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You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t—because you told yourself that you shouldn’t interfere in the big stuff. But, he looks so helpless pinned against the cement. Reed’s occupied with the ring leader, trying to wrap him up in outstretched arms. Sue’s keeping another two trapped in a spherical force field. Ben is in the midst of catching a turned-over car that’s threatening to barrel itself straight into the nearest line of police cars. And, Johnny is on the verge of getting completely pummeled; there’s a bit of blood dribbling down from his lip to his chin.

So, you swing down to the curb, right in-between Johnny and the grunt—shooting a web straight out for the hand cannon. With a harsh and sharp tug, you fling his arm straight towards the cement. The barrel of the cannon dents like an aluminum can, and you manage to stagger him toward you a few feet. Now, he’s really pissed. Charging towards you. Your super-senses tell you that he’s going to bat at your legs—so you flick another web onto a nearby lamppost and swing yourself onto it. The grunt looks left, then right—can’t seem to find where you’ve gone. The most convenient option: you shoot and wrap him onto the nearest car. Eyes first. Then, arms. He flails against the webbed binds. Secure enough, you tell yourself.

You make it to Johnny quick as you can—masked face peeking into his line of vision; he’s still supine, seems almost dazed, unaware of your hesitant approach. He’s got the backdrop of a department store-front lighting up his bloodied-up face.

“Hi, Johnny.” He squints to meet your voice; you’re glad he doesn’t try to be thrash away from you. But, he does have this wavering tone in his voice that makes you think that he doesn’t exactly know what to do: “Uh… hi.”

“You should stay down,” you tell him.

He nods eagerly, head resting back down on the concrete: “Staying down. I am staying down.”

The issue is: you’ve talked to Johnny Storm before. Largely, in passing—when you’ve gotten the chance to interview him, or his sister, or his sister’s husband, or his sister’s husband’s best friend. He’s prime article material. Paranoia prevents you from speaking much; you don’t want him—or anyone on that street, for that matter—to know what you sound like. So, when you’re pulling him away from the curb and behind the Fantasticar, propping him up against the back door, you’re dead quiet.

Ben manages to make it to the two of you first. He towers over you. “Who the hell are you? Johnny, who the hell is this?”

You put your hands up—friendly-as-possible. “I’ll get out of your hair in a minute. Just make sure he stays put. He’s dinged up pretty badly.”

—

You’re beginning to regret your day job. After last night, there’s a couple of scabbed gashes on your calves that you’ve managed to cover up with thick stockings. Your body aches and you should really be in bed resting this early in the morning. But, instead, you’re sitting in a first-floor conference room in the Baxter Building, waiting for a press conference to start.

You always manage to secure a front-row seat—no thanks to Lynne. As Chief of Staff of the Future Foundation, she has to be your number-one connection in the city. Because you have a spick and span reputation as a freelance writer among a few top news organizations across the city, she makes sure to give you the inside scoop. You’re forever grateful.

“Don’t mention it,” Lynne never fails to tell you, “We need you as much as you need us.” And, you think she’s right. Which is why you’re always there: legs crossed—tape recorder tucked into the chest pocket of your coat, pen in one hand and notepad in the other. 

The Fantastic Four roll into the room and the quick shutter of camera flashes is triggered in their wake. Since you’ve last seen them, they’ve changed out of their blue suits and into more casual dress. With them, the room winds into an anticipatory buzz; everyone rises from their seats to grant the Four’s entrance. It always feels a little bit inhuman the way they’re able to clean up after the big fights—come back stronger the morning after. But, they usually do. Except, for today—except for Johnny.

You give him one quick glance-over: bright-white cotton t-shirt with the classic-blue insignia—like usual, one size too tight. He’s got a sleek pair of blacked out sunglasses—but you can see the bluish-green tint of his bruised skin threatening to peek out. And, his cool blonde hair—though, you’ve seen it gelled and styled on the billboard adverts—is sticking out all over; it’s as-if he’s been fussing with it, fixing it, and fussing with it all over again.

You have to give him at least a little bit of credit; Johnny Storm is a grade-A actor, the way he’s brushing off last night’s events. He has his palms open, making consolatory waves to either side of the conference room, flashing his signature grin. Still a charmer, despite it all. Sue, bless her soul, gives Johnny a cautionary pat on the back—takes the chance to murmur something into his ear. Though he keeps his smile tight, it’s clear that Johnny’s irked; his waving stalls, and he sucks in a deep breath—edging his body away from his sister’s direction.

“Johnny,” Sue tries again—sternly enough for the front row to hear. And, finally, he cracks. As everyone’s settling back into their seats for the press conference, Johnny crosses his arms and puffs out his chest. He takes the sunglasses off, folds them neatly, and tosses them on the table in front of him. That gives everyone a clarified view of his two lightly-purpled black eyes. One more camera shutter, and the reporters behind you take it as a signal to murmur away. It’s all very ruthless—the way they express their worries and unease right toward him. And, on the receiving end of it all, Johnny seems to be tuning out the noise. His gaze lands steadily on the back room—just past the crowd—still trying to keep up the facade that he’s in perfectly good shape.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming out today,” Lynne hollers out—trying to reel everyone in and hush them. “We’ll begin this conference with opening remarks from Dr. Richards—and then lead straight into Q&A for the next half-hour. Reed?”

You take a couple of notes on Reed’s report for the mere formality of it. You already know the in’s and the out’s of the entire night. Lazily, you scrawl: Credence bank, 2:39 A.M. Five perps, two in custody. Modified energy canons. Experimental tech. And, other particular details you really have no use for; you’ve already got three-fourths of the article drafted out at home. But, you don’t want to look too idle in front of your peers. It’ll make you look too out-of-place. So, you feign listening.

The other reason that you truly can’t focus on Reed: your seat in the room is positioned perfectly across from Johnny. It’s the fifteen-foot distance between the two of you that’s making you just a little bit antsy. You absolutely despise the part of your brain that fires off dopamine when you see him.

