an excuse to reassure themselves that the North is loyal.”

“Because Grandfather finally deigned to remind them of the northernmost kingdom? They certainly remember us when they need men for a fight.”

You shushed him then, already feeling how quickly the winds could turn and Rodrik’s words could be viewed as treasonous by onlookers. He wasn’t necessarily wrong—the only thing tethering House Stark and the North’s men to the Targaryen dynasty was the steadfastness of their word since Torrhen knelt before Aegon the Conqueror on the banks of the Trident.

“Best to keep your opinions to yourself, Rodrik. Take your frustrations out on one of our brothers. Perhaps Errold or Artos? I believe you owe them a beating or two.”

That drew a chuckle out of Rodrik. “I shall try my luck with Donnor on the morrow. Errold and Artos are beginning to bore me.”

“Most of the guards have bored you, and now our brothers too?” you asked teasingly, and laughter leaked into your voice. “When will it ever be enough for you?”

“I am not sure, I may have to go to Essos. I’m running out of opponents.”

Rodrik in Essos—what a thought. You chuckled and tugged at his ear softly. “I came to pray, and you came with me to speak of impossible things.”

“You could’ve told me to fuck off!”

“Would you have listened?”

At your retort, Rodrik rolled his eyes and quietened. “Pray, sister. There aren’t any heart trees left south of the Neck—real ones anyway.”

You sighed and wondered if you had to leave Winterfell, if you would be allowed to take a weirwood sapling with you. Both of you sat in deep contemplation; you implored the Old Gods that you’d be trothed to a man who would be honest with you. There would be no need for flowery words and romantic notions, whether it be a Targaryen prince or not.

Rodrik returned you to your chambers, where he briefly hugged you before Alysanne forced you into your nicest dress and slippers, which the mess of mud and snow by the East Gate would undoubtedly soil.

Two simple bronze rings adorned your left middle finger and right thumb, both engraved with runes of the First Men. The rings were heirlooms from House Royce. The dress was fine work—silvery gray fabric and embroidered with dark gray and red with Alysanne’s deft hand, but most of it ended up covered by your cloak.

You and Alysanne joined your siblings, parents, and Grandfather at the East Gate, which led to Wintertown and the kingsroad, from which the Targaryens would come. Your siblings were arranged by age: Donnor, Willam, Artos, Berena, you, Alysanne, Errold, and Rodrik.

A tall knight, dressed in white armor and a matching cloak streaming from his shoulders, came through with a silk pennon on a tall staff. House Targaryen’s three-headed dragon seemed to spread its wings, breathing scarlet fire. Two other knights of the Kingsguard followed, as well as the retinue, hoofs kicking up the freshly fallen snow into the air.

You tried to identify the people coming in. You recognized the Manderlys easily enough, their blue-green banners hidden in the mess of royal heraldry. You felt Alysanne’s sharp intake of breath when catching sight of Edd Locke following Lord Manderly’s heir.

“He’s come,” she whispered to herself, and you couldn’t help the amused twitch of your lips, glancing at her with delight.

“Your grace,” Grandfather Brandon said when Prince Baelor Breakspear dismounted his horse and came forward. “Winterfell is yours.”

Around you, stablehands were darting about, taking the horses away.

Prince Baelor had the dark hair of his Dornish mother, the Queen Consort Myriah Martell, and two differently colored eyes. Behind Prince Baelor, another man came up; he was as tall as Prince Baelor and thickly built, his hair and beard silver with a hint of gold. He was Prince Maekar, for Princes Aerys and Rhaegel would not travel all this way.

Here they are, in Winterfell—you thought blandly—the hammer and the anvil.

“I trust that you enjoyed the journey, your graces?”

You heard the distinct sound of someone scoffing lightly. It came from Prince Maekar, and your eyes flicked to his imposing figure. He was busy greeting your lord grandfather, albeit with thinly veiled indifference; you thought that his eyes seemed tired and wondered how many times they’d stopped on the journey from White Harbor.

