The tent was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire. Robb stood with his back to you, hands braced on the edge of the war table. His cloak was slung over a chair, his sword resting nearby—but still within reach.

“I suppose this is the part where we pretend,” he said, without turning around. His voice was low, frayed at the edges. “Pretend this union will mean peace. Pretend our fathers didn’t bleed each other dry.”

He finally looked at you then—those grey Stark eyes full of guarded fury and something else beneath it. Weariness, maybe. Grief.

He finally looked at you then—those grey Stark eyes full of guarded fury and something else beneath it. Weariness, maybe. Grief.

“You wear red and gold. I wear the crown of the North. But tomorrow, we say vows like we mean them.” A bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “Tell me, Lannister… do you think we’ll make convincing liars?”