Johnny seems to relax with time. Gradually, you can see his eyes scanning around to capture all the faces in the room. It’s impossible for him to know you beyond “journalist-who’s-always-around-Sue.” Out of the Four, she’s who you’ve had the most face-time with. That’s a good thing—being recognized broadly; you’re grateful for it. You keep scribbling. You uncross and cross your legs, push the frames of your eyeglasses up the bridge of your nose, unbutton the one-button vest of your pantsuit.

When you glance up, Johnny is already looking straight at you. Recognition. He must be able to place your face, at least a little bit. You swear you can see Johnny’s mouth nearly twitch up into a small smile, and his hand lifting up off the table to give you a little two-finger wave; and, you return it back to him—ballpoint pen wedged between your fingers.

The moment ends quickly, because Reed affirms that the Fantastic Four is willing to answer “any and all questions.” The Q&A begins—which means that there’s about twenty raised hands shooting up all around you, wretched and waiting to be called upon. Johnny’s attention is drawn away by another attentive pat from Sue.

To your back-right: “A question for Dr. Richards. Eyewitnesses report that the perpetrators of this particular attack may be a part of a larger syndicate. Care to comment?”

“Yes, it’s entirely possible,” Reed folds his hands, “There are—and, this is a verified figure—forty different mobs, gangs, and or miscellaneous crime rings actively functioning within the city of New York today.”

And, Sue tacks on: “Whether this incident occurred in isolation or as a deliberate, organized attack is something we’re actively investigating now.”

Directly to your left, another reporter with a handheld microphone pipes up: “Eyewitness reports say that these metal apparatuses used by the perpetrators—the ‘modified energy cannons’—were able to temporarily disable Mr. Storm before he was saved by a masked, enhanced individual. Is there any truth to these claims?”

And, Johnny chuckles, hand dragging impatiently over his chin. “Saved is a very strong word,” he supposes, tossing his head back, “I would maybe use ‘assisted,’ or… ‘lent a helping hand’?” Ben looks warily between Sue and Johnny; it’s an imminent sign of being known too well, the way he can make sense of Johnny’s temperament three steps before it can fire off.

The reporter adjusts, skeptical, “So, you were assisted by the enhanced individual. Is it safe to assume that they are working alongside you?”

Sue takes the question before Johnny can even take a breath. “They’re certainly not against us, but their identity and, by extension, their intentions remain unknown.” 

Suddenly, you’re thinking up silent prayers that the press conference won’t go in that direction; the last thing you need is a target on your back. But, it seems to be going that way—with how the room is growing more and more paranoid on their own accord. Behind you, the questions fire off—things like “Are we safe?” and “What are you going to do to make sure this person is handled?” And, worst of all, “Are they some kind of vigilante?”

It starts getting a little bit too out of control—so Ben claps his hands together. The grating sound of his rocky palms clashing together is enough to lull the room. “One at a time, please,” he gripes. And, you need to take your chance to cover for yourself while you still can. You raise your pen up towards Lynne. She gives you the go-ahead, and you shoot.

“Can you give us a play-by-play of how you were saved?” It’s a fickle and impulsive choice. But, it’s the only option. You need a way to divert the conversation. Johnny’s the unfortunate cost.

“Well… yes, I can,” Johnny says. And, he goes quiet. He clearly can’t. Johnny seems just a bit disappointed—chagrined, even—at your question. At your insistence on saved. As if he needs to be saved. The silence carries through the conference room. It’s a bad look.

Ben takes it up for him. “Johnny made a split-second decision—took a pretty bad hit for me. The, uh, spider-thing made sure that he didn’t get caught in any more crossfire. And, that was before I stepped in and got to him.” Broad and simple—just media-trained enough to let slide. Truthfully, you weren’t intending on putting Johnny on the spot. You’re pretty sure he must hate you now, because he refuses to give another glance in your direction.

—

Sue is the one to buzz you into the penthouse suite. The elevator door opens and you’re back in that skyline home of theirs, wide-windows overlooking the city. Sue gives you a graceful smile. “Hi. Come in. Franklin’s on trains right now—so you should probably watch your step.”

“Listen, Sue…” You feel an obligation to apologize to her—though, the sorry feeling that you have truly hinges on Johnny’s ruined pride. Because, Johnny is like Sue’s shadow; he is a part of her as much as she is a part of him. And, you’re praying that you haven’t completely ruined her trust. She must see the tension pent up in the furrow of your brows or the bite of your inner bottom lip—because Sue immediately interrupts you. “My little brother’s got a big ego. He can tank one press conference.” You try not to grit your teeth. “Besides, it seemed like you were all nerves this morning. Though,” Sue begins to slow her words into an innocent drawl, “I can’t imagine why. Water?”

“Yes, please.” You aren’t sure which she’s implying: the fact that you’re just slightly entranced by her younger brother, or the fact that you’d clearly saved his life the night prior. Sue’s always been too bright. You let her sit you down on the couch. She tells you, “Johnny’s in the bathroom changing his bandages. You can sit in the pit ‘til he’s out.” Then, she sidles away.

In the external hallway, you can hear faintly the sound of Sue berating him. First, “Be nice.” Then, “I don’t care.” And finally, in the most hissing tone, “You’re lucky she’s even here.” Between, Johnny tries to say his piece—but his voice seems to waver or cut away with every single uttered protest. You can picture, just out of sight, Sue cramming her index finger against his lips to shut him up. After the commotion, Johnny emerges from the hall—head held high and only slightly irked by the sight of you: legs crossed, eyeglasses glinting, seated in the conversation pit…

“Front-Row,” he calls you.

“Hi, Johnny.”

“Are you stalking me?” He approaches you with his hands meagerly stuffed into his pockets. Upon very close inspection, Johnny looks just as beaten as he did during the panel; up-close, you can see the tinges of dark green and muddy purple painting his eye bags.

You shake your head insistently, “Lynne gave me the OK to come up here and interview you. They want all your bases covered after today.”

“After my little mishap, you mean.” The passive aggression makes you huff. Still, you have to cool it; you’re there to make peace.

