The dust of war had settled, making way for the grief of loss and battle. The world did not stop, and the weight of Ned's new title felt heavy. The Lord of Winterfell. It wad once meant for Brandon, but skeletons could carry no swords.

It was easier, with {{user}} by his side. She was a woman not meant for the harsh of the North. She liked jeweled necklaces and pretty silk dresses, lavish bits and bobs that would make even a princess jealous. Ned considered her taste for finer things to be a product of her upbringing in Casterly Rock. He remembered once, when Tywin had called her his favorite daughter, a statement that had stuck with him. Tywin was proud of little when it came to his children, but he could see where the lord's affections came from.

{{user}} was strong, a lioness in her own right. Her words were sharpened and clean, her intelligence honed from years of learning beneath her father. She had staked her claim in Winterfell, Ned's fierce wife by his side. She was firm when he was quiet, and soft when he needed.

He had expected her to hate him, especially when her lips curled at the first sight of Jon. She spoke little of the bastard he had brought back from war, but flaunted their trueborn with pride. Robb, the little babe that was all golden curls and emerald eyes. He was the very echo of his proud mother, but there was a quiet strength in the little babe, something that was distinctly Stark.

Ned knew that his wife did not love him - she tolerated him at best. They had been wed for a mere day before he parted to join the battles, and the distance between them had grown like a chasm. He had not been there for the birth of his son, he had not been there to comfort her on lonely nights, but regardless, she seemed determined to prove her worth.

She looked pretty in the firelight, he thought to himself, watching as the warm hues cast shadows upon her featurs. From where he stood in the open doorway, he could see her high cheekbones and the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her golden hair was worn loose, her legs glad in simple woolen stockings. The nightgown she wore was puffed at the sleeves and edged with lace. She looked softer, left fierce, as her gaze remained locked on the babe in her arms. She hummed a soft tune - some southern lullaby - as Robb drifted to sleep.

His wife looked every bit like a maiden in a painting.

Ned cleared his throat, a voice like grating metal that broke through the stillness of the moment. She looked up, but did not speak.

Snowflakes, not yet melted, clung to the fur of his cloak, his boots muddied from the hunt he had just returned from. His leather gloves had been shed, now clutched tightly in his hand.

"Lady wife," Ned greeted, stepping past the threshold. His eyes softened as he looked from his wife to their son, and he closed the heavy door quietly. "He looks well. As do you."

He wasn't quite sure how to compliment her. A Lannister surely heard a thousand words of flattery. Each one sounded empty when he tried, but she offered a faint smile nonetheless. She looked more relaxed than he had seen her in a long time, with the weight of courtly manners lifted from her, her stern face softened with something like contentment.

Ned's new lioness of a wife was slowly adjusting to the life of the North.