#sansastark

​You and Robb had grown up in the interstices of the castle—the dark library, the drafty corridors, the hidden stone paths that snaked through the walls. You had watched him harden into a man, his shoulders broadening until he filled the doorway, his auburn hair darkening, his jaw growing stubble that he would sometimes ask you to help trim with a kitchen knife when the barbers were too busy.

​And he had watched you. He had watched the way you carried the weight of the castle’s ledgers like a mantle. He knew the precise way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were frustrated by a miscalculation, and the way your eyes would flare with a fierce, quiet intelligence whenever you caught him in a lie.

​There were moments that the Starks would come to cherish—small, sharp sparks of joy in a castle made of stone. Like the time you and Robb decided to sneak into the crypts on a dare, only to end up huddled together for warmth behind the statue of a long-dead Stark, laughing until your ribs ached because Jon Snow had jumped out from behind a pillar, wearing a wolf mask he’d fashioned from a moth-eaten rug.

​"You two look like you're plotting a treason," Jon had said, his dark, bastard-born eyes glinting with a rare, playful light. He was always there, standing on the edge of the frame, a brother to Robb in every way that mattered, yet perpetually tethered to the shadows. He looked at you with a quiet, observant kindness, recognizing in you the same "outsider" status he lived every day. He was the one who taught you how to move through the castle’s secret passages without a lantern, and the one who made sure, when the guards were particularly cruel about your status, that they found their boots filled with sand the next morning.

​Then there were the siblings. Bran, with his endless, restless energy, constantly dragging you into his games of "Knight and Monster" until your knees were bruised and your shift was torn. Arya, who would corner you in the pantry, demanding you teach her how to hide bread rolls in her sleeves so she could escape Septa Mordane’s lessons. Sansa, who was a vision of southern grace, looking at you with a polite, distant curiosity, never quite understanding why the heir to Winterfell would rather spend an hour arguing about grain-taxes with a clerk than dancing with the lords.

​You were the glue in the quiet, desperate moments. You were the one Robb went to when the weight of being a Stark threatened to crush him. The Stark who never was, began to fit in. Slowly but surely, the castle had gotten used to their Lord and Lady being exasperated at their children's antics. A world with gaps but nonetheless fulfilling.

And then, the world stopped spinning.

​The raven came.

You were in the library tower when the bells broke, standing on the third tier of the oak ladders with a tallow candle clamped between your teeth. Your fingers, stiff from the draft that whistled through the masonry, were buried in an ancient, water-stained ledger detailing the marsh-yields of the Neck from the early reign of King Torrhen. The parchment was so old it felt like dried skin between your thumbs, releasing a fine, gray dust that smelled of damp graves and old linen every time a page was turned.

Below you, Maester Luwin was copying a treatise on the treatment of saddle-sores, his quill scratching against the sheepskin with the rhythmic, maddening persistence of a mouse behind the wainscot.

Then came the iron.

Two short, heavy strokes from the guard tower. It wasn't the rhythmic, rolling alarm for wildlings along the perimeter, nor the slow, hollow tolling for a death in the Winter Town. It was the crisp, urgent clatter of the gatehouse chains—the specific summons that meant a rider wearing the King’s colors had crossed the drawbridge at a hard gallop.

You didn't drop your candle. You didn't allow your breath to catch. Nine years in the Great House had taught you that a dropped light meant a ruined scroll, and a ruined scroll was a luxury an orphan clerk could not afford. You climbed down the ladder with the quiet, deliberate speed of a scullery cat, your wool skirts rustling against the dark pine shelves. By the time Luwin had pushed himself up from his desk, his heavy chain of many-linked metals clinking against his woolen robes like an old forge, you were already standing at the heavy oak door. In your left hand, you held his spectacles; in your right, his heavy sealskin cloak, shook out and free of dust.

"The King is coming north, Y/N," the old man murmured. His voice lacked its usual academic dryly-brisk cadence. It was small, troubled, and carried the heavy chill of the wind that was currently howling through the battlements. He did not look at the letter—the bird was still being unstrapped by the acolyte upstairs—but his gray eyes were fixed on the narrow casement window that looked out toward the smoke of the outer yards. "Jon Arryn is dead."

You didn't ask how he knew. You didn't ask about the politics of the southron court or the whispers that came up the Kingsroad with the wine-merchants. You looked down at the blank slate in your apron pocket, your mind already sliding into the familiar, protective architecture of the numbers.

