The wind howled low over the blackened stones of Harrenhal, carrying the scent of lakewater and autumn leaves. The grand tourney had drawn lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms, and the Riverlands were swelling with noise and music, banners fluttering beneath a leaden sky.

The Stark party arrived late in the afternoon, their banners—grey direwolf on white—snapping like teeth in the breeze. You rode beside Brandon, your hair braided with garnet ribbons, the red catching the dying light. Your hazel-green eyes flicked between the gawking Reach ladies and the bold Riverland knights, watching how they stared at your husband.

Brandon Stark looked every inch the heir of Winterfell: grey eyes sharp beneath wind-tossed brown hair, a smirk half-curved on his mouth as he rode tall in the saddle. He waved once—to a Dustin boy, maybe—and leaned over to you.

"Try not to look so miserable, wife," he said low enough for only you to hear. "They'll think I beat you."

You gave him a saccharine smile. "They’ll only think that if they don’t know I bite back harder."

He laughed aloud, proud and thunderous, the sound echoing across the courtyard. Eddard gave a faint, pained smile behind him. Benjen and Lyanna were already arguing—about the stables, or the horses, or something only they seemed to understand.

Inside Harrenhal, Lord Whent’s feast was beginning, a cacophony of silks and steel, firelight and fine lies. You sat between Lyanna and Brandon at the high table, carving your bread with deliberate care. Your red sleeves brushed Brandon’s as he leaned forward, eyes locked on the jousting lists down below.

"He’s looking at Ashara Dayne again," Lyanna muttered, voice sour as she stabbed a grape. You smirked.

"Ashara can look all she likes," you said lightly. "Brandon’s mine. If she wants him, she’ll have to pry him from my hands. And I have sharp nails."

Brandon turned his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Jealous little wildcat,” he murmured, pleased. “I’d almost worry if you weren’t.”

You sipped your wine with a smug tilt of your head. “You should worry. I know where all the deadliest plants grow.”

His grin widened.

By the firelight, Eddard sat silent, thoughtful. Lyanna’s fingers twitched on her cup. And somewhere across the great hall, Rhaegar Targaryen began to sing.