“I am sorry I caught you off-guard. I shouldn’t have. If it’s any consolation, Lynne insisted on me coming up here and making it right.”

“Are you still gonna weasel that ‘play-by-play’ out of me, too?”

You resist the urge to suck in a deep breath past your teeth. “There’s an entire line at my newsroom of reporters who desperately want to see you. I can surrender the assignment if that’s what you want.”

Johnny shrugs, one leg crossed atop the other. He sits himself right beside you, swinging his arm over the back of the seat between you both. “I’m perfectly fine with you conducting the interview.”

“Okay. Good. We’ll get started, then.” He’s making it very difficult for you not to despise him. If he’d only known that you saved his hide the night before… it’d wipe the lousiness clean off of him. “I’ll be taping the conversation for my review.”

“So, you can listen back whenever you want to?” Johnny tilts his head—at the half-point between innocence and bawdiness; this is the version of him that you know from the talk of the town. Johnny the Flirt.

You ignore it, taking the silver recorder out of the front-pocket of your shirt, and tossing it onto the coffee table beside the both of you. “It’s not a puff piece, either. No bullshit answers—and, keep it professional.” You press your thumb into its side button, and straighten up. “For the record, I’m sitting here with Jonathan Storm—otherwise known as the Human Torch.”

He leans toward the recorder, just slightly: “Hi.”

“Hi, Johnny. Tell me about your Friday.”

“Pillow talk?” Unprofessional.

“I’m not a drone. I like to have conversations.”

“Okay. Friday mornings, I go for runs around Central Park. I go early. Less chance of paparazzi.” It surprises you to hear this—Johnny Storm hanging up his big ego. Then again, he’s just as human as you are.

But, you digress: “Runs. Not test flights?”

“No. I love flying. But, a good run is—well, to be expected—more grounded. And, it’s good cardio.” You uncross and recross your legs. He grins.

“Why Central? Bryant’s closer.” You’re quick. It clearly catches Johnny off-guard, because he appears nearly stunted in his response. He rubs his palms off his jeans.

“Our Dad used to leave Sue and I there while he went to work.” A gem. At last, you’re getting something out of him that’s not big-mouthed. “There were days when he had to offload us somewhere. He thought we were old enough not to have a nanny. And, we had each other. It wasn't much of a problem.”

Over the course of the interview, Johnny appears more and more open to actually conversing with you—more than he wants to give you half-baked quips. It’s a welcome change. By the end, you think you’ve mended this morning’s mistake, and made for a publishable piece. There’s something more earnest you’re finding in him by the end of it—like you’ve dug up the part of Johnny Storm that existed just past expectation. Mission accomplished. As soon as you close up the session, though, Johnny seems just on the verge of saying something admonishable. You can tell by the way his eyebrows knit together—thoughtful, thoughtless, probably both.

He starts the second you go to click off the recorder: “If you wanted to get to know me so badly, you could’ve just asked me to coffee.” Even though he’s very pretty with his black eye, he’s still as much of a playboy as you thought he was. Not a bit trustable.

So, you say, “I’m a journalist, Johnny. I get paid to get to know you,” and click the device off. Now, he’s done it. You stand up, Johnny stands up to match you. You begin to pack your things together, he gingerly helps to hand you your handbag off the floor. He’s waiting for a real response.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way back over to the elevator, rapid-fire clicking at the button. It comes up fast, thankfully. You’re clearly leaving too hurriedly for Johnny, because he’s on your tail the whole walk over. “I’m serious about coffee. We could grab a cup—“

“I don’t drink coffee.” The elevator chirps, panel door opening swiftly to take you in.

“Yeah, you do. You always come to the press conferences with that little green tumbler. I know you’re coming when I can hear the ice jingling around inside.” Johnny puts his hands on his hips, not a single bit ashamed to admit the observation. He can’t be serious, trying to ask you out after today. Even if he was, it’d be a horrible idea. Especially considering your disposition towards vigilantism. You’re not sure what to say to him—and you’re very sure you’re feeling ill. Hot in the face.

Once you’re past the elevator doors, you whip around to face him. “The article should be posted within the next twenty-four hours. I’d expect something before noon.” Just before the doors close, you point to his busted bottom lip. “You should ice that.”

—

The next time you see him, you have your suit back on—webbed pattern tracing across your entire torso. A week after the interview. You’re having a brilliant time sitting on the edge of a rooftop, legs swinging over the side, watching the midnight traffic. You can feel a quick breeze over the second-skin of your suit, accompanied by a radiating sensation of warmth. Johnny. The sight of him floating on air beside you is captivating: the way the flames engulf the length of his body, how you can still see his grin beneath the loud glow. He appears to be looking deeply over your mask—trying to ascertain some kind of expression from the bug-eyed lenses.

You tilt your head just slightly. Johnny starts, “I wanted to say thank you. For saving me and all.” You don’t seem to move away, so he lands on his two feet on the surface of the rooftop, and goes to swing his legs over the edge right next to you.

“I thought you didn’t like that word. Save.” You try to keep it short—still worried that he’ll mark some familiarity in the pitch of your voice. You tilt his head to look at him; flames are off, now, and there’s only two bright-blue eyes eyeing you curiously.

“You read tabloids?” he murmurs. You realize you’ve said too much. You need to reel it back in, or you’re going to blow your own cover.

“I know reporters.” He can’t do much with that. It’s good, broad, and unidentifiable. The two of you sit quietly against the intermittent sounds of honking and drunken shouts. It’s a strangely complete picture: the black boots of your suit, the whites of his, and an aerial view of the entire block. You’re very sure that Johnny has his eyes locked onto you, trying to fish for anything he can get.

“Thank you for saving me,” he says again. He wants to hammer it in, truly.

“Why the change of heart?” you murmur.

Relief—Iohnny straightens up at the fact that you’re opening up, at least a little bit. He practically jumps at the opportunity. “I’m learning to be more humble. Makes me a more well-rounded, admirable type of guy,” Johnny explains, with the same-old cockiness that you’re accustomed to.

