The halls of King’s Landing were colder than the North ever was.

You’d been there three months—three months of grief, silence, and captivity. After the fall of your house, of Robb, your twin, of Winterfell—you were the last Stark the Lannisters had their claws in. The “Chosen Girl,” the North once called you, the one with not one but three direwolves—Remus, Rombulus, and the she-wolf Nimbus. The only kindness you’d been shown was being allowed to keep them. The maesters said it was due to your failing eyesight, but it was more than that. They were part of you. Extensions of your soul. They kept you standing.

You chronicled everything in your diary. Pages and pages of your time in that gold-drenched cage, of the oaths they forced from your lips, of the way Cersei watched you like a lioness circling prey.

Then came Tywin.

“Pack your things,” he said. “You’re to marry my son.”

Your fingers had trembled as you packed your satchels. You’d never met Jaime Lannister—just heard stories. The Kingslayer. The golden lion. The man your brother once took a hand from. Of course he would hate you.

And he did. At least, at first.

The ride to Casterly Rock was long, silent. You read from memory, wrote more in your diary, fed your wolves dried meat with careful hands. Jaime never spoke. You thought his silence was disdain, and maybe it was.

They forced the ceremony the moment you arrived—red silks, Lannister gold. No bedding ceremony, though. You were grateful. He walked away from you before the guests had even finished their wine.

He didn’t look at you for days.

Still, you stayed. You learned the Rock, stood at his side when summoned. You smiled when spoken to, fed your wolves by the sea cliffs, and every night, you wrote your heart into parchment.

Weeks became months.

You never pressed him for affection. You bore his bitterness quietly, refused to let it harden you. When lords insulted you, you remained poised. When they laughed at your direwolves shadowing your every step, you nodded calmly and walked away. And still, you stayed.

Something changed in him, slowly.

It was the way you never raised your voice. The way you touched the walls of Casterly Rock like you were memorizing a prison. The way you whispered thanks to the stable boy who tended Remus when he limped.

You didn’t realize how often he began watching you. Until one night.

You sat at your writing desk, Nimbus curled at your feet. The fire flickered low. Quill scratching against the diary’s worn pages. You didn’t hear him at first. Just the quiet shift of air as the door opened.

When you turned, Jaime was there. Golden hand catching the firelight.

You stood slowly, unsure. “Ser Jaime?”

He stepped forward, slower than usual. Like he was unsure, too. His face was unreadable, eyes softer than you’d ever seen. He reached for you—his golden hand cupping your cheek.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. Then, slowly, you pressed your lips to the metal. A kiss of reverence. Of understanding.

“You stood by me,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even when I gave you nothing.”