ROBB
The chamber door closed with a soft finality behind them, shutting out the muted sounds of celebration that still echoed through Winterfell's stone corridors. Robb exhaled slowly, grateful for his father's intervention that had spared them the traditional bedding ceremony. No drunken lords carrying Ruyan to their chamber, no giggling ladies unlacing his breeches with wine-clumsy fingers. Just this: quiet, privacy, and the weight of expectation settling around them like a cloak.
The room was warm, almost unseasonably so. Servants had built up the fire to a steady blaze and placed heated stones beneath the massive bed. Candles burned in iron sconces along the walls, their light catching on the fur coverings and the steam rising from a copper bathtub in the corner. Someone—his mother, perhaps, or one of Ruyan's attendants—had scattered winter rose petals across the turned-down bed.
Ruyan stood perfectly still near the center of the room, her white wedding gown gleaming in the firelight. She looked neither anxious nor eager, simply present—a quality Robb had come to recognize in her. She occupied space with intention, never fidgeting, never performing unnecessary movements. Even now, facing this most intimate of duties, her composure remained intact.
Robb unfastened his ceremonial cloak, draping it carefully over a nearby chair. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"I should tell you," Ruyan said finally, her voice steady and clear, "I have taken herbs these past three days. I will take them again tomorrow." She met his gaze directly. "But if you prefer to withdraw, I understand. It is more certain."
"I know the theory," he admitted, his voice low but steady. "Not the practice."
Ruyan nodded, seemingly unbothered by this admission. "That is to be expected," she said simply.
She began to unpin her hair, removing the pearl ornaments one by one and placing them on a side table with deliberate precision. The dark strands fell in waves down her back as she freed them—a private unveiling that somehow felt more intimate than if she had removed her clothes first.
"Do you want instructions?" she asked, turning back to him once her hair was fully loose. Then, with a pragmatism that caught him off guard: "There is a book. With diagrams. If you prefer precision."
Robb nearly laughed, the tension in his chest easing slightly at the unexpected offer. "I don't think we need the book," he said, a hint of wry humor softening his words. "But I appreciate the suggestion."
She nodded, accepting his response without judgment. Her hands moved to the fastenings of her outer robe, working the elaborate clasps with practiced efficiency. "Have you ever tried the withdrawal technique before?" she asked, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were inquiring about his experience with a particular fighting stance.
"No," Robb admitted, "but I've studied it."
"Then go slowly," she advised, her dark eyes meeting his steadily. "Intent is not the same as discipline."
The outer robe slipped from her shoulders, revealing the simpler silk shift beneath. She folded the garment carefully before placing it aside. There was no seduction in her movements, no theatrical reveal—just the practical undressing of someone preparing for a necessary task. Yet Robb found himself transfixed. Her modesty wasn't born of shyness or fear, but rather of cultural discipline, of control maintained even in vulnerability.
He realized he was still fully dressed, still standing several paces away from her. With deliberate steps, he moved closer, his hands finding the fastenings of his own formal attire. Ruyan watched him with the same attentive gaze she brought to everything—observant, calculating, present.
"We don't have to rush," Robb said, surprising himself with the steadiness in his voice. "There's no one waiting for proof of consummation."
"No," she agreed. "Though eventually, there will be expectations of heirs."
"But not tonight as we have discussed," he stated, making it half a question.
Something shifted in her expression—not a smile, exactly, but a subtle softening around her eyes. "Not tonight," she confirmed.
As his outer clothing joined hers on the chair, Robb felt a curious calm settling over him. This wasn't the passionate wedding night of bards' tales or the awkward fumbling of inexperienced lovers. It was something else entirely—a negotiation, a beginning, the first careful step in what would be a lifelong dance of compromise and discovery.
Ruyan's hands moved to her shift, and she paused, meeting his gaze once more. "Would you prefer to undress me?" she asked, practical rather than coy. "Or would you rather I continue?"
The question, so direct, so unlike the demure hesitation he might have expected, struck Robb with unexpected force. This was the reality of his marriage—not romance, not conquest, but partnership. Choice. Agency on both sides.
"I would like to undress you," he answered, his voice low but clear.
She nodded and lowered her hands, waiting for him to approach. When he reached her, close enough now to detect the subtle scent of jasmine in her hair, he hesitated. His hands, steady in battle and sure on a horse's reins, suddenly seemed too large, too rough for this delicate task.
Ruyan sensed his uncertainty. With deliberate movements, she took his right hand and guided it to the silk ties at her shoulder. "Like this," she said softly. Not an instruction exactly, but permission. An opening.
The silk was cool beneath his fingers, the knot yielding easily to his touch. As he worked the fastenings, he found himself acutely aware of the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth radiating from her skin, the careful attention in her dark eyes as she watched his movements.