“You should really be less self-sacrificial.” It’s impossible not to want to knock him down; he’s just so boyish and full of himself.

Johnny whistles. “You’re all straight talk, aren’t you?”

“Just telling it like I see it,” you say, “It’s not like you’ve got nothing to live for.”

“I know. I’ve got plenty. That’s why I do it.”

“Well, you should consider the consequences more often. People do care if you get hurt.” Your mind drifts to Sue—stoic Sue, holding the world on her shoulders. Reed and Ben. Franklin, most of all. And, though you don’t want to admit it, there’s a bit of selfishness to it, too. You don’t want to see Johnny hurt. You can’t think of a better reason why you would’ve swung in to save him. You care for him, the half-stranger flyboy.

Johnny laughs. “I’m the hotheaded one, though. Consequence isn’t really on my radar.” He’s like a walking television advertisement. You can’t stand it. He scoots just a tad bit closer to you, “You should know that the press is totally onto you.” No, they aren’t, you want to tell him. You spend far too much time covering your own ass—tampering with cameras, spilling coffee on notes. It isn’t so much as to compromise yourself; most news offices you get residences at like to chalk it up to crap luck.

You curtly tell Johnny, “I’m well aware,” hoping that he’ll just put it down. But, he’s already well-attached to the value of trying to warn you.

“And, I’m sort of an expert in handling the media spotlight—been doing this for six years and all, so…” He feigns a yawn, all too cool about the brag. You scoff, not sure if he can hear it through your tight mask. You hope he can. Johnny keeps quiet for a while, hunching over to look at the passing car lights below you both, keeping track of the pedestrians. While he’s distracted by this, you dare to take a better look at him.

“Moon’s full tonight,” Johnny murmurs. Romantic. You don’t know what he’s trying to do, and you’re not sure if you want to stick around for it. Even if he looks rather pretty alight with the artificial glow of the city—lip still busted, slim and fit in the uniform you almost watched him get kicked in on Friday night.

You get back on your feet, very near the edge of the rooftop, brushing any residual dust off the back of your legs. Johnny looks up quick enough to see you stretch out. You decide to give him a polite, “Have a nice night, Mister Storm,” before dropping off over the edge, shooting a web on the next building over to swing away.

—

The Baxter Building is as busy as ever, and you’re lucky enough to get a solo ride on the elevator up to Reed’s lab. You’re leaning on the back wall, scribbling preliminary notes on the lined-paper of a legal pad. You mumble aloud, just waiting for the lift to close and take you up—when you hear a too-friendly and all-too-familiar, “Good morning to you, too, Ada.” Johnny. Incoming.

Your eyes peek over the top of the pad, and you can peek his white-blonde hair and dark-wash denim from a mile away. It’s a short distance for you to travel, leaping to punch at the “close” button. Shit, shit, shit—you’re hugging yourself to the side-wall, praying that Johnny hasn’t already seen your frame or recognized the glint of your fake glasses. You jut your fingers into the vinyl button like your life depends on it. You’re more than thankful when the elevator responds—beginning to shut close—but a white sneaker slots in between the gap; the doors slide open.

At last, you surrender—laying off the panel with an irritated huff. Johnny peers in through the doorway, straight at you. Pure amusement adorns his face. Not a word. He just slips into the elevator, leaning on the back-wall adjacent to you. The elevator shuts again. A ding: it begins to rise. You decide you’re better off not admitting your desperation to shut the door, chest still rising and falling from the action. Instead, you tell Johnny, “I’m supposed to be meeting Reed. I’m his twelve-thirty.” 

Johnny tilts his head, “I’m pretty sure I’m his twelve-thirty.” You want to think that he’s lying, pulling your leg again, but he looks all too perplexed.

“Then, he double-booked himself,” you say matter-of-factly. It’s a simple-enough line of reasoning.

“He can’t have. Reed’s a neat freak. To do lists for his to do lists,” Johnny tells you. He thinks his brother-in-law is Type-A; it’s like second-nature for him to take a dig at Reed. Johnny points his index finger at your thin legal pad. “What’re you in for?” he asks you, like a chatty cell mate. It sure feels like jail, having him all leaned into you—too close.

“I’m reporting on his multiversal theory.”

Johnny’s shoulders set back, brows furrowed. “Isn’t that a bit advanced? Sounds more like it should be in a research journal.” You can’t be too pissy about his inquiry; you were just as stunned receiving the assignment, and he’s acting rather genuine about it.

“It’s a new thing they’re trying at the Bugle. Science and tech column,” you gloss, “They think that the article will pan out better with my style. More readable.” The elevator lets out a soft ding. You’ve reached Reed’s lab floor. “Less jargon-y.”

“They should probably just save space for the crossword,” he teases.

“That’s really funny, Johnny. Good one,” you jeer. You pass him on the way out of the elevator, not very willing to let him spot the absolute lack of malice on your face. As sarcastic as you want to be, there’s something rather flat about the retort. It doesn’t hold nearly as much vitriol as it should.

“That’s cute,” Johnny shrugs—tailing you out of the elevator, pace matching yours. “Pretend-serious. No bullshit, Johnny. You’re pissing me off, Johnny. I secretly wanna kiss you, Johnny.”

“I really don’t.” You halt in your footsteps, taking a good look at the lab before you. It really is a great setup—all-red, microscopes and test tubes scattered about the countertops; there’s state-of-the-art technology here that you’re very sure isn’t available to most scientists around the globe. Notable, too, is the lab’s lack of any Reed Richards. You flash the face of your watch up; it’s twelve-twenty. You’re both too early.

Johnny’s eager tone echoes loud across the floor. “Yeah, I so don’t wanna smooch you, either.” He makes it for one of the high-stools—half-leaning on it. You don’t find yourself quite as comfortable in the lab, settling for a nearby counter. Johnny grins, “I read the finished piece. You made me sound great. Very human.” 

