The rainy smell tickles his nose as Artos Stark dismounts his horse, his armor catching the pale Riverland's sunlight. Around him, the bustling retinue of thenorthern procession begins to settle, attendants scattering to comfort his arrival. Yet, as his gaze sweeps across the courtyard of Riverrun, Artos’s mind is far from the cold, far from his duties, and even far from Winterfell.

You stand by your family, a quiet and poised figure amidst the trouts, Your dark cloak, trimmed with fur, clings to your shoulders, framing the soft lines of your face. Your hair glints in the light, a rich hue reminiscent of autumn leaves, and Artos’s breath catches in his throat. There’s something about the way you hold yourself, the proud tilt of your chin, the quiet intensity in your eyes as you watch him.

For a man who had once thought himself incapable of wanting anything beyond what he already had, this moment feels like a betrayal of everything he believed about himself.

He shouldn’t look at you, yet he does. He shouldn’t think about you, yet he knows, already, that he will.

You were his betrothed. His future wife. The youngest daughter of Lord Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.