"If the King comes north, he does not ride alone," you said, your voice flat, carrying the cold clarity of the Winter Town mud. "He brings the court. He brings three hundred mouths, Maester. The royal retinue eats nothing but white flour, dried fruit, and stored pork. They’ll expect sweet wine from the Arbor and fresh beef every noon. We do not have the tallies for them if the winter holds another three moons."

"Then you had best start counting," Luwin said, his hand trembling slightly as he took the sealskin cloak from your arm. He looked at you through his spectacles, his old face suddenly appearing twice as lined as it had that morning. "The King’s hunger is not like a lord’s, child. It takes everything in the bin and leaves nothing but the chaff."

For three weeks, Winterfell became a forge of pure anxiety.

The Great Keep was scrubbed until the granite smelled of nothing but vinegar, lye, and the raw grease of the tallow-candles. Gage ordered forty hogsheads of strong ale up from the deep cellars, his vast belly shaking as he roared at the kitchen boys who weren't turning the spit-roasters fast enough. The smoke from the kitchens rose in thick, oily black plumes that never stopped, day or night, hanging over the glass gardens like a low cloud of soot.

You spent your hours in the dark, cold corners of the buttery, your fingers ink-stained to the second knuckle as you tallied the salt-beef, the smoked tongue, and the heavy wheels of hard goat's cheese that had been aging in the stone bins since the last harvest moon. You knew down to the ounce how much grain was required to keep the horses from dropping in their stalls; you knew which barrels of salt-pork had been scored by damp and had to be used before the southrons arrived.

But the real change wasn't in the cellars or the buttery ledgers. It was in Robb.

He was eighteen now, his chest thick enough to fill his father’s old mail shirt without the leather padding. His auburn hair had grown long, curling wild and unruly around his ears, and the round softness that had remained in his jaw when you sat in the armory loft had completely vanished, replaced by the hard, blocky lines of his father’s house. He had been given the command of the watch at the Hunter’s Gate, and he spent his days in the saddle, his great gelding kicking up the gray slush of the outer tracks as he inspected the perimeter.

He didn't speak to the servants. He didn't joke with Theon in the yard. When he passed you in the corridor, his blue eyes were always fixed straight ahead, dark and focused, as if he could already see the golden stags of House Baratheon marching through the white wastes of the barrows.

The night before the royal procession was due to arrive, the silence in the castle grew so heavy it felt like a physical pressure against the ears. The wind had dropped, leaving the courtyards dead and cold under a moon that looked like a chips of ice.

You entered the Great Hall an hour past midnight. The servants had all gone to their straw beds in the vaults, leaving the vast room dark save for the dying, blood-red embers in the central hearth. The long trestle tables had already been set for the welcoming feast, the pewter platters and silver-gilt cups gleaming like dull eyes in the gloom. It smelled of fresh rushes, beeswax, and the sharp, sour tang of the vinegar used to clean the high benches.

Robb was standing by the high seat—the massive, oak chair carved with the running wolves of Stark, its back straight as a gallows tree. He wasn't sitting in it. He was merely resting his hand on the armrest, his long fingers tracing the deep, ancient grooves where the teeth of the wood had been smoothed by centuries of Stark lords.

He didn't turn around when you entered. He didn't have to; he knew the small, light rhythm of your boots on the rushes—a sound he had tracked through the dark since you were nine years old.

"The King’s squire is a Lannister," he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made the air between you feel heavy. It was a voice that belonged to the stone walls, entirely free of the boyish warmth he used to waste on the balcony. "Theon says they wear crimson velvet even when they ride through the muck. He says their horses are shod in bright brass and that they look like lions dipped in wine."

"They look like silver stags that have been painted over," you said, walking up to stand beside the long table. You carried a small wooden bowl filled with tallow grease and an old rag—your permanent excuse for being out of your bed when the watch turned. "They’re southrons, Robb. They’ll look small when the wind hits the walls. Crimson velvet doesn't keep the lung-rot out when the frost sets in."

Robb turned his head slowly, his blue eyes catching the last red glow of the fire. The boy who had hidden in the armory loft to eat stolen plums was entirely gone now, buried beneath the heavy, solemn skin of a man who was being prepared for a sacrifice he didn't yet understand.

"My father is going with them," he whispered. The words were heavy, falling between you like lead shot into the mud. "If the King asks him to be the Hand... he’ll say yes. He has to. The Starks don't deny the Crown when the King rides all this way to ask."

You stopped your hand, the greasy cloth resting against the dark rim of the trestle table. Your heart gave a small, cold thud against your ribs, the numbers in your head suddenly scattering like sheep before a wolf. "And you?"

