Every moment spent with Val was a revelation. Her beauty, so striking in its rawness, captivated him in a way that was both awe-inspiring and humbling. She towered above him, her 6'2" frame radiating strength and elegance. There was a quiet confidence in the way she moved, in the way she held herself, like a woman who had lived through battles—both literal and emotional—and yet remained unbroken. Her presence demanded attention, but it was never with arrogance.
Rick found himself enchanted by the curve of her muscles, the fine lines of her athletic form, the grace in the way she stood tall, her shoulders broad but soft, and her chest proud in its posture. When she was near, he was mesmerized by her deep blue eyes, which seemed to pierce through him with their calm, unwavering strength. They were windows to something fierce and untamed, yet soft enough to make him feel that, despite her strength, there was a tenderness reserved for him alone.
When she stood before him, her bare skin glowing in the dim light of their room, he could not help but admire her body with a reverence that felt almost sacred. Her curves, honed by years of strength and endurance, were a testament to her power and resilience. The way her skin glistened, smooth and flawless under the moonlight, only deepened his desire to understand her more. Her breasts, full and firm, seemed to tell their own story of endurance, and he felt the weight of that story in every gaze he gave her.
It was the contrast of her serious expression—those lips slightly pursed, the tightness in her mouth—as she stood tall that made her even more mesmerizing. She was a force of nature, yet with every breath he took, he could feel the warmth and softness of her body, reminding him that beneath the sternness, there was a tenderness only he had the privilege of seeing.
Every time they touched, he felt both anchored to the earth and weightless in the air. It was in the way her long legs pressed against his, how her warmth filled the space between them, and how her body seemed to radiate a power that made him feel, in that moment, both safe and utterly vulnerable.
The quiet moments spent with her were the most intoxicating. As she lay next to him, her body flush with his, her long limbs entwined with his, Rick often marveled at how such a strong woman could bring him so much peace. It was in her skin, her scent, the feel of her breath against his neck—an embrace of warmth and strength he had never known before.
With her, Rick knew there was more than just physical attraction. There was a deep, unspoken connection. A tether that, even in the silence between them, left him wanting nothing more than to be near her, to hold her, to let her possess him completely. And for the first time in his life, Rick wondered if it was truly possible to belong to someone else without losing himself.
For every three nights Rick spent with Val, there was one night with Freyja and one with Alexstrasza. It was an arrangement Val had pushed him to honor—his duty, his responsibility to the Mothers. Though he understood the necessity, there was still a part of him that struggled with the obligation. It wasn't that he resented the Mothers; it was simply that his heart had already been claimed, and it made the rest feel like a distant echo of what he truly wanted.
When he returned to Val after spending his time with them, she would make sure to mark him. Not with bruises, but with scratches, faint and purposeful—clear imprints of her touch that left subtle, tender reminders on his skin. They weren't meant to be painful, but they were unmistakable. They were marks of ownership, of love, of possession. She didn't need to speak the words; they were woven into every touch, every scratch that followed him back to her. Each mark left on him told him, in her silent, unwavering way, that he was hers, even if he had obligations elsewhere.
Despite the marks, despite the physical signs, what was most significant was what lingered within him. In his quieter moments, when his thoughts would wander back to his talks with Val, Rick knew, with an unsettling certainty, that he had come to accept everything. His feelings for her were real, undeniable. She was real, and their connection was something he had stopped questioning.
But the truth was, Val's feelings for him were just as real. She didn't just hold him in moments of passion; she held him in ways that stretched beyond the physical. There was no pretending, no falsehood. Every touch she gave him—the scratches, the way she held him, the way she made him feel—spoke volumes that Rick understood on a level that went beyond words.
He had spoken to her about it—the manipulation, the gods' influence on his emotions. How he could not escape the feeling that his fate had been shaped by powers beyond his understanding. Yet, despite it all, he had accepted it. He accepted the feelings that had bloomed within him. And perhaps most importantly, he accepted her feelings as real, as true. What they had was real. His heart belonged to her, and he knew hers belonged to him, regardless of the twisting threads of destiny.
And so, when he returned to her each time, it wasn't just to satisfy a physical need; it was to find the truth of his heart in her arms. Val had marked him in ways that made him feel hers, but it wasn't just about ownership. It was about love—something he had come to realize was uniquely their own.
Their love remained a secret. They showed no more than the bond of friendship in public, careful not to draw attention to themselves. Val didn't want to add more weight on Rick's shoulders. Too many eyes were watching, and many men still wished to claim her. The knowledge that Rick had succeeded where others had failed could easily push some of them to challenge him. While Val had no doubt in Rick's abilities as a warrior, she also knew that such distractions could pull his focus away from his work, and that risk wasn't something she was willing to take.