When the shift finally slipped away, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric, Robb's breath caught in his throat. She stood before him without shame or artifice, her body illuminated by firelight—smaller than him but strong, her breasts high and firm, her waist narrowing to flare again at her hips. A warrior's body, he realized, toned and disciplined, yet undeniably feminine.
"You're beautiful," he said, the words emerging before he could consider them.
Something flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, or the ghost of a genuine reaction beneath her careful composure. "Thank you," she replied simply.
Her hands moved to his remaining clothing, her touch efficient without being clinical. As she worked, Robb found himself studying her face more than her body—the concentration in her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows, the careful precision of each movement. When his smallclothes joined the rest of their garments, he stood before her as naked as she was, equally exposed.
For a moment, they remained thus—two strangers bound by vows and duty, seeing each other truly for the first time. Then Ruyan reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest, tracing the contours of muscle with careful attention.
"You are strong," she observed, her voice carrying a hint of approval. "Your training serves you well."
The simple statement, delivered without flattery or pretense, affected Robb more than flowery compliments might have. It was assessment, yes, but also acknowledgment—recognition of the discipline he brought to his own body, to his own duties.
His own hand lifted, hesitating briefly before coming to rest on the curve of her waist. Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his palm, the muscle firm. She didn't flinch. Just watched him with those dark, observant eyes.
"The bed?" he suggested, his voice lower than before.
She nodded, stepping back toward the fur-covered expanse. Robb followed, acutely aware of his growing arousal, of the unfamiliar territory he was entering. As they settled onto the mattress, he found himself grateful for the room's warmth, for the glow of firelight that softened the edges of this moment.
Ruyan reclined against the pillows, her dark hair spreading across the white linen like spilled ink. She regarded him with the same attentive gaze she'd maintained throughout—neither inviting nor rejecting, simply present and aware.
"I will guide you if needed," she said softly, pragmatic even in this intimate moment. "But you should explore what feels natural first."
Robb nodded, understanding her meaning. She would not resist him, would not shy away from his touch, but neither would she pretend passion where there was none. Not yet. Perhaps someday, but not this night.
He lowered himself beside her, propped on one elbow as his free hand traced the curve from her shoulder to her breast. Her skin pebbled slightly at his touch, her nipple hardening against his palm as he cupped the soft weight. Not large, but perfectly proportioned to her frame.
Ruyan's breathing deepened slightly, the first true sign that his touch affected her beyond the physical. Encouraged, he continued his exploration, mapping the contours of her body with careful attention. When his hand slid lower, across the flat plane of her stomach to the dark curls between her thighs, her lips parted slightly.
"May I?" he asked, his fingers hovering.
"Yes," she replied simply.
He found her there, warm and already growing slick beneath his careful touch. As his fingers explored her folds, learning the terrain of her most intimate place, Ruyan's composure finally showed the first cracks—a slight arch of her back, a barely audible catch in her breath.
Robb watched her face as he continued, fascinated by these small betrayals of feeling. When his fingers found the small nub at the apex of her sex, her eyes widened fractionally, and her hands, previously resting at her sides, moved to grip the sheets.
"There," she confirmed, her voice maintaining its steadiness despite the flush now spreading across her chest. "Circles. Not too firm."
He followed her guidance, applying gentle pressure in circular motions that drew a deeper breath from her lips. The sight of her response, subtle though it was, sent heat surging through his own body, his cock now fully hard against her thigh.
Ruyan's hand moved between them, fingers wrapping around his length with careful precision. "Like this?" she asked, stroking him slowly.
Robb nodded, not trusting his voice as pleasure radiated from her touch. She maintained a measured rhythm, her grip firm but not too tight, as if she had studied this as carefully as any other discipline.
They continued thus, learning each other through touch, until Ruyan shifted beneath him, her legs parting in clear invitation. "Now," she said simply. "If you're ready."
He positioned himself above her, bracing his weight on his forearms. She reached between them, guiding him to her entrance with steady hands. As he pressed forward, feeling her body yield to his, Robb was struck by the gravity of the moment—not just the physical joining, but the symbolic one. Two bloodlines, two cultures, two futures now irrevocably intertwined.
Ruyan's breath hitched slightly as he filled her, her eyes widening momentarily before her composure reasserted itself. His own control threatened to fracture at the sensation of her warmth surrounding him, at the incredible tightness that seemed to pull him deeper.
"Alright?" he managed to ask, stilling to give her time to adjust.
She nodded, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "Yes. Continue."
He began to move, slowly at first, watching her face for signs of discomfort. There were none—only that same careful attention, now tinged with something else. Not passion, exactly, but a growing awareness, a response to the sensations he was creating within her.
