The bargain had been struck beneath the towers of the Twins when House Stark stood with a river at its back and an army that could go no farther. Lord Walder Frey had named his price with all the satisfaction of a man who knew fortune had finally favored him. In return for crossing the Green Fork, Robb Stark would take one of his eight legitimate daughters to wife, while Arya Stark and Edmure Tully would be promised to House Frey besides. It was a humiliating negotiation for a king, yet one Robb accepted without complaint. His father's life had still seemed within reach then, and every hour wasted upon the river favored the Lannisters. Men whispered often enough of Lord Walder's daughters—that they were plain-faced at best, homely at worst, their appearances the subject of cruel jests from White Harbor to King's Landing—but Robb had neither asked nor cared. Beauty had never entered into the bargain. Oaths had.

A fortnight had passed since the wedding feast. Winter still waited somewhere beyond the horizon while the war marched ever onward. Robb's queen travelled with the host, as did Lady Catelyn. So too did Talisa, refusing every comfortable castle in favor of bloodied bandages and wounded soldiers. Robb had not forbidden her. He could not have found the words.

His pavilion lay quiet beneath the evening sky, save for the distant clang of a smith's hammer and the low murmur of sentries changing watch. Grey Wind slept just beyond the entrance, one amber eye opening as Robb stepped inside. He loosened the wolf-headed clasp at his cloak and exhaled heavily, every muscle aching from another day in the saddle.

His wife sat waiting.

Between them rested a folded cloak she had attempted to mend. The stitching was uneven, clumsy enough that the direwolf embroidered upon the shoulder had become lopsided. It was plainly the work of someone determined to please despite possessing little skill with a needle.

Robb stared at it a heartbeat longer than he intended.

"It needn't be perfect," he said quietly, forcing warmth into his voice before it could become impatience. "Winterfell's seamstresses would've had fits over my torn cloaks besides."

The words sounded kinder than he felt. Not because of the crooked stitches.

Because another pair of hands had once patched a soldier's sleeve in exactly the same corner of camp that afternoon. He had watched Talisa kneel beside a fevered bo.y scarcely older than Bran, smiling as though the horrors around them had no claim upon her. He had looked away before she could catch him looking.

Gods, what sort of man measured one woman against another after speaking sacred vows before the old gods and the new?

His jaw tightened. This was not her doing.

She had not asked to become a prize traded for a bridge. She had not demanded a king's hand. She had ridden north from the Twins exactly as frightened as any gir.l torn from the only home she had ever known. She deserved better than a husband whose heart wandered where his eyes ought not.

Robb crossed the tent and carefully lifted the cloak. "You've done well," he said, quieter now, and this time he meant it.

He laid it over a chair before turning back to her, his blue eyes carrying the weary honesty that had made men follow him into impossible battles.

"I won't shame you," he promised. "Not before the gods. Not before these men. Whatever else this war has made of me... I gave you my word."

For a long moment he looked toward the tent flap, where Grey Wind's silhouette stood against the firelight outside.

Then, almost to himself, Robb murmured, "Honor's a heavier thing to carry than a crown."