ROBB
The last of the students had filed out of the makeshift classroom, their voices fading as they descended the winding stone staircase. At nearly seventeen, Robb lingered, watching as Master Wei carefully gathered the brushes and ink stones, his movements precise as he arranged them in their lacquered case.
"They learn quickly," Wei observed without looking up. "Even the Umber boy, though he pretends otherwise."
Robb smiled slightly. "Northerners often resist what they don't understand. Until they see its value."
"Like their lord?" Wei glanced up, the hint of amusement in his eyes softening the question.
"Especially their lord," Robb admitted, moving to help arrange the scrolls of practice parchment. Six moons ago, he would have bristled at such familiarity. Now, he recognized the value of Wei's careful observations—the man had become as much advisor as teacher during their time at Winterfell.
The solar that had once held dusty ledgers and forgotten correspondence had been transformed. The heavy oak table remained, but now it was surrounded by low benches where the children of Northern lords sat alongside Stark siblings, learning the intricate characters of Yi Tish script. Maps of the known world hung on the walls—not just the familiar shapes of Westeros, but the sprawling expanse of Essos and the distant empire of Yi Ti, rendered in detail that made the maesters' maps look crude by comparison.
"Lady Sansa shows remarkable aptitude," Wei continued, securing the ink stone in its velvet-lined compartment. "Her calligraphy already approaches acceptable court standard."
"She's always been meticulous," Robb replied, thinking of his thirteen-year-old sister's perfect stitches, her carefully modulated courtesies. "And she wants to impress the princess."
Wei nodded, a knowing look crossing his features. "And young Lady Arya?"
"Prefers the combat training your guardsmen offer," Robb said with a wry smile. "Though she's learning the language faster than any of us expected. She and Bran have started speaking it between themselves when they want to exclude others." At eleven and ten, respectively, his younger siblings had formed an unexpected alliance in their Yi Tish studies.
"A useful skill for siblings," Wei acknowledged, his expression suggesting he'd employed similar tactics in his own youth.
Winterfell had changed—not with upheaval, but with deliberate, quiet work. Foundations laid stone by stone, reshaping the North without shouting.
The first changes had been practical—reorganizing the glass gardens to improve yield, introducing new methods of preserving food, establishing a small but effective infirmary where Yi Tish healing techniques were practiced alongside Northern remedies. Small steps that delivered tangible results, winning over even the most skeptical of the household staff.
Another change, quiet but deeply rooted, had come at Robb's direction. Every soldier stationed in Winterfell—and many household guards—were now trained in basic first aid. He had worked with Physician Leng and Ruyan's other YiTish healers to create short, practical drills on battlefield injury response. Women in the keep who showed interest were welcomed into these lessons as well. Robb insisted no capable hands be wasted, and Ruyan supported him. Soon, a small but determined group of women trained weekly alongside two YiTish instructors. Word spread, and smallfolk from Winter Town began attending sessions—men and women alike. It was the beginning of something new: a culture where healing was not just for maesters and midwives, but for anyone willing to learn. Robb also extended invitations to Northern houses, encouraging them to send willing stewards, healers, or family members to learn YiTish healing methods at Winterfell. The hope was to build not just a stronger Winterfell, but a stronger North—house by house, wound by wound.
Then came the diplomatic overtures—invitations to Northern houses to send their children for education, offers of knowledge and resources that arrived without demands attached. House Manderly had been first to accept, their natural affinity for trade and maritime matters making them receptive to Yi Tish shipbuilding techniques. The arrangement had grown into a substantial joint venture at Sea Dragon Point, where Master shipwrights from both cultures now worked side by side, building vessels designed for the treacherous western seas.
House Mormont followed once they witnessed YiTish sea guards patrolling the western coastline, their expertise in navigating unfamiliar waters proving invaluable after two fishing vessels were saved during an autumn storm. House Glover joined the alliance after a series of productive interactions with YiTish sailors who helped secure their western border.
"Your wife awaits your presence in the godswood," Wei said, interrupting Robb's thoughts as he closed the teaching case with a decisive click. "She mentioned reviewing the latest reports from the Gift before your meeting with Lord Stark."
Robb nodded, feeling a familiar tension in his shoulders at the mention of his proposal. The idea had come to him during a late-night discussion with Ruyan about resource allocation—a seemingly simple solution to multiple problems, yet one that required navigating deeply entrenched traditions.
"Thank you, Master Wei," he said, inclining his head slightly—a gesture he'd adopted unconsciously over the months, the Yi Tish acknowledgment of appreciated service.
