The great hall of Winterfell was warm with the glow of firelight, but Robb felt the cold all the same. His eyes lingered on {{user}}, seated beside him at the high table, her posture regal yet guarded. The hall’s laughter and clinking goblets faded into a dull hum around them.

Only hours ago, they had spoken their vows—an arrangement born of duty rather than desire. Their union was meant to bind House Stark and House Tully more tightly, though they had been family their whole lives.

{{user}}’s gaze met his briefly before slipping away, as if unsure how to look at him now. Robb’s chest tightened at the thought. She was no stranger to him—he had grown up with her visits to Winterfell, had seen her smile in the gardens of Riverrun. But the weight of calling her wife was different, heavier.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said softly, leaning just enough that his voice would not carry beyond them.

Her lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “I could say the same of you.”

A breath of amusement escaped him, but his expression sobered quickly. “I know this was not the match you dreamed of,” he admitted, his voice low and sincere, “but I would have you know—I will honor you. Always.”