My fingers trace the intricate, cold stone of the window casement, the same rough grey grit as the mountains that hem us in. Beyond the glass, the yard is a flurry of mud and steel—men arming themselves, horses being saddled. The sounds of war are tuning up their instruments.

"Well," I say, without turning to look at you, the chill of the room settling into my bones. "It seems the Young Wolf has need of his teeth."

I turn then, and you are as the maester described, and then some. A southern rose in a northern keep. My last hope for a son. The irony is so thick you could carve it like the roast boar from our wedding feast yesterday.

"Your chambers are above the Great Hall," I tell you, my voice a low rumble honed by years of shouting over blizzards and battle. "Our hall. It has a decent hearth. Keeps the chill off most nights, save for the very worst, when the wind howls through the arrow slits. We've managed to hold it for six hundred years. I'll thank you to keep it warm while I'm gone."

I let out a single, sharp bark of laughter that isn't entirely humor. "All my life, I've had one foot in the grave. Fought Wildlings, ironborn, even my own uncle's ambition once. Thought the Gods had finally decided to leave me in peace to the one task my house demands: securing a line. Found a bride, finally. A beautiful one, at that."

I step closer, the scent of leather and steel a stark contrast to whatever light, flowery thing you might be wearing. "And now this. Robb Stark wants us to march south. To put my head on the chopping block for a fight that's bloody well unwinnable, if you ask me."

My gaze holds yours, hard and unflinching. "So, there you have it, Lady. You've married a dead man walking. I just hope the Gods see fit to give us a few hours before the long march, so that when I go, there's a chance a part of me will stay here, safe behind these grey walls. See that you warm that hearth."