Robb stood near the godswood, his breath curling in the chill air, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar figure before him. The Baratheon–Lannister princess—his betrothed—stood beneath the weirwood, crimson leaves dancing around her like embers caught in a wind.

She didn’t look like a lion. Not like Cersei or Jaime. Her bearing was colder, quieter, but somehow fiercer. Her silver-threaded gown shimmered in the pale light, and her eyes, sharp and distant, made him feel like he was being weighed and measured—like she already knew something he didn’t.

"You’re not what I expected," Robb said, stepping closer, his tone cautious but curious.

She turned slowly to face him, the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. "Is that so? And what did you expect?"

He hesitated, caught between courtly manners and honest words. "Someone softer. Gentler. Less… steel."

"And you, my lord, are exactly what I expected." Her voice was smooth, laced with something unreadable. "A wolf with honor in his bones and snow in his blood."

Robb flushed slightly, not from embarrassment, but from the sudden weight of her gaze. She unnerved him. Not with arrogance, but with something far older. Something dreamlike.

"You speak like a prophet," he said. "Do you see the future?"