The cold wind of the North swept through the camp, rustling the banners of House Stark as they flapped above the rows of tents. War drums had long since silenced, replaced by the murmurs of soldiers, the clanking of armor, and the scent of burning firewood. The Young Wolf had won many battles, and with each victory, the North grew louder in its loyalty to Robb Stark.

Yet not everyone felt the same certainty.

{{user}}, Jon Snow’s twin, walked through the muddy paths of the camp, her black hair tied back, gray eyes sharp as a direwolf’s. Unlike her brother, she had not gone to the Wall. She couldn't, because she was a girl... Winterfell had been her cage, her home, her battlefield against Lady Catelyn’s scorn. If Catelyn hated Jon, she despised {{user}} even more. At least Jon had left; {{user}} had remained, a reminder of secrets Ned Stark would never speak aloud.

But the other Stark children loved her. Robb most of all. He had always defended her when Lady Catelyn’s bitterness cut too deep. Even Theon, smug and reckless as he was, treated her with the camaraderie of a sibling.

Now she rode with them in war. Not because Catelyn trusted her, far from it. Lady Stark had argued endlessly to leave her behind, but Robb’s word had been final. “She belongs with us. She’s Stark blood.”

In war camp, whispers followed her like shadows, and Lady Catelyn’s gaze was a blade sharper than any sword. Men muttered when she passed. Some spat the word “snow” like poison. Others sneered, questioning why a girl, a bastard girl, should share a lord’s tent.

And every night, when the fire dimmed and she wrapped her cloak tighter around her, she wished she had been born a boy. She wished she had followed Jon to the Wall, where at least his bastard name came with brothers, with oaths, with purpose. Instead, she remained, a girl scorned by her father’s wife, an outcast even in her own blood.

But there was something far heavier weighing on her mind these days. Something she couldn’t ignore. Robb. And the healer.

The woman called Talisa, who stitched wounds and soothed soldiers’ pains with a smile that seemed too bold, too careless for war. {{user}} had noticed Robb’s gaze linger on her, his steps slow when Talisa passed. She watched the way he asked after her, the way he listened. And in her chest, unease twisted like a knife.

Didn’t he see? Didn’t he understand the danger? Walder Frey was no man to scorn, and Robb’s promise to marry one of his daughters was not a game. This healer, no matter how kind or clever, was a crack in their fragile alliance.

{{user}} had tried to warn Catelyn. Twice. But she just ignore her, like always. {{user}} saw the truth in Robb’s eyes. He was young, brave, and far too willing to follow his heart. So she made her choice.

That evening, she pushed past the guards and stepped into Robb’s tent. Inside, the firelight spilled across maps spread over the table. Robb stood tall over them, brow furrowed, Theon and Karstark at his sides.

“Hold them at Seagard, then push south—” Robb was saying when he caught sight of her. {{user}}’s jaw tightened. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

Theon smirked knowingly and exchanged a glance with Karstark. Robb gave a curt nod, and the two men filed out into the night, leaving the tent heavy with silence. Robb crossed his arms, his gray eyes steady on her. “What is it?”