Small talk commenced between Prince Baelor and your grandfather, and then the introductions of you and your siblings began in earnest. It was then that you noted that a boy, not much older than six, was hovering in the shadow of Prince Maekar. Was he to be Prince Aegon? It could be since the little prince was around six now, if you remembered correctly.

When Grandfather Brandon said your name, you curtsied. You felt something sharpen in the air as you straightened, meeting the princes’ eyes. They knew who you were, and you knew of them as well.

“Well met, your graces,” you said, and then the introductions continued before your lady mother led the royals into the warmth of the Great Hall.

Supper began in earnest. Summerwine filled your stomach. It was warm, sweet, and fruity, and the alcohol buzzed in your blood pleasantly.

You had been initially seated with your siblings and little Prince Aegon, on a table below the raised platform, where Grandfather and your parents hosted the Princes Baelor and Maekar. But you had moved to follow Berena to play hostess with the other daughters of the North, now joined by Elwyna Manderly, who’d come with her lord father, an uncle to Myriame. Errold and Rodrik remained with Prince Aegon, and despite the loud conversations and laughter and music, you could hear your brothers’ distinct voices telling him some old northern tale appropriate for the little prince’s ears.

You did not drink heavily, for you were used to mead with your meals, but allowed yourself an extra cup when the flagon made its way back to you. You ate the freshly baked bread, dipping it into the remaining gravy on your plate as you listened to the chatter and took in your surroundings.

From your new position, with the young ladies of the North, it was easier than having your back the Princes and the Lord of Winterfell. The flagon moved on, and that was when you felt it: a prickle at the nape of your neck that came from being watched.

For a moment, you ignored it, laughing at Elwyna’s witty remark about how poorly one of the Kingsguard was handling the snow in his heavy armor. But you finally did—eyes sweeping across the hall, hazy with smoke—until it caught upon the raised platform and dais.

Prince Baelor was deep in conversation with your grandfather. Prince Maekar was already looking at you.

Your breath caught in your throat, nervous and surprised. You inclined your head, enough to acknowledge and not offend him if you did nothing. Prince Baelor suddenly addressed his brother, and Prince Maekar tore his eyes away before you ever did.

The music swelled, and Elwyna leaned toward you, her voice pitched low: “To have a Stark marry into the royal family will be a boon for the North. My father says it is long overdue.”

You did not say anything, fearful of what your voice would betray. Elwyna Manderly wasn’t wrong—she was just daring enough to say it out loud. Elwyna was much like Berena in that aspect.

“Careful, Elwyna,” Berena said. Her lips stained red by the summerwine, she rested her chin on her hand. If she was drunk, she was far better at hiding it than your brothers. “Words like that carry farther than you think.”

Elwyna laughed—loud and delighted.

A small hand suddenly tugged at your sleeve, tearing your attention away. You looked down to find Prince Aegon. Surprised, you shifted your attention to the little prince, “Your grace?”

“They’ve become too loud,” he announced. “And violent.”

You looked over to your brothers. Donnor had left the table and sang along to the music, wine sloshing out of his cup, while dancing with a Norrey girl, who swept him deeper into the crowd of bodies. Rodrik and Errold were arm wrestling, causing a flagon to fall from the table; Willam and Artos cheered on the shenanigans, elbows and arms jerking around in the air.

You smiled at the little prince, not surprised that your brothers’ continence loosened the more they drank. Most northernmen were a handful. “They always do that.”

He considered this, then climbed onto the bench beside you without asking. The ladies around you barely blinked, all of them turning the conversation to Prince Aegon like it was nothing.

Across the hall, you felt it again—that prickle of attention.

This time, you didn’t look, keeping your attention on the little prince.

Over two days, a snowstorm had dropped almost two feet of snow upon Winterfell.

Due to the natural hot springs underneath most of Winterfell, the snow did not accumulate much. And where it did, men had already cleared it before it could harden to ice, becoming a stone-like substance that would be impossible to move.