“That was the goal.” You worked harder on the article than you’d be willing to admit. There was something about Johnny’s interview that struck you as needing good coverage; he gave you morsels of a touching story, of a really good guy, and you worked with what you had.

He leans in: “And… Silk? That’s what you’re calling her, right?” You stiffen; this is the last thing you need from him—needless, investigative questions about the other you that only exists after-hours. Johnny’s waiting for your answer, tapping along to an invisible beat on his jean-covered thigh.

“That’s what the media is calling her, yeah.”

“You had a little bit of a tidbit there at the end. ‘Silk may be spotted swinging around East Village, according to eyewitness reports.’ Where’d you pull that from?” he asks you. Clean-cut.

Hastily, you answer: “It’s public knowledge. Any corner store owner within a five mile radius of Credence Bank—“ 

“Do you know her?” Johnny asks you, stark-blue puppy-dog eyes. If he only knew… You bite the inside of your cheek. Your fingers toy with the corner of your legal pad—curving the pages up with your thumb and index finger.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” You’re too antsy. You can’t help it; you weren’t expecting a full-fledged interrogation, and you’re usually supposed to be the one asking people questions. Not the other way around.

He picks up on it like a hound. “So, you do.”

“It’s journalist-interviewee confidentiality, Johnny. I can’t tell you,” you insist. He throws his hands up in the air, impatient with your resistance. He’s relentless—grumbling, all too comfortable, “C’mon, at least give me a hint, hon”—that you’ve got to interrupt him. “Why do you wanna know, anyway?”

He blinks. “I’m a mystery-loving guy.”

You don’t buy it. There’s got to be some kind of ulterior motive—or, he wouldn’t be asking. You must’ve made a damn good impression during that robbery that made him want to stick to you—thorn in your side. You file through what you know about Johnny: cocky, family-oriented, loverboy… and the question answers itself. You push off the counter, pointing your index finger at him: “So, that’s what it is. You’ve got another fixation.”

Chagrined, he bites his tongue. “Okay, no. You don’t have to call it that. Makes me sound like a serial stalker.” He sort of is.

You count on your fingers. “First, Shalla-Bal. Now, Silk. You can’t help it.” It all clicks together, now. He’s got a track record for being all crazed over the unattainable, and you’d bet a pretty penny that the whole Silk situation has him tied in knots. Johnny rolls his eyes, but the tint of his cheeks, redder by the second, really clears it up for you.

Your pride in the matter makes him groan, “Fine, arrest me: Johnny Storm has a little thing for poised women in tight—“

“Gross, Johnny.” You wave your hands for him to stop. Considering you’re supposed to be the poised and tight-suitted Silk in question, this is becoming very awkward very fast. Even more urgently, you’re trying to keep your body from reacting to the passing comment—hot-skinned from top to bottom, chest tight. You need him to shut up.

Now, it’s Johnny’s turn to smirk. He crosses his arms, watching you intently. “I’m pulling your leg. I just have a gut feeling that I need to look into her, and I trust the hell out of my gut.” 

You can hear the elevator whirr and ding beside the two of you—saved by the bell. With turned heads, you can see the doors slide open to reveal Reed, adorned in his stark-white lab coat, checking the silver watch on his wrist. “Oh, good,” he says tediously, “You found your way up.”

“I don’t think she goes for blondes,” you slip out under your breath. Petty, maybe, but you want the last word in this altercation with Johnny. It’s the only way you’ll be able to settle with the fact that he’s all too close to finding out about your double-life.

“So not the point,” he replies, before pushing off his high-stool to greet the man of the hour. “Here’s Reed.” Johnny shoots his hand out to shake Reed’s hand, all show, and Reed breezes right past him. He drops it. You’re grounded to your spot at the counter, not at all willing to be between their squabbling.

“Excuse my brother-in-law. He doesn’t have even a kilogram of politeness in his body.” Reed makes it over to you with a quick shake of the hand—to which Johnny strongly protests, “I haven’t even done anything!”

“I’m sure you have,” Reed says curtly, “Johnny, I pushed you to one-thirty. HERBIE was supposed to tell you yesterday.” He tucks Johnny’s once-occupied high-stool closer to the red counter. Johnny can only stand there, getting chastised like he’s stolen cookies from the jar; you wonder if he’s any bit shy that it’s happening right in front of you, but you realize that it must happen all the time.

“That’s funny—HERB didn’t say a thing.” Johnny furrows his brows, glancing between you and Reed warily. So, he really wasn’t lying. You win. “Well… all good by me. I had a little bit of a chat with my pretty friend here, little bit of this, little bit of that—” he lists off. Reed’s stern face makes you want to web Johnny’s mouth shut.

“Door, Johnny.” Reed couldn’t be more blunt about it. He taps the side of his watch, and the elevator doors open up responsively. “One-thirty, and don’t be late.” Johnny gives him a light bow, before walking off with the quick click of his tongue. You lean back against the counter to track his exit. You can’t start the interview ‘till he’s out of the picture. And, it’s nearly impossible for you not to get a good show as he leaves: tight-jeans and the arc of his jacket curving around his waist.

You can hear him toss out a haphazard “Later, Pops,” walking in long strides to the elevator door. He makes a pivot to face you two, and you jolt your gaze up reactively. Something tells you that you’re a little bit too late, because he gives you a suggestive wink as the door closes—hands tucked behind his back. “Bye, gorgeous.”

—

It’s supposed to be a routine pass over Hell’s Kitchen. You think it shouldn’t be too bad, considering it isn’t a weekend—nightlife’s more quiet than usual, not as many bar hoppers. You help a couple of seniors, two drunk college kids, a group of lost tourists… what you aren’t expecting is to get shot. Stray bullet from a liquor store robbery. It’s a rash, split-second decision that has you moving against the current of your heightened senses; you throw your body to block its trajectory toward the window of a passing bus, too full of passengers to let fly loose. It doesn’t take long for you to web up the perp, get the liquor store employee to call the police, and get away in the nick of time. But, it doesn’t change the fact that there’s a bullet lodged into your side.

