Robb Stark had been raised on the weight of duty and the chill of northern honor—but lately, he wore both as lightly as a fur-lined cloak. Life had settled sweetly on his shoulders: mornings spent sparring in the yard until steam rose off his skin; afternoons chasing deer through snow-dusted forests with Jon flanking him and Grey Wind streaking ahead like a silver ghost; evenings of laughter, ale, and warm-bodied women who sighed his name against the furs. He moved through it all with the ease of a young wolf who knew the world was his—smiling, sharp, alive.

He lived like the North itself: sharp, bold, burning under the cold.

Grey Wind was always at his heel, Jon at his right, Theon at his left, as if the world had arranged itself neatly for him.

When word came that the royal family would arrive in Winterfell for the Turning of the Year Feast, Theon had been the first to whistle low and elbow him in the ribs.

“Gods, Robb,” he’d grinned, wicked as ever, “they say the king’s eldest daughter is so beautiful she could make even a Stark forget the cold. Think you’ll manage to keep your… sword… sheathed?”

Robb shoved him off and called him an idiot. But even then he felt a flicker of curiosity.

He wasn’t prepared.

Now he understood the warning.

Because the moment you rode through Winterfell’s gates beside your father, wrapped in winter-blue velvet and starlight, his body reacted before sense could catch up. His breath snagged. Heat punched low in his stomach, fast and fierce. For a heartbeat everything—snow, banners, voices—blurred, and only you remained, bright as a promise.

At dinners, he found himself seeking you without meaning to, pulled by something deeper than he could name. He flirted almost helplessly, though he hid it behind polished northern charm.

“You shouldn’t sit this close to me,” he murmured one night, leaning in so only you heard. “I can’t promise I’ll behave.”

Another evening, when you teased him about northern cold, he grinned: “Ride with me at dawn. I’ll show you all the ways I can keep you warm.”

Each time you laughed—real, bright, unguarded—joy rushed through him with such force he felt foolish.

Now the Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with golden light for the Turning Feast. Evergreen branches draped the beams; ribbons of deep crimson and silver hung from the rafters; tables bent under roasted venison, spiced boar, sugared pears, hot mulled wine. Minstrels played lively northern reels, and lords and ladies twirled on the stone floor.

Robb noticed none of it.

He saw only you.

You stood near the dais, radiant, laughing with your uncle Tyrion—who looked far too amused at making you laugh. The sound hit Robb like an arrow to the ribs. He didn’t realize he’d taken a step toward you until Theon’s elbow jammed sharply into his side.

“Oh gods, look at him,” Theon snickered, loud enough for Jon to choke on his drink. “Stark’s about to fall to his knees. Careful, Robb, if you stare any harder, everyone will know exactly what part of her you’re praying to.”

Robb elbowed him back, harder. “Seven hells, shut up.”

Jon hid his laugh behind his fist, eyes warm with knowing.

Robb didn’t care. Not anymore.

He crossed the hall—boots echoing, heart hammering, eyes locked on you. Grey Wind padded behind him until he gestured subtly for the direwolf to stay back. This moment was his.

You turned just as he reached you, and the smile you gave him settled deep in his bones.

Robb bowed—low, controlled, deliberate—but when he straightened, the flirt in his expression was unmistakable.

“My lady,” he said, offering his hand, voice a velvet rasp that warmed even the coldest air, “if you would grant me the honor of a dance, I promise to return you to your uncle entirely intact…”

A beat. His smile sharpened.

“…though I can’t promise I won’t try to steal a few heartbeats of you for myself.”

His fingers extended toward yours—steady, confident, hungry beneath the courtesy.

“Come,” he whispered, northern-blue eyes burning. “Let the new year turn with you in my arms.”