In the meantime, the little prince, Aegon, shifted his attention from following you and a brother who’d chosen to shadow you to watching the sons and daughters of the North training in the courtyard. Right now, he was with you and Rodrik.

“Does it always snow so much?” Prince Aegon asked, following you up the stairs to the library.

Rodrik was a step behind the little prince, and he replied, “Aye, even in the summer, your grace.”

Prince Aegon made a slight, neutral sound in his throat.

“Does it snow at Summerhall, your grace?” you asked the little prince, putting your weight on the library tower’s door with a soft grunt to open it. The door always swelled in the winter. You were curious; this was Prince Aegon’s first winter, and definitely the first time he’d ever seen so much snow.

“We haven’t been so lucky.”

You took the little prince’s cloak, hanging it on the hooks near the entrance. A soft breeze blew the powdery snow into the tower, which made you shut the door quickly, as you and Rodrik shared mirthful glances at Prince Aegon’s diplomatic answer. It was strange to hear someone describe your snows as a lucky happenstance.

“Come, your grace,” you told the little prince, subtly moving him further into the library. “We’ve got quite the collection of maps…”

Earlier in the morning, Prince Aegon had confessed his confusion about the many landmarks your brothers mentioned while regaling old—and contemporary—tales of the North during the first feast upon his family’s arrival. You had offered to show him the maps in the library—you were well aware that the southerners’ maps of the North were not up to par with your own.

You pulled out the most recent map, created after the census a few years ago. A necessary process for calculating population and food stores for the winter, one you’d become familiar with as older census calculations were used by the Maester to educate you and your siblings.

“You have more settlements than I assumed,” Prince Aegon said, little brows furrowed in thought.

He sounded so mature for his age. At his age, your brothers were more concerned about the next time they could sink their teeth into food than the population of the region.

“Our only true city is White Harbor,” you pointed to it on the map. “Wintertown’s population is dependent on the season; come spring, most of the people you see outside of the East Gate will return to their lands and work them. Barrowton holds a substantial population during all the seasons, and there’s little reason to leave.”

“Barrowton is House Dustin’s land,” the little prince added.

“That it is, your grace,” you confirmed with an approving nod. Very few southerners bothered to take the time to study the North beyond knowing that House Stark ruled as Lords of Winterfell and Wardens of the North.

The library tower’s door opened with a sudden bang, and a maid came through, barely curtseying to you and the others. “Lord Brandon wishes to speak with you in his solar, m’lady.”

You looked toward Rodrik, and your younger brother nodded and said, “I shall stay with his grace.”

“I apologize, your grace,” you demurred, but the little prince had none of it and dismissed you haphazardly.

Over Prince Aegon’s full head of silver-gold hair, you shot your brother a strict look. Rodrik barely restrained an eye roll.

“Ellyn, is my lord grandfather—?” you barely asked, rushing down the library tower’s stairs with the maid. You assumed she would finish the question herself.

Ellyn glanced at you. “He is alone, m’lady. The Princes have ceased negotiations.”

You considered her words. You did not want to ask her anything else, believing it would be better to ask Berena about any rumors occurring within the household. She and her silver tongue could contend to be your very own Master of Whispers if you were ambitious enough.

Returning to the Great Keep from the library tower did not take long, and Ellyn separated herself from you in the corridor leading to Grandfather Brandon’s solar. You slipped inside when Wyman waved you in, the door shutting behind your figure in finality.

Grandfather Brandon sat in his grand chair, hands clasped across his stomach. His eyes were closed, but opened when you neared. The stress lines on his face softened minutely.

“Grandfather,” you said, smiling hesitantly. “All is well, I hope?”

His face twitched in a brief grimace. He remained silent for a moment. “You are trothed now. Prince Baelor, as Hand, has agreed to the terms. Since the beginning, I told his grace that I will not have my granddaughter marry a drunk—or worse.”