"I stay," Robb said. He stepped away from the high seat, his boots making no sound on the fresh rushes as he moved closer to you. He didn't stop until his shadow swallowed yours entirely, his large frame blocking out what little light remained from the hearth. He looked down at your face, his features sharp and beautiful in the half-light, his mouth set in a thin, rigid line. "I am the Stark in Winterfell. My mother will go south with my sisters. Bran and Rickon are too young to hold a court or sign a warrant. It will be my mark on the tallies, Y/N. My name at the bottom of the scrolls when the tax-collectors come from the Dreadfort."

He reached out, his hand—huge now, calloused from the broadsword and the rough leather of the reins—stopping just short of your cheek. He didn't touch you. There were guards at the door, and the world was about to become very loud, very public, and very dangerous within the hour. But his fingers hovered near your jaw, his thumb tracing the empty air where your skin was warm, his palm smelling of horse-oil and cedarwood smoke.

"I need you to not look at me like I'm some kind of higher being," he muttered, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost to the hiss of the embers. "When the Lannisters are here, when the hall is full of gold and shouting and men who want to buy my father's favor with southern coin... I need to know there’s one person in this castle who knows exactly how many sacks of oats are left in the bin. One person who looks through the velvet."

"There are four hundred and twelve," you said instantly, your eyes locking onto his with a fierce, quiet intensity that refused to let him slide into the dark. "And three of them have mice in the corners because the stable-boys didn't turn the sacks after the rain. I’ll have them moved before the Queen’s horses are stabled tomorrow morning."

Robb let out a short, breathy laugh, the rigid posture of his shoulders dropping for the first time in three weeks. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your lips—a familiar, silent sanctuary you had built together over nine years of drafts, ink-spots, and cold stone.

"What would I do without you?" he murmured, his eyes closing for a single, brief second as if he could hide from the coming dawn behind your shoulder.

"You’d be poor, milord," you whispered back, a small, wry smile touching your mouth though your throat felt tight as iron wire. "And your horses would starve before you reached the Kingsroad."

"Tomorrow the world changes," Robb said, his hand finally dropping to find your fingers in the dark between the tables. He squeezed them once, a hard, painful grip that left the impression of his ring against your skin, before he pulled away toward the lord's chambers. "Sleep well, Y/N. The lions will be hungry, and they don't care for the taste of our salt."

The next morning, the sky was a clear, blinding white that hurt the eyes.

The frost had grown across the stone courtyard in intricate, fern-like patterns that didn't melt even when the sun reached its noon-height. You stood in the third row of the household line, tucked between Gage and the head weaver, your frame dressed in your finest gray wool shift, your hair pinned back with the small bone comb Maester Luwin had given you when you turned eleven. Your hands were tucked deep into your apron pockets, your fingers tracing the iron key of the lower cellars to keep them from going numb in the biting air.

At the front of the line, by the great granite mounting block, stood the Starks.

Lord Eddard looked like a statue carved from the wall itself, his Shale cloak frozen at the hem, his eyes fixed on the northern horizon. Beside him, Lady Catelyn was a splash of bright southern color, her autumn-auburn hair catching the wind like a flame against her dark blue mantle. And beside her stood Robb. He wore his heavy fur cloak pinned with the silver wolf, his sword hilt gleaming at his hip, his head held high and unyielding as the gates behind him. He didn't look back at the line. He didn't look at you. He was the heir to Winterfell now, and the theater of the court required him to be made of stone.

The iron portcullis rose with a long, groaning shriek of cold metal that made the horses in the stables whinny in protest.

Through the archway rode the vanguard—huge men on black destriers, their shields bearing the golden stag of Baratheon, their armor caked in the gray mud of the bog-tracks. And then came the gold. The Lannister guards, their banners snapping in the freezing northern wind, their plate armor polished until it looked like mirrors, reflecting the gray walls of the castle back at them like an insult.

The crowd began to shout, the smallfolk from the Winter Town pressing against the iron railings to see the King—the massive, bearded man who rode at the front like an old boar.

You didn't look at the King. You didn't look at the Queen’s golden hair or the crimson velvet of her litter. You didn't look at the dwarf who rode with the baggage wagons, though the kitchen girls were already whispering his name.

You looked at Robb.

As the royal procession halted and the first of the southron boots hit the dirt of the yard, the King threw himself off his horse with a heavy, rattling crash of steel. Lord Eddard went to one knee in the slush, his family following him in a silent, synchronized fall of gray wool and silk.