Rick had asked her if she wanted them to marry. To that, Val had answered that, according to Free Folk customs, they already were. There was no need for a formal ceremony. But Rick, in his straightforward way, had argued that it was important to do things properly, despite his misgivings about the gods. A ceremony, he believed, would make their bond official. Not for the grandeur of it, but because, to him, it was simply the right thing to do. Val considered it, and after some thought, agreed. A simple exchange of vows, witnessed by a few close friends, would be enough.
For their next trip to Castle Black, they decided to make a small detour to visit the Heart Tree. Rick described the usual ceremonies conducted on the southern side of the Wall—ceremonies filled with formality, ritual, and witnesses—but he reassured Val that it wasn't necessary for them. A few words, a private moment with those they cared about, was all that was needed. Val didn't mind; she wasn't interested in the rituals or the fanfare. For her, it was the promise they made to each other that mattered.
When it came to deciding who to invite, Val had her own ideas. She wanted her mother and sister there. Tormund, Ygritte, and Sigorn would be important to her, too, as well as her brother-in-law, Mance. Her mother, Morna Umber, however, had her own thoughts. Morna argued that it would be right to invite her cousin, Greatjon Umber, and her grandfather Mors, whom Val had met only once. It was important to Morna that family was represented, and though Val wasn't keen on making the ceremony a larger affair, she understood her mother's desire to include these figures from their past.
Rick wasn't entirely sure. He knew that involving too many people could complicate things once they returned south. The more people who knew about their union, the harder it would be to keep their relationship discreet. But Freyja, ever the pragmatic voice, pointed out that the Old Gods never forbade polygamy. She suggested that it would be fine to invite those they trusted and who would support them. Rick reluctantly agreed, though he remained wary of the potential complications.
The matter of House Umber still troubled him, though. He feared that Greatjon's loud mouth and brashness might attract unwanted attention. Morna assured him, with a chilling confidence, that the Umber family would keep their silence, or else. Rick didn't need to find out what "else" meant, but he trusted Morna's word on it. She was not a woman to be underestimated.
Rick also had his own list of people to invite. His uncle Aemon was a given—he was the only true family Rick had left, and he deserved to witness such an important moment. Maege and her brother were included too, if Maege was able to attend. But then, Freyja and Alexstrasza surprised him by urging him to invite his other uncles—Benjen and Eddard Stark. They believed it would be a chance for Rick to finally connect with them, something he had never truly done before. There had been no real connection with them in the past, but they wanted to try to change that. Benjen and Eddard had made their mistakes, but they were willing to make amends, and Freyja and Alexstrasza thought that inviting them to the wedding could be a good first step toward healing old wounds.
As for Val, she knew that the time would come when Rick would return south—but she would remain in the North. She understood this reality, and while it hurt, she accepted it. They had made their commitment to each other, but their paths were different. Rick's duty lay in the south, while hers was with her people in the North. Their bond would remain, even if they were worlds apart.
Their wedding would be a quiet affair, a private moment between them and a small circle of loved ones. Despite all the potential complications, Rick and Val knew one thing for certain: their commitment to each other was unwavering. And though their lives would take them down separate paths, their hearts would always be intertwined.
"I never thought I'd be participating in another wedding, not since I took the black so many years ago," Maester Aemon said with a soft smile. "Certainly not one of my own kin." His voice, though weakened by age, still carried warmth and quiet strength. He stood beside Melisandre, of all people, the red priestess who had surprisingly formed a respectful bond with the old Targaryen. They were an odd pair—fire and frost, shadow and wisdom—but somehow, their conversations had turned thoughtful instead of hostile.
"It is quite the pleasure," Aemon added, tilting his head toward the heart tree. "Thank the gods it's a ceremony of the Old Gods and not the Seven. The latter are so long-winded, I might've spent the rest of my years listening to the vows instead of blessing them." He gave a dry chuckle, and even Melisandre allowed herself a faint, amused smile.
A short ways off, the Northerners waited in patient clusters beneath the snow-flecked trees. Maege Mormont let out a long, tired sigh, arms crossed over her broad chest as she watched Rick and Val speaking with Freyja.
"Not happy about it?" Ned asked, stepping beside her with a faint smile.
"I'd hoped my Dacey would wake up and marry him," Maege said, her voice heavy with equal parts frustration and fondness. "Would've kept him on Bear Island, close to kin, where he belongs. But she wasn't patient enough. Played foolish games, and lost." She paused, then added more softly, "Still—I'm glad he found love. Gods know he deserves it, poor boy."
"I've only known her a little over a moon," Benjen offered, his breath misting in the cold. "But she's a fine woman. Sharp eyes. Quick wit."
"Of course she is, Stark," came the unmistakable grumble of Mors Umber, standing behind them with one gloved hand resting on his sword hilt. He adjusted his eyepatch and huffed. "She's my granddaughter! It's your nephew who's not good enough!"