You swallowed at that. Your grandfather wasn’t going to tell you; he wanted you to ask. “Who shall be my husband then?”

“It’ll be Prince Maekar.”

You blinked in surprise, paused, and reconsidered.

“May I be candid, Grandfather?” He nodded, and you asked the new question that gnawed at your mind: “Was Prince Maekar who you had planned all along?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Truly, Prince Matarys was, but he is to be betrothed to a Lannister. And with my conditions, it only left him.”

He stood up and approached you. “There was word that the court would press him to choose a second wife sooner rather than later. A keep with growing children needs a woman’s hand.”

“And Prince Maekar has agreed?”

“Whatever happened between those brothers and their father has already happened. They must’ve thought similarly to me.” Grandfather Brandon shot you an assuring look. “There will be no complaints—it helps that the youngest already clings to you.”

Cling seemed a too-strong word, but you kept your opinion to yourself. Nor did you deny your grandfather’s observation.

“He will not be gentle,” Grandfather said, his hand warm against your cheek. “But he will not be needlessly cruel to you.”

Amused, you grinned. “An Umber would be the same way. I will be fine, Grandfather.”

He stared for a moment and sighed. “I believe you. You may not be as wild as Berena, or honest to a fault like Alysanne, but you are candid. Prince Maekar will come to appreciate that.”

You hoped as much as well, and had prayed for such a thing when seeking guidance from the Old Gods. You leaned in and hugged your grandfather, aware it could be one of the last embraces you would ever give him.

There was no sept in Winterfell, and there surely was no septon or septa. But the septon from White Harbor came as soon as Lord Manderly sent a raven calling for his presence. You wondered if Lord Manderly ordered the septon to have his bags ready while the royal family was still in the city.

Allowing some time for the septon to travel to Winterfell also meant more guests could arrive for the wedding. Mainly, the few northern lords and ladies who remained in their own keeps, and those from the Vale, scattered cousins from House Royce from both branches.

In a perfect world, you would marry only in the eyes of the Old Gods. But the realm would not react well, your father had said, if Prince Maekar remarried in the Old Faith with no septon of the Seven in sight. You saw sense in the decision and kept any laments to yourself.

The morning of your wedding, you found yourself sitting along the weirwood heart tree’s roots. You were alone and deep in thought, taking a moment to absorb the heavy stillness of the Old Gods’ presence.

You heard the distinct sound of armor crunching over snow. It shifted your attention, and you turned toward the direction of the gate. At the sight of Prince Maekar, shadowed by a Kingsguard, you stood quickly, nearly stumbling into the pool of black water below the heart tree.

You hoped that the prince did not notice your lack of balance in the moment, and you met his gaze. “Your grace.”

“Lady Stark,” he rumbled. Prince Maekar shot a look at the Kingsguard, and the white-armored knight retreated to be close enough to chaperon, far away enough for a semblance of privacy. “We must speak.”

“Will here do, or would you like to go elsewhere?”

“Here will do.” His eyes flicked to the heart tree’s face behind your shoulder. “It is said that a man cannot lie in front of a heart tree.”

“So it is,” you replied neutrally, nodding to his words. You often thought the same, but you were not sure how much veracity the prince put behind the claim. However, there was something to be said for the fact that he was considering your faith.

“Then I will not waste any time,” Prince Maekar said. “We are to be married within the day, and I will not enter this marriage without speaking plainly first.”

You folded your hands, steadily, and wondered if this was his own decision, or one he was pushed to by his brother. Your face was solemn and still like winter. “I would expect nothing less.”

“I will assure you that this may not be my wish, but there will be no need to fear. Respect is all I ask for in return.”

You did feel wholly assured; the feeling settled itself in your chest, building a home in your ribs. You had asked the Old Gods for much of what the prince himself just said.

“You already have my respect, your grace,” you said carefully, measuring your words. Prince Maekar did not care for flowery words, much like a northernman; he was quick to judge and condemn. But perhaps he would appreciate your own particular strain of northern candor. “You did not have to speak to me, but you did, and I appreciate it.”