It isn’t your first time—but, the placement of this one’s pretty tough, and you’re completely sure that there isn’t an exit wound. The stupid thing is lodged in, and it isn’t going to come out by itself. You’ve decided to take a comfortable-enough respite on the dry concrete out back of a closed-down restaurant, above a bed of messily-lain newspapers. No hospitals. There’s potential for a fifteen-minute rest, tops, before you have to start trekking home. So, you sit and wait for the pain to subside, hand stuffed against the open puncture.

Fifteen minutes. Maybe, you pass out—fading between wide-awake and unconscious. You aren’t properly attentive until the white-hot burst of light lands beside you, backed by the crackling sound of fire. Bleary-eyed, you turn to face him. He looks like he’s jumped into a hurry to get to you; he’s not even wearing his suit—just a sweater and slacks that you’ve never seen on him before. Panic sets in at the sight of you all bloodied up and floor-bound.

Johnny kneels down at your side. You murmur out a sarcastically polite “Hey, you,” as he comes close to inspect you. Fingertips touch tenderly at your neckline, too close to the seam of your mask. You grab for his wrist—stronger than anticipated (Johnny’s eyes widen at your grip strength)—and let it go, before coughing out a feeble: “You’re not supposed to touch that.” Close-up, you can see that his face is almost all healed-up from his prior beating; the only residual trace of what happened at the bank is a bit of light-green bruising on his cheek. Now, you’re the one who’s down.

“I wasn’t going to. Promise,” he nods, pulling back, “I was just checking your pulse. Can you walk?” Johnny’s hands ghost over the hand pressed over your side. From your own glance downward, hand lifted for just a second, you can see that the fabric of your suit is stained scarlet around the entry wound—and the torn flesh that’s visible just beneath makes you nauseous. Johnny presses your hand back over the wound gently. “You hold this. I’m helping you up, and then we’re gonna get out of here.”

He hauls your arm over his neck. With gritted teeth, you lean onto his body. He’s strong, too; you can feel his tight stomach through his sweater trying to stabilize yourself. Not the time. The sharpness blooms through your stomach, and you swallow down a loud yelp. You swivel your neck to look at Johnny. He’s sweating.

“Were you tracking me?” There’s no other possible way he could’ve found you in this back alley without some sort of supplemented help. Johnny adjusts his grip on your hip. He moves you just a bit closer to the wall to give you a second to breathe. You prop against the bricks, fingers still wedged against your stomach. The gloves of your suit, too, have been painted red.

“We track all criminal activity that occurs across the city.” This is the same spiel that Reed always gives during press conferences. You don’t buy it for a second—uttering out a hushed “bullshit.” Johnny makes a quick look both ways—left out the alley, right, and then left again. The street's empty, so he’s back on you, acutely aware of your heaving breaths.

“Fine,” Johnny fesses up, “It’s the webbing on your suit. I rigged our system to identify the pattern in live feeds. Stalker, me. But, it worked out, didn’t it?” Pretty and smart.

“I live a few blocks away.” You have a nice tray of sanitized tweezers waiting at your apartment just itching to be used. You always do it by yourself, picking shrapnel and glass off your own skin on the bathroom floor. A solo traveler by trade.

“I’ll take you to the Baxter Building. We have better first-aid.” Johnny isn’t having it. “Let me take you there, treat you, and then you can run free.”

You want to run free now. There’s a chance that you could ditch Johnny, head up and away, but he might just follow you home. Then, he’ll know where you live—and that’s no good either. So, you’ve got to be honest about it: “I don’t need help.” 

“I know you don’t—but, I’m trying to return the favor. Just let me.” How can you say no to that? Johnny’s all soft, thumb brushing back and forth against your wrist. All he wants is to repay you for your good deed. For saving him. Johnny gives you a couple of taps on the hip. “Are you well enough for me to carry you there?”

—

Johnny’s fast about getting you there. It isn’t less than a minute that he blazes the trail back home. You can only feel a portion of the heat that wicks off of him as he holds you against him; largely, you’re being chilled by the windspeed. He drops you back down on your feet—keeping your arm steady over his broad shoulders. You’re trying to stay focused, vision blurring as he hauls you across the balcony of the Baxter Building. It’s one of the taller buildings in New York that you haven’t scaled the outside of; the view’s new, but you can’t gaze at it for long. He’s in a rush to get you inside, out of the cold.

“I’m bleeding on your sweater. Shit, is that cashmere? I’m sorry.” Blood loss is conducive to loose tongues, and it’s clear that you’ve lost a lot.

“It’s fine. I’ve got five of the same thing in my closet right now. One down isn’t going to kill me,” he insists. Once you breach into the living room, everything starts to feel a lot more familiar. Toy trains scattered across the floor; a half-full mug of hot chocolate that you assume was Johnny’s, and a bunch of magazines shuffled into a haphazard stack.

“I’m going to go get a kit in the kitchen. You can sit here and keep pressure tight,” Johnny staggers you closer to the conversation pit. It nearly makes you wrestle away from him.

You protest: “Not on the couch, Johnny.” He stalls—decidedly, not putting you down into the pit. You’re glad. It’s too low to the ground. And, it’d be a mess. You really wouldn’t prefer your blood having to get laundered out of the Fantastic Four’s couch cushions. In any case, the dining room seems like the optimal choice. Still, Johnny’s not moving, head tilted in an off way.

“Could you say my name again?”

“What?” Your abdomen feels like it’s being ripped from the inside out—so the request isn’t quite registering for you. One look at Johnny and you can only see his wide blue eyes, waiting expectantly. “Johnny—?” you murmur tentatively. “Still bleeding.”

This revs him back into action. Tenderly, he apologizes. “I’m sorry—I know, I know.” He takes you toward the dining room, pulling out one of the yellow-cushioned chairs for you to sit down, before going into the kitchen to rifle through some obscure, out-of-sight drawer. He comes up with a cassette tape, with something scrawled in neat print across the top; you squint your eyes to try and read it, but you just can’t make it out.

