ROBB
The tension in Winterfell was palpable, hanging in the air like the mist that clung to the stone walls at dawn. It had been just under a moon's turn since his mother rode south, her hands still bandaged, her eyes burning with cold fury. In that short time, everything had shifted beneath Robb's feet.
He stood at the window of the healing chamber, watching as merchants' wagons trundled through the courtyard below. Three more had arrived since morning—their beds laden with herbs, medicines, and supplies purchased with Yi Tish gold through channels the Lannisters would never trace. Ruyan had deployed her trading ships with surgical precision: some to Oldtown for grain, others to White Harbor for salt and preserves, a few even daring to Lannisport itself. All under the guise of winter preparation.
His wife was nothing if not strategic. She had quietly orchestrated the purchase of healing supplies from the Westerlands—depleting Lannister territory of resources they might soon need themselves. A silent opening move in a game most didn't yet realize was being played.
"Straighten your back," Physician Leng instructed, his hands gentle but firm on Bran's spine. "Weight on both sides evenly."
Robb turned from the window, drawn back to the miracle unfolding before him. Bran hung suspended in the specially designed harness, sweat beading on his brow as his legs trembled beneath him. The contraption—built to Ruyan's specifications by Winterfell's blacksmith and carpenter—supported his upper body while allowing his legs to bear small amounts of weight.
"I can feel it," Bran said through gritted teeth. "The pressure. Down to my ankles."
"Good," said Leng, his eyes crinkling with quiet approval. "Very good. That's the pathway recovering."
When Bran had first opened his eyes, none of them had dared to hope. Maester Luwin had warned of permanent paralysis, the spine being too delicate for conventional medicine. But the Yi Tish healers had disagreed.
They began their work immediately—acupuncture needles placed with exacting precision along meridian lines Robb had never heard of, poultices of strange herbs applied to key points on Bran's back, rigorous massage therapy to prevent muscle atrophy. Within a fortnight, Bran had reported tingling in his toes. Three days later, he'd been able to wriggle his toes.
Robb still didn't fully understand their methods, but the results were undeniable. His brother was healing.
"That's enough for today," Physician Leng said, gesturing to his assistant. Together, they carefully loosened the harness straps from Bran's torso and legs, supporting his weight as they lowered him to the padded table.
"You did remarkably well today, young lord," Leng said, folding the straps with practiced efficiency as the assistant braced Bran under the arms. "We'll progress to deeper tissue stimulation next—soft pressure, lateral kneading. We'll loosen the spine before applying the cold compress."
Bran turned to Robb, his face flushed with exertion but bright with pride.
"Robb! Did you see? Physician Leng says I might walk on my own soon, if I keep at it," he said, eyes shining.
Robb crouched beside the table, steadying Bran's hand as his brother shifted to find a comfortable position. He brushed sweat-dampened hair from Bran's forehead, his chest tight with love and relief.
"You will," he said firmly. "You already are. Better than anyone expected."
"Mother will be surprised when she returns," Bran continued eagerly. "I might even be able to stand for her without the harness!"
Robb smiled, though the mention of their mother sent a ripple of concern through him. She was either still in King's Landing or somewhere on the road home—vulnerable either way, in a realm growing more dangerous by the day.
"She'll be overjoyed," he assured Bran, helping him sit up to drink the tonic Physician Leng had prepared. The liquid was an unappetizing, murky green, but Bran drank it without complaint—a testament to how seriously he took his recovery.
"It smells worse every day," Bran remarked, wrinkling his nose after finishing. "Physician Leng says that's how you know it's working."
Robb laughed, relieved to see his brother's spirit unbroken despite everything. "Continue as you are, and you'll be running through the halls before the first snow."
He squeezed Bran's shoulder gently. "Rest now. I need to attend to some matters, but I'll return before supper. Perhaps we can have Rickon join us—he's been asking to see your exercises."
"He just wants to climb on the harness ropes," Bran said with a grin. "But yes, bring him. It gets dull in here sometimes."
Robb ruffled his hair affectionately before rising. He exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with Physician Leng, who gave a slight nod—their silent communication established over weeks of shared vigil.
As he stepped into the corridor, the weight that had temporarily lifted in Bran's presence settled back onto his shoulders. Acting Lord of Winterfell. Husband to a foreign princess. Brother to a recovering invalid. Son to parents scattered across the realm, one investigating murder and the other pursuing justice.
And soon, reluctant host to Tyrion Lannister.
The thought soured his mood as he made his way to the Great Hall, where stewards waited with ledgers and questions about the increased training among Winterfell's guard—another of Ruyan's quiet preparations. They'd doubled sword production at the forge, tripled arrow stock, and begun daily drills that went well beyond typical garrison routines.
All without sending a single raven that might be intercepted. All without a declaration that could be interpreted as rebellion.
Just a cautious lord, preparing for winter. Nothing more.
Dusk had fallen by the time Robb returned to their chambers. The hearth was already lit, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Ruyan stood by the window, still fully dressed despite the late hour. Her fingers were working methodically at her hair, removing the first of many pins that held her elaborate court style in place.
He paused in the doorway, momentarily transfixed. This ritual of hers—the unbinding of her hair at day's end—had become strangely fascinating to him over the months. It was perhaps the only time she seemed truly unguarded, when imperial poise gave way to simple human necessity.
One by one, the pins emerged from the dark silk of her hair, each placed with deliberate precision on the windowsill. The firelight caught the polished metal, turning the deadly instruments—he now knew just how deadly—into innocent ornaments once more.