He did not say anything, merely observed for a few seconds, before turning on his heel and leaving you in the godswood. The knight of the Kingsguard followed the prince out of the godswood.

Hours later, Prince Maekar put his cloak around you and took you as his own.

The bedding was no more humiliating than you’d imagined.

You were not sure how, but your brothers had pushed forward and made you sure you remained with your shift as the crowd of groping men led you from the Great Hall to your chambers in the Great Keep.

Your chambers were now outfitted to host a prince as well. Maids had switched out your utilitarian linens for silk, and luxurious furs were carefully strewn upon your bed. Your chambers still smelled lightly of the soaps and oils used earlier in your bath. A small table had been set up as well, with a bottle of oil for lubricant, a pitcher with water, and cups.

The water was thoughtful. It must have been Alysanne’s idea; she was well aware of your personal aversion to alcohol.

Hoots and hollers from the corridor made you turn your head. It was just in time for Prince Maekar to arrive through your chamber’s door; he had not lost as many layers as you had, but noble ladies ruffled his collar and silver-gold hair, and his neck was tense with vexation.

You stood straight, the floor warm beneath your bare feet, and stared at him, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.

Without a word, Prince Maekar approached, and his hand came up to your face, and strong, calloused fingers grasped your chin. His thumb traced the slope of your upper lip.

It wasn’t a gentle touch, nor was it rough; it was calculated. You wondered what the prince must be thinking, and you looked up at him, waiting. 

Again, your eyes met, and you kept your face carefully blank. Prince Maekar’s brows furrowed, and you prepared yourself for a biting remark. You spent most of the feast listening to his scoffs and comments about dithering lords and ladies—some of it had been amusing.

Outside, you heard Donnor threaten to hang the entrails of anyone who deigned to stay to listen to the bedding. You would have laughed if Prince Maekar wasn’t before you.

“You are very young.” You blinked in surprise. Did men not like it when they had a young lady warming their bed? His hand dropped, and he stepped away. “Take off your shift.”

You hesitated and swallowed, wishing that you had partaken in the drinking much more than you originally had, and then heeded his command.

The sheer linen fabric pooled at your feet. You reached toward your hair, retrieving the pin that kept it away from your face.

Be not afeard, you told yourself, echoing your mother’s words from a fortnight ago, when the maiden’s clock was still in progress as well as the betrothal agreement negotiations. Your hand formed a fist around the long hairpin, and you did not realize it until Prince Maekar gave it a rather pointed glance.

“Are you afraid, Lady Stark?”

You were not surprised by the lack of endearment, but by the fact that he called you by your title of birth. You forced your hand to relax its grip. You met Prince Maekar’s eyes boldly, earnestly. “I am not, your grace.”

You wanted to ask him if the sight of you pleased him. You weren’t so bold, not like Berena and her wolf’s blood.

His eyes flickered down your body, from the hair that tickled across your chest and the curls that covered your maidenhood. Prince Maekar’s face did not betray a single thing.

“Lie on the bed, on your back.”

You exhaled at the order shakily and stepped backward, your legs hitting the bed and dropping the hairpin among the silk and furs. The silks and furs were soft and warm against your skin; you thought about how you were naked as the day you were born, yet Prince Maekar remained clothed.

“Your mother and aunts have told you what to expect, I assume.”

You watched him as he spoke, retreating to the table and pouring oil into one of his hands—strong, a large palm, and long fingers that wielded a mace that won a rebellion.

“They have,” you replied. There had been too many details at times.

Oil slick fingers dipped into your folds. Surprised, you jolted upward and away from the touch. With one hand, he wrangled you back, closer to the edge of the bed. “Do you want it to hurt, girl?”

“No,” you said with too much bite in your tone. You must have lost your senses because you continued, “Mayhaps, it may be better if you kissed me—as husband and wife do.”