Wei returned the gesture with precision, neither subservient nor presumptuous—exactly the correct level of formality between a royal advisor and the husband of a princess. Even after months at Winterfell, the man's adherence to proper protocol never wavered.
As Robb descended the tower stairs, his mind turned to the proposal that would be discussed in his father's solar that afternoon. The Gift—thousands of acres of fertile land granted to the Night's Watch centuries ago—had been largely abandoned as the Watch's numbers dwindled. His suggestion was simple in concept, complex in execution: allow Northern Houses to farm portions of the land using their own resources, with the understanding that they would contribute food and coin to the Watch, while sending men to guard their investments.
It created mutual benefit where previously there had been only waste. The Watch would maintain dignity and provision, the Houses would gain access to new farmland, and the region would have more food secured for the coming winter. Not charity—which the proud brothers would reject—but a strategic tenancy system that acknowledged their ownership while maximizing practical use.
The idea bore Ruyan's influence—subtle, strategic, never overt. She asked questions, planted seeds, then let him call them his own. A technique of imperial diplomacy, he'd realized later. The best ideas appeared to come from those who needed to champion them.
The godswood was quiet when he entered, the ancient trees standing sentinel as they had for thousands of years. Snow dusted their branches, a reminder of the coming winter despite the weak autumn sun filtering through the canopy. Ruyan stood near the heart tree, her dark hair pulled back in a style that combined Northern practicality with Eastern elegance. At eighteen, she carried herself with the poise of someone much older, the result of her imperial upbringing. She wore gray and white—Stark colors—though the cut of her garments remained distinctly Yi Tish, with their flowing sleeves and intricate fastenings.
"The lesson went well?" she asked as he approached, her dark eyes assessing him with their usual careful attention.
"Very well," Robb confirmed. "Sansa has nearly mastered the formal characters. Arya managed to sit through the entire session without starting a single argument."
A hint of amusement crossed Ruyan's features—not quite a smile, but a softening around her eyes that Robb had learned to recognize as genuine. "Progress, then," she said, extending a scroll toward him. "From White Harbor. Lord Manderly reports the first joint-designed ship will be ready to launch within the month."
Robb accepted the scroll, scanning its contents quickly. "He suggests a formal ceremony. With representatives from both cultures present."
"A wise political gesture," Ruyan observed. "Public demonstrations of cooperation serve multiple purposes."
"You've trained him well," Robb said, a slight teasing note in his voice.
Ruyan's eyebrow arched delicately. "I merely offered perspective. Lord Manderly already possessed political instincts. He simply needed... encouragement to apply them more broadly."
They walked together through the godswood, discussing the details of various projects underway throughout the North. Their conversation flowed with practiced ease—a diplomatic dance that had gradually evolved into something resembling genuine partnership. They still disagreed, still approached problems from fundamentally different perspectives, but the friction had developed a productive quality. Like stones polishing each other smooth through constant contact.
"You're prepared for the meeting with your father?" Ruyan asked as they neared the edge of the godswood.
Robb nodded. "The projections are sound. Even accounting for crop failures and harsh weather, the system would provide more stability than the current arrangement."
"And the Watch's pride?"
"Addressed in the structure itself," Robb replied. "They remain landowners. They receive tribute, not charity. Their purpose and honor remain intact. Still, some brothers grumble that even tribute is a leash. That pride resents even well-offered help."
Ruyan considered this, her gaze distant in the way that suggested she was recalling some imperial precedent or historical comparison. "Commander Mormont will be receptive to the practical benefits. The master steward may require more convincing."
"I've prepared separate arguments for each," Robb assured her. "Different approaches for different concerns."
She nodded, a flash of approval in her eyes. "Very good."
They had nearly reached the edge of the godswood when Robb paused, changing direction with a slight gesture. "There's something I want to show you first. Before we meet with my father."
Curiosity flickered across Ruyan's features—one of the few genuine emotions she displayed with any regularity. She followed without question as he led her along a lesser-used path that wound behind the heart tree, toward a section of the godswood that had been largely neglected in recent years.
The small clearing that opened before them had been transformed. Slender bamboo stalks formed a natural enclosure, their pale green contrasting with the dark pines of the surrounding godswood. A stone path wound through carefully arranged river rocks, leading to a simple wooden pavilion whose design echoed Yi Tish architecture while incorporating Northern materials. A small stream had been diverted through the space, creating a gentle flow of water that collected in a stone basin before continuing on its course.
Ruyan stopped at the entrance to the garden, her composure wavering visibly as she took in the scene. For a moment, she seemed genuinely speechless—a rarity that gave Robb a surprising sense of satisfaction.
