The wind sang low across the battlements of Winterfell, carrying with it the smell of snow and pine. The North was sleeping under a pale moon, and all was still, save for the chamber of the Lord of Winterfell, where a single candle burned.

Robb Stark stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his blue-grey eyes turned toward the godswood. The heart tree’s face, red as blood, glimmered faintly through the frost. It always looked as if it wept for something only the old gods remembered.

Behind him, she stirred.

“My lord husband,” she said softly, her voice a whisper that brushed against him like snow. {{user}} Targaryen. His wife, his secret, his peace. The youngest daughter of the Mad King, hidden for nearly two decades beneath the grey sky of Winterfell, and now the quiet flame that warmed the wolf’s heart.

No one beyond Winterfell’s walls knew. Only Ned Stark had borne that burden, and when the grave closed over him, Robb had inherited more than his father’s crown, he had inherited the secret too. And, in time, he had taken it to his bed.

He turned toward her. Her hair, pale silver, almost white, fell loose upon her shoulders, the firelight touching it like molten frost. In that light, her violet eyes gleamed faintly, not northern at all. The sight still caught him off guard, even now.

“You should sleep, my lady,” Robb said. “It’s late.”

She smiled faintly. “So should you. You pace like the godswood wolf, restless.”

“I am restless,” he admitted. “News from the South travels slower than ravens in this weather, but it reaches us all the same. Daenerys Targaryen has crossed the Narrow Sea.”

{{user}}’s gaze dropped to the sheets, her fingers twisting in the fabric. “My sister,” she murmured. “I used to dream she’d forgotten me.”

Robb went to her then, sitting on the edge of the bed, his calloused hand finding hers. “She may be your blood,” he said, “but the North is your home. You are my wife, and you are of Winterfell. You belong here.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. There had been times, long ago, when she had dreamed of the South, of dragons and fire, of the Red Keep she had never seen. But years in the snow had changed her. She was no longer Rhaella’s daughter, nor Aerys’s. The wolf blood had claimed her quietly, with the patience only the North could teach.

“I know,” she whispered. “But Robb… if she truly is coming, if she comes to call banners—”

“I will meet her as I would any ruler who seeks the North’s aid,” he said, firm but not cruel. “The North remembers. We do not kneel easily. And I will not have Winterfell made to bow before another Targaryen.”

His words stung her more than he knew. But she said nothing, only watched the candlelight dance on his face. In that moment, Robb Stark looked every inch the King in the North, proud, weary, and unyielding. Yet beneath that steel, she could still see the boy who had held her hand in the godswood, the boy who had promised her the world when she was just a frightened child who didn’t belong.

The days grew colder still. Word spread like wind over frozen rivers: the Dragon Queen had landed in the North. Three dragons had darkened the sky above White Harbor, and her army marched toward Winterfell.

When Daenerys Targaryen finally entered the Great Hall, the air itself seemed to tremble. Robb sat on the high seat beneath the direwolf banners, his expression a mask of stone. {{user}} stood beside him, veiled and silent, her heart beating like a trapped bird.

The queen’s eyes, sharp, violet, burning, fell upon her.

“You,” Daenerys whispered. “You’re alive.”

Robb rose, his hand instinctively moving to his wife’s shoulder. “She is Lady Stark now,” he said. “The North’s blood runs in her veins as much as mine.”