His eyes flicked to yours in surprise. He hadn’t kissed you since the wedding ceremony, and even then, it had been chaste and quick. Prince Maekar’s head tilted, and the movement reminded you of that phrase of theirs: the blood of the dragon.

“Is that what you wish?” he asked you, body leaning closer. You felt his body heat, the smell of him; it enveloped you, and you thought about how you’d never had a man of no familiar relation so, so close.

You sat up and replied candidly, northern accent thickened, “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t.”

He considered this, and then he kissed you. He had to dip himself toward the floor, practically kneeling before you. It brought a warm thrill to your stomach as you tried to keep up, and his neatly trimmed beard tickled your skin.

Mouth hot, he opened you with his tongue. You hummed lightly, and Prince Maekar breathed sharply, pulling back and gauging your facial expression.

You stared unabashedly as he stood up and shed his remaining layers, revealing skin taut by battle-hardened muscles. There were some scars, long healed and pale in the candlelight, softened by time.

His fingers dipped toward you again, and his middle finger slipped easily into you. You inhaled slowly, hips wiggling with inexperience, as you felt your body begin to compensate, hole steadily becoming slick and damp.

“You’ll need to be ready,” he said, slipping a second thick and long finger into you, moving it gradually and stretching you out.

Your moan is a fledgling thing, fluttering in your throat, as the throb within your innermost self matched your frantic heartbeat. You wiggled the little that you could before Prince Maekar’s unoccupied hand grabbed your thigh, pinning it against your chest.

It opened you further, your thighs falling apart for his own broad ones, as he put himself between your legs. And his thumb suddenly circled the little pearl hidden by your mound of hair; a wanton, louder, whine escaped you then. You didn’t say anything—too full, beginning to feel too much—as he then pushed his palm up to the little pearl, grinding against your core broadly.

You felt it then—a flitting within you as drool gathered in your mouth like you were salivating over a piece of freshly hunted game. It embarrassed you, made you swallow it harshly as Prince Maekar brought you to peak.

Or at least you thought as much. Your body tensed briefly, and you felt a release of dampness as your eyes screwed shut. You twitched and hissed when Prince Maekar’s fingers continued moving inside of you—slower and more deliberate than before, palm no longer grinding against your pearl.

He had brought you to ruin with only his hand. You could not even begin to imagine once he was truly inside of you, and your eyes opened, falling upon the center of Prince Maekar’s hips and lower. The hair on his body was a shade darker than the silver-gold that covered his head; there was a light smattering of it across his broad chest, and it was thicker around his—it? You did not know what word to use—it felt too vulgar to use any of the words you’d overheard from the men in the keep, even in your private thoughts. But you thought of the song, “Country was in peril, the Anvil was a rock,” and concluded it described the situation at hand well enough.

“Do you know how pretty you are?” he asked, a deep rumble in his chest. It brought you out of your thoughts. “All pink and pent up.”

In your distracted haze, you imagined that praises did not come easily to Prince Maekar, if ever, but you were pleased that he, at least while bedding you, appreciated your visage. No matter how spent and sweaty you were.

“It’s too much, your grace,” you choked out, for his fingers slipped out of you and tapped your mound, making you twitch and mewl pathetically. Your body burned—embarrassment or passion, you knew not—and wished he would insert himself already.

“It shall not hurt for long,” he said, fingers slipping out with ease. He guided himself toward the cradle of your hips. His blushing, leaking tip moved easily along your damp slit. The sound was vulgar and obscene to your ears, and more sweat gathered along your hairline. “Lest you want that brother of yours to hang my entrails on your heart tree?”

A joke. Prince Maekar was almost inside of you, almost making you his wife, and he was joking. You huffed a laugh involuntarily, nails digging into his biceps when he began inserting himself, pressing against any natural resistance, in one long, steady stroke. Your hips moved, whether against or for his movement was unbeknownst to you. It didn’t hurt as much as it felt uncomfortable, your body stretching to accommodate a width and length you never had before.