As their rhythm established itself, as her body softened further around him, Robb found himself captivated by the subtle shifts in her expression—the slight parting of her lips, the deepening of her breath, the momentary flutter of her eyelids when he struck a particularly sensitive spot within her.
"There," she murmured, her voice lower than before. "Just there."
He maintained the angle, his strokes deepening as her legs wrapped around his waist. Her control was impressive—even as her breathing quickened, even as her fingers pressed more firmly into his shoulders, she maintained an awareness that was almost unnerving. She was present in every moment, cataloging every sensation, responding with measured precision.
Robb felt his own control beginning to slip, the familiar tightening that signaled his approaching climax. "I should—" he began, remembering her earlier words about withdrawal.
"Not yet," she said, her voice carrying a new urgency. Her hand slipped between them once more, finding the sensitive bud of her sex as he continued to move within her. The sight of her touching herself while he thrust into her body sent a surge of heat through him, pushing him dangerously close to the edge.
Then her body tensed beneath him, her inner walls clenching around his cock in rhythmic pulses. Her control finally broke—not in loud cries or dramatic thrashing, but in a deep, shuddering breath and a momentary closing of her eyes. It was a private surrender, all the more powerful for its restraint.
The sensation of her climax around him pushed Robb past his own limits. With the last fragments of his discipline, he withdrew from her body, his seed spilling onto her stomach in hot pulses. The pleasure crested and receded, leaving him breathing heavily above her, his arms trembling slightly with the effort of holding his weight.
Ruyan opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with a clarity that was almost disconcerting after such an intimate moment. There was no shyness, no coy averting of her gaze—only that same direct assessment, now softened slightly by shared experience.
"That was gentle. Respectful," she said simply.
The words should have sounded clinical, perhaps even insulting. Instead, Robb found himself appreciating her honesty. It was not false passion or pretty lies, but genuine acknowledgment. He had performed his duty with care and attention. She had responded in kind.
He reached for a cloth from the nearby basin, cleaning her stomach with careful movements before tending to himself. These practical aftermath matters, often glossed over in tales of passion, seemed fitting for their union—considered, thorough, respectful.
When they lay side by side beneath the furs, not touching but close enough to feel each other's warmth, Robb found himself studying her profile in the firelight. The sharp line of her jaw, the graceful curve of her neck, the steady rise and fall of her chest as her breathing returned to normal. Not a wildling maiden from Old Nan's tales, not a Southern lady with practiced sighs and memorized responses, but something else entirely—a partner as complex and disciplined as the empire that had shaped her.
"Will it always be this way between us?" he asked finally, his voice quiet in the firelit chamber.
Ruyan turned her head to look at him, her dark eyes thoughtful. "No," she replied honestly. "It will change as we change. As we learn each other."
The answer, pragmatic yet somehow hopeful, settled something within him. This night had not been the culmination of a great passion, nor had it been merely the cold fulfillment of duty. It had been a beginning—tentative, careful, but genuine. A first step in what would be a lifelong negotiation of cultures and expectations, of desires and disciplines.
As Ruyan's breathing deepened into sleep beside him, Robb realized that intimacy, like diplomacy, like warfare, was a strategy that required both study and practice. He had much to learn, and so did she. But tonight had proven that learning was possible, that bridges could be built between their different worlds, one careful touch at a time.
The thought carried him into sleep, the fire burning low in the grate, the snowfall beyond their window silently blanketing Winterfell in white.
As they lay side by side beneath the furs—close, but not touching—Robb found his gaze drifting to her face. The fire had dimmed to a low, steady glow, and the shadows on her skin moved like breath.
She didn't close her eyes immediately. Instead, she stared upward at the carved beams of the ceiling, as if she could read portents in the woodgrain. Not a memory. Not yet. But something stirred beneath her calm. Something ancient. Waiting. Her breathing had slowed, but her stillness remained deliberate.
Robb studied her in silence.
He had seen her unclothed now, had touched every part of her, had felt her body tighten and soften around his—but this quiet moment afterward revealed something else entirely. Not her strength or precision or discipline. Her stillness. It wasn't detachment. It was presence. Even resting, she did not let herself disappear.
There was no vulnerability in it. Only clarity.
He admired it, even as it unsettled him.
She was not his to possess, not in the way of the old Northern songs—no wildling bride tamed by warmth, no southern girl clinging to passion. She was... herself. Entirely. Even here, in his bed.
And somehow, that made her feel more real, not less.
He turned onto his side, one arm folded beneath his head, and watched her profile in the low light. Her lashes cast faint shadows across her cheek. Her lips were slightly parted. The sheet covered her to the waist, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone, the curve of one breast rising with each steady breath.
