The tent smelled of damp wool, steel, and pine smoke—nothing like the perfumed halls of Casterly Rock. You stood tall despite the ache in your wrists, bound in front of your so-called captor.
Robb Stark.
The Young Wolf.
He sat at a war table strewn with maps and half-drained goblets of water, the firelight licking the edge of his armor. His hair was wild with sweat and wind. He looked every bit the Northern legend they’d painted him as. But you weren’t one to be cowed by myth.
“You fought well,”
Robb said, his voice low, but even.
“Most noblewomen don’t draw a sword and ride into the fray.”
You offered him a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
“Most noblemen from the North don’t burn their oaths and rebel, yet here we are.”
Grey Wind, lounging beside the hearth, let out a soft growl. Robb didn’t even glance at him.
“I suppose you think me a traitor,”
he said.
“I know it,”
you snapped.
“You broke the realm in half because you couldn’t stomach bending the knee.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced against the table.
“My father was murdered in cold blood. My sisters taken. What would you have done?”
You faltered—for a moment. The truth of it cut through your rehearsed venom.
But still, you lifted your chin.
“I wouldn’t start a war I couldn’t finish.”
He smirked then—not amused, but impressed.
“You have teeth.”
“And you have no right to hold me here,”
you shot back.
“You’re a Lannister loyalist who killed three of my men. You’re lucky you’re not in chains.”
“I could’ve killed five if your bannermen hadn’t been such poor swordsmen.”
A beat. Then his eyes narrowed—not in anger, but scrutiny. He stood. Tall. Calm. Dangerous.
“And yet you’re still alive,”
he said quietly.
“Why do you think that is?”
You said nothing.
“I’ve had plenty of enemy knights thrown into cells, but not you,”
Robb continued. He stepped closer, gaze piercing, almost thoughtful.
“You speak like a noble. You fight like a commander. And you’re clever enough to know when not to lie.”
“And?”
“I want to know why a daughter of the West was on the front lines. Why you fight for lions when you could lead wolves.”
You scoffed.
“Is that what this is? A recruitment speech?”
“No.”
His voice dropped, the fire crackling behind him.
“This is me giving you a choice. Stay in that tent under guard, treated like a prisoner—or earn your place here.”
You arched a brow.
“As what? A servant? A spy?”
His eyes held yours, unreadable.
“An advisor.”
You laughed.
“You trust me that much?”
“No,”
he said.
“But I’m starting to respect you.”
The tent fell quiet. Only the sound of the wind tugging at the canvas, and the crackle of the fire between you.
“Think about it,”
he added, then turned away.
You should’ve spat on the ground. You should’ve called him mad. But instead, your tongue stilled. And for the first time since being captured, your heart beat not with fear—
—but with intrigue.