You realize only then that HERBIE is there in the kitchen, charging in his port. Johnny slots the tape into his front-panel, and the bot spurs into action, rolling up to greet you with pinching hands. He buzzes out something similar to a “hello” that you weakly give a wave back to. It seems that HERBIE’s already scanning across the damage on your stomach, switching out his pinchers for more adept surgical tools.

“He’s going to fix you up, but you’re going to have to take some of that off.” Johnny points to your suit. “I’m not trying to be raunchy about it, either.” You know he’s right. You have to peel your suit off and lift up the under-shirt underneath for access. You just can’t have him seeing. Johnny addends, noting your hesitance, “I’ll go upstairs. Everyone’s asleep. I’ll make HERB come and get me when you’re done and dressed, just to see you off.”

“Does he have a camera built in?” you ask, trying not to glowering from the present wound in your side.

“Trust issues. Noted,” Johnny teases. He reaches into HERBIE’s back-panel, flipping off a bright-blue switch that has the droid humming in uncertainty. Johnny only ignores the sound. “Recording’s off. Call me when you’re done.”

—

You don’t plan on notifying him—even if you are grateful; you just can’t have Johnny thinking that he can know you like this. After HERBIE slips you a couple of painkillers and a glass of water to swallow down, you redress yourself with your blood-tinted suit and make your way out. The little droid is switching back over to his usual pinchers when he sees you making a run for it; he buzzes out a blurry-sounding “wait! wait! wait!” and you try to raise your hand up to tell him to quiet down.

You’re almost about to make it back through the open glass door to the balcony, when Johnny calls out your name. Not “Silk.” Not honey or gorgeous. Your real name. He practically shouts it to reel you back into the living room, and it makes you stop on your tracks. You turn your head to find him—navy-blue t-shirt, cashmere sweater stripped off.

“I knew it,” he mumbles, “Gut feeling.” Now, he knows. You should’ve ignored him, kept your trajectory off the balcony and back home, but the long night’s gotten to your head; you’re tired and too prone to mistakes. When you turn around, he’s already right behind you—eyeing you up and down; from the gash in your suit, the bandages that HERBIE has rolled over your wound are just barely visible. A breathy sigh of relief passes from him.

“Johnny,” you murmur back, riddled with disappointment. He perks up.

“There, right there. I knew when you said my name that it sounded too familiar. Even with the mask on,” he tells you, “It threw me for a loop for a second, but I’d know the sound of you saying my name any day.” Johnny pulls a rolled up newspaper out of his back pocket, unfolds it, and hands it to you. It’s one of yours; you cut all of your clippings for safekeeping, and you know for a fact that this is Johnny’s article. Your fixer-upper, with the brief self-mention about the East Village Silk sighting. Johnny raps his index finger on the top. “You’ve been covering for yourself.”

It’s too late for plausible deniability. You take a deep breath, before pulling at the bottom of your mask, up and over your face. You’ve got to brave it to look him in the eyes. Somehow, Johnny’s still astounded to see that it’s you—and it’s been you. Bullet wound and all. “You have to understand that I can’t do this,” you assert.

He tilts his head, still taking in the sight of you. Hair all tousled from the events of the night, stress-ladened eyes. “Do… what?”

“This! You picking me up when I’m down, and taking me back to your place.” Hastily, you push the newspaper back into Johnny’s chest. “Don’t even think about it, because it’s not going to work out.”

He takes the newspaper from you and rolls it up again—tucking it straight back into his back pocket. “Can you elaborate what ‘it’ is for me? I am totally lost,” Johnny asks, soft eyes feigning innocence. He just wants the pure satisfaction of hearing you spell it out for him. 

“You and me. Seeing each other. Dating. Whatever you want to call it, it’s a crap idea because I live two lives, and I barely have enough time on my hands as-is.”

Johnny furrows his brows, “I think you’re forgetting that your night job is my day job. It’s a perfect match; we’re the same kind of busy.”

“You have groupies and billboards and front-pagers,” you blurt, “So not the same.” He can’t help but grin at your contention. All things considered, Johnny’s so-called “groupies” shouldn’t be that much of an issue to you. You’re ruffled, and it’s cute. He reaches his arm just past you to shut the glass door close, forearm brushing against your shoulder. It clicks shut, frigid air and the sounds of city traffic trapped outside.

“Listen,” Johnny elaborates slowly, “You’re hot. Beyond hot, actually. I’m also hot. And, as much as you hate to admit it, we get along really, really well. So, you should just try me on for the hell of it.” There’s something delectable about the way he lays it out for you. Try him on. Like he’s some kind of accessory. “I can give you a bit to think it over, obviously. It’s been a long night.” Too coy.

You think, maybe, you just want to shut him up, and that’s why you do it. You pull Johnny down by the neckline of his white shirt, and press your lips against his. So much for avoidance. It’s a make-out, and your senses are steeped in him. You’re inhaling the scent of Johnny’s cologne-musk—a woody, amber scent that makes your stomach tighten—and his hands are smoothing all over you. He feels his way down your body, tracing down the back of your suit; you almost want to shiver at the feeling. 

Johnny’s mindful of your patched-up side as you kiss, hands nudging you up against him. You swing him around briskly, pinning him against the glass door with a gentle thud. He beams, “Full of surprises, babe.” You don’t respond, focused solely on going in for seconds. You’re handsy, too, slipping your gloved fingers beneath the hem of his shirt to feel at his bare stomach. Johnny’s just roused by it, pushing up against your touch.

By the time you decide to take a breather, both of your faces are flushed. Johnny peels away from you and lands a peck on the tip of your nose. “I don’t want you swinging with stitches, so you should probably just spend the night. In my room.”

Instinctively, you’ve got to shake your head. “I think your spending the night and my spending the night are vastly different.”

Johnny tuts. “If we hook up, you’re going to squirm so much that your stitches’ll rip, HERBIE will be pissed at me that he has to work on them all over again—” You pinch him on the hip. “Okay, I earned that one.”

“Because you're all talk.”