Jeor Mormont turned toward him with a raised brow. "The boy's favored by gods from three different pantheons—and none of them the blasted Seven. He's handsome, strong, clever, and of royal blood. What more do you want?"
"Aye, dragon blood," Mors said with a grunt, then turned and spat in the snow, as if the taste of Targaryen lineage offended his mouth. "At least he's got Stark in him. That's the only part I trust."
"And your granddaughter's got wildling blood," Maege cut in, her tone sharp but dry.
"Bah! She's my granddaughter!" Mors barked. "Look at her! That height! That beauty! That presence! That fire in her eyes! She's an Umber through and through!"
At that, the rest of the Northerners nearby either exchanged knowing glances, rolled their eyes, or quietly muttered that Mors was a dumb old cunt with more beard than sense.
Then the ceremony started.
The snows fell light and slow, dusting the moss-covered roots of the weirwood with a fresh veil of white. Wind whispered through the grove like breath drawn between teeth, and the old red face carved into the heart tree watched with silent, solemn eyes. Its sap, like blood, trickled down the bark—ever-flowing, ever-present.
The gathering was small, as tradition demanded. No banners, no trumpets, no grand feast. Only kin, trusted friends, and the gods.
Rick stood with his hands bare and open, Dark Sister hanging at his hip, and no cloak over his shoulders. Val stood across from him, tall and proud, her face bare of paint or ornament, her hair unbound and falling like snow-laced gold down her back. She wore a simple fur-lined mantle, fastened with bone and antler, and a necklace carved from the teeth of a snow bear.
Freyja stood between them, not in her direwolf shape, but as a tall, white-haired woman—her skin pale as the snow, her eyes dark as the night sky above the Wall. She needed no crown, no staff, no spoken title. The air seemed to hush around her as she raised her hands.
"The Old Gods do not speak," Freyja said, her voice soft and deep, curling through the stillness. "They watch. They remember. Their roots run deep into the world and into your hearts. Before them, no vows are hollow. No oaths are taken lightly."
Rick and Val stepped forward together.
"You are two souls, forged in different flames, joined now by choice—not law, nor coin, nor crown."
Freyja turned her gaze to Rick.
"Will you speak your name?"
"I am Rick. Son of none, born of war and shadow. I name myself only as I am, and offer all that I am freely."
Freyja nodded once, and turned to Val.
"And you?"
"I am Val. Daughter of Morna of the Frozen Shore, widow to the Horned Lord. Sister to Dalla, I offer myself as I am, with no shame, no fear, and no leash."
"Then speak your vow," Freyja said. "Speak not to me, but to each other."
Rick took Val's hands in his. "I offer you my loyalty, my strength, and the truth of my heart. I will not bind you, nor break you. I will walk beside you, through snow and shadow. My love is yours, for as long as the trees remember."
Val's voice was quiet but unshaken. "I take you as my husband, as the Free Folk do, and more. I claim you before the gods of the old world. I will guard your back, share your fire, bear your name if it must be borne. And when the snow falls and the white winds howl, when the dark and the dead come, I will not run."
They did not kiss—not yet. That was not the way of the Old Gods. Instead, Freyja stepped forward and took a blade of obsidian from her belt.
"Blood remembers," she murmured.
With a quick motion, she pricked both of their palms, letting their blood drip onto the roots of the heart tree. The weirwood drank deep, and the red leaves above rustled once, though no wind passed.
"It is done," Freyja said.
Then—and only then—did Rick lean forward and press his forehead to Val's, and Val close her arms around him. The gathered friends gave no applause, no cheer. Only quiet nods, and the weight of respect.
The gods had heard. The gods would remember. So will the North because the North remembers.
"Wanna go next?"
Tormund's booming voice shattered the sacred hush like a hammer through glass. He elbowed his way forward with that roguish grin, eyes gleaming with mischief as he threw a look toward Maege Mormont that could've singed fur off a bear.
His eyebrows danced up and down suggestively. "You and me, She-Bear. Let's see if the gods'll bind us too, eh?"
Maege didn't miss a beat. With a grunt, she swung her fist like she'd been waiting for the moment all her life. The crack echoed louder than any vow as her knuckles met his jaw and sent Tormund barrelling backward into the snow with a grunt and a puff of powder.
Silence lasted half a heartbeat—then erupted into raucous laughter.
Even Freyja, ever solemn, let the corner of her mouth twitch in amusement. Rick chuckled, and Val smirked behind her hand. Mors let out a bark like a hound on the hunt, and Jeor Mormont just shook his head, muttering something about "bloody fools."
From the ground, Tormund groaned, blinking up at the grey sky. "That's a yes, then?" he called out.
Maege rolled her eyes and turned away, but the ghost of a smirk curled her lips.