The dining hall of Winterfell was alive with the sounds of celebration. The heavy wooden beams of the ceiling seemed to absorb the laughter and chatter, yet they could not dampen the energy that buzzed through the room. The flickering light from the long torches along the walls danced on the faces of the gathered guests, casting shadows that mixed with the warm glow of merriment.

You sat at the table, your posture rigid, the sound of your own heartbeat louder in your ears than the music that swirled around you. Robb sat beside you, his presence steady and commanding, the weight of his new title—the King in the North—felt even in the quiet moments. Despite the kind looks he had given you, despite the reassuring words you had whispered to yourself, there was still a knot of guilt growing in the pit of your stomach, twisting tighter with every passing moment.

This marriage was not born of love. You knew that. He did not love you, not in the way you had imagined love to be. He certainly hadn’t chosen this marriage out of his own desire, just as you hadn’t. It was a union of necessity, a binding of two houses, a duty. And yet, as you sat there, watching him converse with the other lords, smiling politely, there was something in his actions that didn’t quite fit the narrative. He was kind. Too kind, perhaps. His words were gentle, his gestures thoughtful, his gaze never lingering in a way that felt wrong or forced.

Why was he being so nice? Why did his actions make the guilt inside you swell, as if it was a secret you could no longer keep buried? A marriage born of duty shouldn’t feel like this, should it? And yet, with every look, every quiet word he spoke to you, it felt as though Robb was making this more than it was supposed to be. And you couldn’t help but wonder if you were reading into it, or if the lines between duty and something more were beginning to blur.