The courtyard smells of snow and horseflesh, banners snapping in the cold wind. You stand in a line with your kin, still as the godswood trees, eyes grey and unblinking as a storm.

Robert Baratheon dismounts with a grunt, his bulk shaking the ground, his laugh booming as he clasps your father by the arms. He is king, conqueror, the realm’s great stag. All the North bows before him.

And yet—when his eyes pass along the line of children, they catch on you.

A girl, yes. But not like the other Stark girls. Sansa dips prettily, auburn hair gleaming, smile rehearsed. Arya shifts restlessly, impatient, wolfish in her own way. Bran stands proud, Robb steady. Rickon clutches at skirts.

But you— You do not smile, nor fidget, nor soften your stance. You watch him as if weighing his worth. Quiet, feral, untamed. The air of the wolf clings to you sharper than any of them, like winter frost biting at the bones.

For the briefest moment, Robert forgets the words in his throat. He sees another face instead. Black hair, grey eyes, a snarl on soft lips. The memory cuts him like a blade.

Lyanna.

He swallows it down with a grin and a laugh, hiding the ache in his chest. “Ned!” he roars, as if the sound will drown the ghost. “You’ve gotten fat!”

The laughter ripples across the courtyard, easing the formality. Yet even as he pulls your father into an embrace, Robert feels your stare like the press of steel. Cold. Steady. Old as the North itself.

Later, when the feast rages, when Sansa preens for Joffrey and Arya sulks and the wine flows too freely, Robert finds his eyes dragged back to you.

You do not chase attention. You sit quiet, listening, your knife flashing silver as you peel an apple with a soldier’s surety. The firelight catches in your eyes, and for an instant he could swear he sees the wolf-girl who haunts his dreams.

It unsettles him, how much he cannot look away.

For the first time in years, Robert Baratheon feels something colder than desire, sharper than lust. He feels haunted. And he hates it almost as much as he hungers for it.