You breathed through the feeling and found enough spirit to reply, “And give the realm more reason to believe we northernmen are all savages?”

His lips twitched, and you wondered if this was the first time you’d actually seen a smile grace the prince’s face. His mouth was on yours then—his groan yours, or your moan his. A short drag of his hips made your heels dig into the bed, thighs wrapping around broad hips.

The hand that had been inside of you moments ago was cradling your face, and you could swear you could smell your spent. Such a thought should mortify you, but it made you wetter, made you pant and moan in want. You were his wife now, and he could do as he pleased.

Prince Maekar settled into a slow, deep pace. It made your breath labored—so, so full—and you thought of how you touched yourself one time, hidden underneath linens and furs, tentatively exploring your own body. You echoed the memory, a hand traveling down to feel how he was splitting you open, and copied the way Prince Maekar’s palm grinded against you. Your hips bucked, and his stuttered—you felt him between your middle and ring fingers, hot and hard.

Show him what it means to bed a she-wolf, your Aunt Myriame had said, winking salaciously at you when tugging your hair into that earlier updo. You thought of that, then, when he grunted, wrangled your hand away, and maneuvered your limbs so your knees were hooked over his shoulders. Like this, he was impossibly deeper now, and filthy curses—ones that you would typically not even deign to think of—fell from your lips as your hips were brought off the bed. His hair tickled against your pearl with every thrust, every slap of flesh against flesh, and you throbbed.

“Oh, fuck, fuck—” you tried grabbing ahold of something, but ended up scratching the prince’s arms, leaving angry, red marks on the pale, creamy skin. How savage, how wolfish, you thought, perhaps it will not be Donnor that showed truth to the Southrons’ perspective of the north, but you.

You watched him, eyes boring into those strange violet eyes so uniquely his, and noted that his pulse fluttered erratically in his neck. A flush had built across his own skin, traveling up his neck. You were struck by the inane urge to bite and mark him red and purple with your mouth and teeth—perhaps you contained more of the wolf’s blood than previously believed.

His hips grinded with yours, almost like he did not bear the idea of pulling out too far, and the tension building in your body snapped like a cord. Sudden and fast. You closed your eyes, feeling too much, still wanting too much, and felt tears welling in your eyelashes.

His hand returned to your chin, a thumb dangerously close to entering your mouth. He commanded, “Look at me. Breath.”

Had you stopped breathing? You might have, and you returned to a body that felt different from the one it did that morning. He was still inside of you, grinding, and you twitched and throbbed around him.

Again, you just looked. Violet eyes, pale eyelashes, and pox-marked cheeks barely covered by that beard. He was so undeniably of the blood of the dragon, and he was between your legs.

He peaked with a harsh, definitive grunt, hands tightening on your body. You prayed to the Old Gods that his seed would quicken in your womb—a child as proof of your union’s consummation. It brought another wanton thrill to pulse through your body.

You expected him to roll off and sleep, but he remained inside of you, unmoving and catching his breath in time with you. You wondered if he was just as unwilling to waste a single drop of his seed, but you did not ask.

Slowly, Prince Maekar pulled out and released his heavy grip. You hissed lowly to yourself, a sore ache ruminating through your body, as you moved to your side of the bed, leaving space for him. You sat against your headboard and pillows.

Prince Maekar went to the table, serving himself water from the pitcher. He drank from the cup, sating his thirst.

“There is no godswood in Summerhall,” he said suddenly. He wasn’t looking at you and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to you, a cup in his hand. “But there is a garden, and there is space for a sapling if you wish.”

He turned to you then. His eyes drifted to your stomach, to your womb. He added, “I know it is important for you.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

He scoffed, but you took no offense, for it was a softer sound, and he echoed your words from earlier, “We are husband and wife. You need not use titles when we’re alone.”

You inclined your head, accepting his words as such. He offered the cup to you, and you took it, drinking from the same spot his lips touched moments ago.

In the rookery, a white raven arrived from the Citadel. Spring had come.