"This is..." she began, then paused, collecting herself. "When was this created?"
"Over the past two months," Robb answered. "Master Wei helped with the design. The bamboo was started in the glass gardens last year, before we even arrived." He watched her carefully, noting the minute shifts in her expression as she absorbed the details. "It's yours. Like the sept my father built for my mother."
Ruyan moved forward slowly, her steps careful as she followed the stone path. Her fingers trailed over the bamboo stalks, testing their resilience. "The ground should be too cold," she murmured, almost to herself.
"Hot springs," Robb explained. "We diverted some of the flow beneath the soil. It creates a warmer microclimate, like the glass gardens."
She turned to him, her dark eyes searching his face with unusual intensity. "Why?" The question was direct, without diplomatic cushioning or careful phrasing.
Robb considered his answer carefully. "Because you've given much to Winterfell," he said finally. "But taken little for yourself."
Ruyan's gaze didn't waver. "This was not required by our agreement."
"No," Robb agreed. "It wasn't."
A silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken complexities. After a moment, Ruyan turned back to the garden, moving toward the stone basin where water collected in a perfect circle, reflecting the sky above.
"In Yi Ti," she said quietly, "such gardens are places of meditation. Of clarity." Her fingers dipped into the water, creating ripples that distorted the reflection. "Thank you. It is... thoughtful."
The words were simple, but Robb recognized the genuine appreciation behind them. Six moons of marriage had taught him to read the subtle shifts in her tone, the minute changes in her posture that revealed more than her carefully controlled expressions.
"You're welcome," he replied simply.
They stood together in the quiet garden, surrounded by the strange harmony of Eastern design nestled within the ancient Northern godswood. Ruyan noted, not without private satisfaction, that the guards no longer flinched when she gave instruction. That was something. A physical representation of what they were attempting to build—not erasure of difference, but respectful coexistence. Foundations laid stone by stone, allowing each culture to maintain its integrity while creating something new between them.
Robb had also noticed another shift—Theon Greyjoy had grown quieter these past moons. Once his constant shadow, Theon now lingered at the edges of councils and lessons, restless. Without Robb's boyish loyalty to anchor him, he seemed half-unmoored. Perhaps he missed the brother Robb had once been—before the abduction, before Ruyan, before command.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps on the path. Jon Snow appeared at the garden's entrance, his dark eyes taking in the scene with quiet assessment.
"Lord Stark has called for you both," he announced, his gaze lingering on the bamboo enclosure. "He wishes to discuss the Gift proposal before meeting with the Night's Watch representatives tomorrow."
Robb nodded, exchanging a brief glance with Ruyan. "We'll come now."
Jon stepped back to allow them to exit, his expression thoughtful as he looked around the garden once more. "It's peaceful," he observed quietly. "Not like what I'm used to here."
Robb smiled slightly. "She said it's what home sounds like in silence."
Jon's eyes met Ruyan's briefly—an exchange that Robb had noticed occurring more frequently in recent months. His wife and his brother seemed to have developed a cautious understanding, built on their shared experience of never quite belonging in the places they called home.
As Ruyan moved ahead to speak with a passing servant, Jon fell into step beside Robb, keeping his voice low.
"The bamboo garden," he began, choosing his words carefully. "It's a significant gesture."
"It seemed appropriate," Robb replied, watching Ruyan's retreating figure. "She's done much for Winterfell."
Jon was quiet for a moment, then asked the question that hung between them, "Tell me, brother... how do you feel about your wife?"
Robb paused, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. Six moons ago, he might have given a diplomatic non-answer, or spoken of duty and alliance. Now, he found himself searching for something truer.
"I admire her," he said finally, his voice low but certain. "I trust her judgment. I don't fully understand her, and I doubt I ever will entirely." He glanced at Jon, allowing rare vulnerability to show. "But I can't imagine Winterfell without her now. That must mean something."
Jon nodded, a slight smile touching his usually solemn features. "It means you've built a foundation," he said simply. "The rest takes time."
Together, they followed Ruyan toward the Great Keep, where Lord Stark awaited to discuss the future of the North—a future that, with each passing day, became increasingly shaped by the careful hands of both Stark determination and Yi Tish precision.
A foundation, Robb thought, as Ruyan conferred with Maester Luwin—measured, deliberate, enduring. And stone, once shaped with care, remembered its form even through the fiercest storms.
Winterfell would endure—stone reinforced by adaptation, not stubbornness. Like the bamboo—rooted, resilient, and no longer foreign.