Robb went down with them, his fur cloak spreading across the frozen flags like a shadow. But as his knee touched the stone, his gaze moved. Just for a fraction of a second—a heartbeat before the King’s shadow fell over his father’s head—Robb’s blue eyes shifted past the line of guards, past the shouting teamsters, and found yours in the third row of the crowd.

They were steady, clear, and full of a cold, silent understanding that had nothing to do with the songs or the gold or the king who was currently roaring for his brother's embrace.

The feast that night was a sensory assault. The Great Hall, usually a place of quiet, sturdy pride, had been draped in the gaudy, clashing colors of the South. You spent the early hours pressed into the shadows of the dais, your fingers stained dark with ink, balancing the ledger on your knee as you cross-referenced the staggering amounts of wine the Lannisters were consuming against the meager stores the kitchens had prepared.

​"You’re counting again," a voice whispered.

​You didn't need to look up to know it was Theon. He leaned against the stone pillar, swirling his cup, his eyes tracing the jewelry hanging off the ladies of the court with a predatory glint. "The King won’t notice if we’re short a few barrels of ale, Y/N. Drink. Smile. You look like you’re ready to execute someone, and it’s a bit of a mood-killer for the rest of us."

​"I am ready to execute the quartermaster who cleared this shipment," you muttered, not taking your eyes off the tally. "We don't have this to spare, Theon. If we feed their horses this much grain, Wintertown will be eating bark by the next moon."

​"You are hopeless," Theon laughed, a low, dismissive sound. He tipped his chin toward the high table where Robb was currently glaring at a Lannister guard who had come a bit too close to your station.

"Look at him. He’s been checking on you every five minutes like a nervous hound. And you? You haven't looked at a single lord all night," he teased and moved to drop his mug on your table, "Just your books and his back, as usual."

​"I am working," you snapped, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks—a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth.

​"Working," Theon mocked, rolling his eyes. "You’re mooning. It’s disgusting. If I didn't know better, I’d say you were waiting for him to carry you off to the godswood."

​Robb leaned in, his voice dropping low as he stepped down from the high table, appearing at your shoulder as if summoned by Theon’s words. "If you have nothing better to do than gossip like a kitchen maid, Greyjoy, there are plenty of stable stalls that need mucking."

​Theon held up his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. "I’m just observing, mate. It’s a very touching scene. Two of you, acting like you’re the only people in the hall, while the rest of us are forced to endure this southern drivel."

​Robb didn't dignify the comment with a look, but his hand rested briefly, firmly, on the back of your chair—a possessive, unconscious gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the others.

​"He’s not wrong, you know," Jon Snow’s voice came from the shadows behind the pillar.

"Oi look who finally decided to show up." Theon cackled as he moved to get a mug of ale for his brother-ward.

Jon looked weary, but there was a knowing, gentle humor in his eyes. He stepped forward, nudging your shoulder with his own.

"You two dance around each other like you’re waiting for the winter to freeze the world before you admit you’re both miserable apart."

​"We aren't miserable," you countered, though your pulse skipped a beat.

​Jon smirked, a rare, playful look. "Right. You aren't miserable, you just spend your entire evening tracking his safety in your ledgers, and he spends his entire banquet keeping watch over you. You’re as oblivious as you are stubborn, Y/N."

"Aye and the future Lord of Winterfellnisn't fairing much better." Theon said, coming back to give Jon a bit of the festivities, to which Jon scrunched his nose up in response. The bastard didn't like drinking, much less attending festivities. Lady Stark had frowned deeply when she saw Jon at Robb's nameday celebrations, the lady of Winterfell would not say it outright but Jon wasn't an idiot; To Catelyn Stark, a bastard had no place in her halls.

It was a surprise Jon even showed up at all, even if it was behind said festivities and hiding like a child trying to steal cake from the pantry.

"It’s a miracle the North survives at all with you two at the helm." Jon joked and you rolled your eyes and flung a crumpled parchment at his face. He barely dodged as you stuck your tongue out at him.

"I could make you eat hard bread and let you shit out rocks, Theon," you threatened the Greyjoy as you moved to point your finger at him and Jon, "And I'm sure you know better than to threaten the one who feeds your horse, Snow."

"Oh how will my horse ever thank you?" he snickered back.

You flung a paperweight at him this time.

"Hang on, why is a horse all of a sudden my equal?" Theon interjected. Robb laughed.

"Would you like pigs then?" Jon suggested, and Theon looked like he could punch the man.

​"Alright, alright settle down children." Robb said, though he didn't sound angry. There was a warmth in his voice that softened the sharp edges of his kingly command.

