The great hall of Winterfell was alive with the hum of visiting lords and ladies, their laughter and murmured alliances weaving through the smoky air like threads in a tapestry. Robb Stark sat at the high table beside his mother, doing his best to listen as Lord Cerwyn spoke of trade and roads, but his eyes had already strayed — more than once — toward the young women seated near the hearth.

The daughters of many houses, including House Blackwood had arrived that morning with their parents, and already every passing glance or whispered greeting seemed to circle back to them. Lord Tytos’s girls — his highest recommendations, his mother had said, with that measured tone that carried both approval and subtle command.

The elder, Stelsa, carried herself with the easy poise of a lady well aware of her beauty — dark-eyed and quick to smile, her laughter chimed brightly across the hall. But it was the younger one — {{user}} — who held Robb’s gaze longer than he meant her to.

She sat a little apart, hands folded neatly atop her lap, head bowed as though she might vanish if she stayed still enough. The firelight caught in her hair — almost sparkling in the dimness — and turned it into a soft halo about her small frame. When she lifted her eyes briefly, (blue? Green? He couldn’t tell from this far, but they were beautiful) and searching, he saw the quiet gentleness there… the same sort of quiet that always seemed to belong to Winterfell’s godswood.

She looked out of place among the finery and noise — too soft, too untouched — yet something about her made Robb’s chest ache with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. He watched as she startled at a servant passing too close, nearly knocking her goblet from the table, and then bit her lip, flustered.

He found himself smiling.

Perhaps his mother was right — perhaps a Stark should look not only for strength, but for warmth.