“And, I’m all action most of the time,” Johnny considers, “But, not this time. You can sleep over tonight, so I can make sure you’re okay. No funny business.”

—

The next morning, you wake up on Johnny’s dark-blue sheets with an oversized “4” hoodie and a pair of his boxers on. Your suit is cleaned, pressed, and folded over the side of the bed with your undershirt and mask tossed on top. Johnny did stay true to his word—no funny business. Vaguely, you can recall him coddling you in the night. Warmed-up fingers hovering over your skin. Johnny moving to kiss your neck, just behind your ear… your eyes fluttering shut, the sensation lulling you to sleep. Now, he’s missing. Physically.

Audibly, you can hear him shouting just outside the bedroom door, “I know you want to vacuum, Ben, but I can just do it myself! Later, preferably.” It can’t be any earlier than eight in the morning—but you can’t quite find the analog clock in Johnny’s room to confirm it. You hear the whirring of the vacuum dragged along a carpet. This is drastically different from the Four you know as the press; you’re in their home. It’s intimate.

There’s more shouting over the ruckus. “Whaddya mean, Johnny? It’ll only take a couple of minutes; I might as well.” That must be Ben. You bury your face in your hands, cursing yourself for not slipping out sooner. It’s strange for you to see this side of Johnny: a morning routine, the self-portraits and the record player, the shelved space helmets. You want to make sure to ask him about the books on his bedside when you aren’t trying to sneak out back.

Johnny pauses, before blabbing: “I have a friend over.” The vacuum clicks off, leaving a lacking silence in the hall. As quietly as you can, you slip out from the covers and rush for the side of the bed. It’s an entire ordeal to slip Johnny’s hoodie and boxers off and tug your suit back on as quietly as possible.

You can see the outline of Johnny’s socks just beneath the crack of the door. He’s blocking it shut. Ben chuckles, “Right. One of your lady-friends. Can I take a guess?”

Too fast, Johnny responds, “You don’t know her.”

Another set of steps closes in between them. “Can you tell her Lynne’s trying to get her downstairs for a press release?” Sue. Of course she knows. She has her finger on the pulse of just about anything that concerns her little brother. What’s even more concerning is that your civilian clothing is back at your apartment; you need to leave if you’re going to make it in time. More commotion: Ben exclaims, “Wow! I do know this one,” and Sue scoffs, “Too easy.”

“She’s still asleep, and I really don’t want to wake her up. She’s just so relaxed,” Johnny coos. There’s a warm feeling in your chest that bubbles up at the sound of him talking about you. You try to let it subside as you zip your side.

“She’ll want you to wake her,” Sue insists, “And, tell her she’s invited for a thank you dinner, too. I’m still in debt for her saving your ass.”

“It was a very well-written article.” Another toss-out, sounds like Reed. Though, you’re ninety-nine percent sure that Sue’s not talking about the article. No matter. You’ve got to go; you can’t stay locked in here all day listening to the lot of them talking about you and Johnny and romance, generally.

“I’m going to go back in there, and I need all of you to just be cool. Go take Franklin to the park. Be anywhere else,” Johnny hushes. You can imagine him, through the door, flailing his arms about to get them to shoo. Their jumbling footsteps recede, and you watch as the knob of the bedroom door twists slowly. Johnny peeks his head in through the open crack—sees his borrowed clothes discarded on the bed first. 

Then, he opens the door wide. With you near the window, suited up, he sighs. You still wouldn’t peg him to be the worrying type, but here he is: checking you all over, eyeing the tear in your suit—where your bandages from last night are only slightly peeking through. “I heal faster than average,” you confess. Within the next couple of hours, you’re sure that the stitches will already be ready to fall out.

“Right. I should’ve guessed,” he responds, “Did you hear…?”

“Just about all of it,” you say sheepishly. Johnny slips in through the door and shuts it close behind him.

“They’re just excitable because, you know… I’ve talked about you. Both versions, separately,” he admits, “But, mostly press-you. Not the one that, you know…” Johnny acts out a couple of web-shots, back against the wooden door. You grin.

“Sue’s right, you know. I need to get down there, but I have to go grab my stuff at home first.” Johnny looks so beaten up that you’re leaving so soon that you feel almost guilty to even leave. So, you glide over to him, getting on your tiptoes to give him a soft kiss.

He grumbles, arm wrapping around your waist, “Just ditch. I was planning on making you breakfast in bed. I make a mean bowl of cereal.” His hands heat up as he grips you, trying to tempt you into staying—so you latch off. He only groans, looking up at the ceiling with a peeved expression. So close. Still, Johnny begrudgingly makes it over to the balcony window to slide it open for you. You sling a web to retrieve your mask off the bed. It zips right past Johnny straight into your hand.

His gaze is fixed down on your wrist. “Just so you know, you’ve got full consent to use those on me whenever,” he tells you.

“Never short of good ideas,” you snort. “Meet me downstairs before the press release. Half-past eight. Bring me a cup of coffee, and I’ll let you take my number.”

Johnny smiles wide at the proposition, walking you out to the balcony. The morning air is brisk, and you know that the swing over isn’t going to be any warmer. Your hands are glued to the railing of the balcony as you vault yourself over—paying little mind to the distance between yourself and the ground-level. The Baxter Building must be a little over a thousand-feet.

Before you can drop off the side of it, Johnny grabs for your hand: “Just a sec.” You hesitate. He makes sure to tug the bottom of your mask up, exposing the lower half of your face to the fresh air. “You are so not gonna regret this, gorgeous,” he murmurs warmly, lips brushing over yours. He gives you a brief smooch before tugging the mask back over your chin and adjusting it at your neck.

“See you in an hour, flyboy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steel striking wood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

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

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

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

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was harsh—but it was honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was when his hand moved.

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

But Robb was faster.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet now there was no denying it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted you to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And behind her, you stood.

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

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

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

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

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

He imagined a life without you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hall went still.

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

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

All eyes turned to Robb.

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

It found you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strange, unexpected calm.

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

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

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

For the first time, it felt like choice.