​"I’m just saying," Jon continued, his grin broadening. "If you two finally did us the favor of admitting it, the rest of us could stop holding our breath."

​Before you could retort, Uncle Benjen appeared, his black Ranger’s cloak stark against the colorful finery of the feast.

"It's a wonder the girl hasn't gone mad yet with all of you lot pestering her." He smiled.

"Uncle!"

The ranger clapped a heavy hand on Robb’s shoulder, then turned his gaze to you, his eyes softening. "Still keeping the books, Y/N? I’d hoped you’d be off dancing, but I see the North is still running on your back."

"It'd be more of a possibility she'll go mad without her books." Theon said.

​"Someone has to keep the structure from collapsing, my lord," you replied, giving him a weary smile.

​"Aye," Benjen replied, his gaze drifting toward the high table. "And it looks like the foundation is getting shakier by the hour.

​As the night deepened, Robb drew you away from the crowd, leading you out into the corridor where the air was biting and clean. He leaned against the stone railing, his breath ghosting in the air.

​"They talk of wars to come, of debts, of games," Robb said, staring out at the darkened training grounds.

"And all I can see is the cost," he muttered, looking at the lannister soldiers who sway in their yard clearly drunk beyond reason, "I look at them, and I see the strain. They are locusts, Y/N. They call it a visit, but it’s a harvest."

​"It’s not just you," you said, resting your hands on the cold stone beside his. "Every time I look at their supply wagons, I see the gaps in our own. It’s an unsustainable weight."

​"I wanted tonight to be about something else," he sighed, turning to face you. The flickering torchlight caught the hard line of his jaw. He hesitated, then reached out, his thumb brushing a smudge of ink from your cheek. It was a lingering touch, one that broke the frantic rhythm of the night.

"I wanted to forget for an hour that I’m supposed to be Lord, and just be... here. With you."

​"The North won't let you," you replied softly. "And neither will the South." he frowned at that.

"Must you always be so practical, clerk?"

"I'm afraid I won't have any use for you if I'm not, my lord." you said with a small smile, he had looked at you then and it was hard to tear yourself away from his piercing gaze, "The north awaits their future warden. They know winter is coming." you added

​"Then let them wait," he whispered, stepping closer until there was no space left between you. For a moment, he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of his skin a stark contrast to the winter wind. It was a brief, fragile connection—a promise made in the silence that neither of you knew if you would ever be able to keep.

He had wanted to tell you something then, a confession of faith. That he wanted the gods to help him navigate through leading his house and being at your side. How he was afraid of things changing and that he had prayed that morning for a moment of peace before everything will inevitably change. He wanted you, if you would allow it.

But the gods were cruel to Robb Stark.

​You were pulled from the moment by the sound of boots on the stone.

Jaime Lannister.

He appeared from the shadows, his golden hair catching the moonlight. He stopped when he saw the two of you, his expression unreadable, a smirk playing on his lips.

​"The future of the North," Jaime said, his voice smooth. "Plotting in the cold. A bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"And who might you be?" the knight had tilted his head and looked at you, mischief glimmering in his eyes.

​Robb straightened, his hand shifting toward his sword hilt. "We were just enjoying the fresh air, Ser Jaime."

​Jaime stepped into the light as he inhaled a deep breath. "The air is better up here. Too much sweat and ambition down there." He paused, his gaze lingering on the way Robb was standing—protectively, firmly, between you and the rest of the world.

"Be careful, Stark. Ambition is a sharp blade. It has a habit of cutting the one who carries it."

​He didn't wait for a reply, leaving a silence in his wake that felt heavier than the snow.

You let out a breath you didn't know you had held and moved two steps away from Robb, the sudden distance between you made his heart clench from his ribs.

You were aware of the whispers that the castle held over the years. How your closeness with the heir was unnatural and unbecoming of him and you. You knew yet you made no move to stop it, words were just words after all.

And it didn't help that all of it were true.

Robb Stark knew he could not have you. He knew what the consequences were and so did you. And so, with a breathy whisper of 'goodnight', you had walked away from him despite every inch of you disagreeing. Robb closed his eyes and muttered a quiet curse as he looked at the night sky.

Tomorrow would be another day. Tomorrow, he would prepare for a role he had anticipated all his life.

​The tallies were closed. The peace was done. And as the first heavy flake of the true winter began to drift through the open gatehouse, veiling the crimson banners in white, you knew that the weight of the iron has finally arrived, and there was no map in the world that could show you the way back to the loft.