She didn't ask why he was staring.
Instead, her voice came, soft and even. "You are still thinking."
"I am," he admitted. "About you."
That earned him a small glance—her dark eyes sliding sideways to meet his—but she said nothing.
"I've never met someone who keeps so much of themselves so close," he said. "Even now. After this."
Ruyan didn't blink. "That is how I was taught to survive."
He nodded slowly. "And thrive?"
A pause. "That, too."
He let out a quiet breath. "You're hard to read."
"I don't expect you to read me," she said. "Only to listen, when I speak."
He considered that, then nodded once. "Fair."
Another silence settled between them, but it was softer now, without the weight of expectation. Robb reached for the candle at the bedside and snuffed it out, leaving only the firelight flickering across the furs.
He didn't reach for her. She didn't move closer.
But before sleep took him, he found himself thinking—not of her body, not of the act they had shared, but of her words, her silence, her stillness. And how, somehow, he would have to learn to speak her language if he ever wanted to understand her.
Not Yi Tish.
Not politics.
Just her.
RUYAN
Ruyan woke before the light reached the window.
She always did.
The rhythm of martial life—drills at dawn, inspections before breakfast, meditation in cold gardens—had long trained her body to abandon rest before others stirred. Her eyes opened not with a jolt but with a steady inhale, her thoughts already assembling into order.
She was warm.
The chamber was still, save for the gentle hiss of embers in the hearth and the slow, steady breathing of the man beside her. For a moment, she remained where she was, gaze fixed on the timbered ceiling of Winterfell, its beams bearing the weight of centuries. She traced them with her eyes in silence, then slowly turned her head.
Robb lay on his side, facing her, his features unguarded in sleep. The lines of strain she had grown accustomed to seeing—those carved by responsibility, by exile, by diplomacy—were softened now. His brow was smooth. His mouth slightly parted. There was something striking in how young he looked like this.
Just turned sixteen.
Still sixteen.
And yet not.
His chest rose and fell with calm, controlled rhythm. She had felt that same rhythm quicken the night before—felt his inexperience, his care, the effort he had summoned to meet her standards. He had done well.
Better than most she had observed in training chambers, certainly better than what her own tutors had grimly forecasted about Northern boys raised on snow and shame.
Still, it had not been passion. Nor had it needed to be. It had been mutual regard, executed with precision and patience. As all foundations should begin.
Ruyan studied him a moment longer.
His jaw was slightly rough with the shadow of a beard, his auburn hair tousled from the pillow, one hand splayed open atop the furs as though unconsciously reaching for something. He was not beautiful in the Eastern sense—his features were broad, his skin weather-warmed, his frame built more for bearing weight than for fluidity. But there was strength in it. She could admire that.
There had been a moment last night—brief, quiet—when she had felt his uncertainty falter into something deeper. A kind of awe, perhaps, at her body, at her openness. He had not said it aloud, but she had seen it in the way his breath caught, in the reverent hesitation of his hands.
She had let him look.
That, too, had been a choice.
Her body did not ache. That surprised her slightly. He had been gentle, but firm. A soldier's steadiness, not a boy's fumbling. She had anticipated more discomfort. Instead, she felt a curious sense of...clarity.
No blood. No bruising. No regrets.
It was done.
The most intimate threshold had been crossed, and yet her sense of self remained intact. Her body, her duty, her focus—all still hers.
She shifted slightly in the bed, careful not to disturb him. Her fingers flexed beneath the furs, stretching muscle and testing sinew. She considered rising to practice. She always did after a night of tension. But something held her here.
Not sentiment.
Observation.
Robb Stark, heir of the North, lay within her reach. Not just in the political sense. Not just in bed.
He had seen her. Not fully—not yet—but enough to recognize her steadiness. Her readiness. He had not attempted to possess her. He had not attempted to impress her. He had listened.
And when she had asked, "Would you rather I continue, or would you prefer to undress me?"—he had answered with honesty, not bravado.
That, she had not expected.
And honesty, in her experience, was far rarer than skill.
Her gaze flicked to the small jade comb resting on the side table. Then to the bundle of letters awaiting her review. Then back to him.
She would not call what she felt hope. That was a word too often used by fools and poets.
But possibility?
Yes.
That was a different kind of promise.
She rose from the bed, silent as snowfall, wrapping herself in the inner robe she had laid aside the night before. With practiced grace, she moved toward the window. She would meditate first. Then stretch. Then write. Let Robb wake on his own time.
Let him learn, as she already had, that this—whatever it was becoming—would not follow the pace of old songs or southern expectations.
This would be built with stone, not honey.
And stone, properly shaped, could bear weight for a thousand years.