She must have sensed his presence, though she didn't turn.
"Tyrion Lannister will arrive from the Wall by week's end," she said, her voice cutting through his reverie. "Do try to act normal when he does."
Robb closed the door behind him, her words landing like a slap. "After what happened, how can you tell me to act normal toward a Lannister?"
Now she did turn, her dark eyes meeting his. With several pins removed, a section of her hair had already come loose, falling in a glossy wave against her cheek. The contrast between her formal dress and this small disarray stirred something in him he couldn't quite name.
"He is a Lannister. That doesn't make him our assassin. Not yet." She removed another pin, the movement graceful despite its practicality. "And even if he was involved, it's unintelligible that he would show himself here after the attempt. Too obvious. Too risky."
Robb moved closer, drawn into her orbit as he always was during these moments. He crossed to the table to pour himself wine, his eyes never fully leaving her.
"Or perhaps he's cunning enough to do exactly that," he countered. "To ward off suspicion through sheer audacity."
"Whether that's true or not," Ruyan replied, "we can learn more from his stay here—but only if we don't reveal our hand too early in this brewing conflict." She smoothed her gown with practiced precision, then returned to her task, fingers deftly locating another pin. "Watch. Listen. Observe. Then decide."
"And if he is the one who sent the assassin?" Robb asked, his voice dropping lower as he moved closer. "If he did try to murder my brother in his bed?"
"Then he will face Northern justice," she said simply. "But only once we are certain."
Her calm was both infuriating and mesmerizing—rational and controlled, like mountain water flowing over stone. Robb drank deeply from his cup, welcoming the burn of the wine, his eyes following the movement of her hands as they continued their work.
Another pin came free. Then another. Dark strands cascaded gradually down her back with each removal.
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Robb set down his cup and stepped closer, close enough to detect the faint scent of jasmine that always clung to her hair.
"The assassins," he said abruptly. "Were they your first kill?"
Her hands stilled momentarily, a pin caught between her fingers. "They were."
"How can you be so calm after that?" His voice had lost its edge, genuine curiosity breaking through his anger. "So measured, even with Tyrion coming—as if blood hasn't stained your hands."
"I was trained for any given situation," she answered, resuming her methodical task. A cascade of hair fell loose as three more pins came free in succession. "Emotions in these moments can cloud judgment. Precision requires clarity."
"Trained," Robb echoed, watching as the severe court style gradually dissolved into something softer, more human. "You never told me this was part of your training."
Ruyan turned fully toward him now, her hair half-unbound, falling in a dark curtain down one shoulder. In the flickering firelight, with her precise coiffure coming undone, she looked almost vulnerable—less the imperial princess and more the woman he sometimes glimpsed in rare, unguarded moments.
"There are many things I haven't told you," she said quietly. Her fingers found another pin, worked it free with practiced ease. "Just as there are many things you haven't asked."
The truth of that hung between them—their marriage, built on political necessity rather than affection, had never included the intimate sharing of pasts or childhoods or dreams. They had been strangers forced together, then reluctant allies, and now... something not quite defined.
"In Yi Ti," she said, voice low, "imperial children are all given broad education—languages, governance, arts, history. But my father arranged more for me. Because I was promised to Winterfell."
She looked up at him then. "I was sent to temples and courts. I was taught poisons. Pressure points. Diplomacy and deception. Everything he thought I'd need to survive in a foreign land, among foreign men, with no armies of my own."
Robb found himself watching the hypnotic movement of her fingers as they sought out another pin, the graceful twist of her wrist as she set it with the others. The fall of her hair seemed to transform her, each strand that came loose revealing something more human beneath the perfect exterior.
"I never expected to use that training here," she added. "But I will not apologize for protecting your brother."
"I'm not asking for an apology," Robb said, suddenly aware of how close they stood. "Just trying to understand the woman I married."
Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition of the rare moment of genuine connection between them. Her hands slowed in their work, fingers lingering against her hair.
"When I killed the assassin," she said after a meaningful pause, "I felt nothing in the moment. No fear. No hesitation. Only purpose." The last pin came free, and her hair cascaded fully down her back, a curtain of midnight silk against the pale gold of her dress. "It was only later, when I washed the blood from my hands, that I felt them shake."
The admission—small as it was—felt significant. A glimpse behind the imperial mask she wore so effortlessly.
"You didn't show it," Robb observed, his tone softer now, his eyes tracing the newly revealed contours of her face, softened by the frame of unbound hair.
"That's the point of the training," she replied, meeting his gaze directly. "To act without revealing weakness, even when you feel it."
Robb reached out—an impulse he didn't examine—and caught few strands of her hair between his fingers. It was as soft as he'd imagined, smooth as water against his skin. She went very still, but didn't pull away.
"And what about now?" he asked, his voice low in the quiet room. "With Tyrion coming, the Lannisters circling, my father surrounded in King's Landing?"
Ruyan met his gaze. "We keep moving. Quietly. Quickly. Until it's too late for them to stop us."
He didn't move. She reached up and gently disentangled his fingers from her hair—not rejection, just a shift. Her hand lingered against his.
"When Tyrion arrives, offer bread and salt. Watch his eyes. Let him wonder what we know."
Robb looked down at their joined hands, then back to her face—softer now, haloed in firelight.
"You don't think war is coming," he said. "You think it's already here."
"It is," she replied. "We're just the only ones acting like it."
Their eyes held.
No warmth. No promises.
Just agreement.
War was coming. And they were already in motion.
Together.