NED
The riders appeared on the horizon just as the sun began its descent behind the western hills. Ned Stark stood atop the battlements of Winterfell, his hands resting on the ancient stone worn smooth by generations of Starks before him. His face betrayed nothing of the storm within—not fear, not anger, not the piercing relief that threatened to crack his carefully maintained composure.
His son was coming home.
"They're here," he said simply to Catelyn, who stood beside him, her own face a careful mask that revealed only what she chose.
She nodded once, her eyes never leaving the approaching party. "So they are."
The banners came into view first—the direwolf of House Stark riding alongside something foreign: a pale phoenix surrounded by seven golden stars on a field of deep green. The Yi Tish imperial banner. Not a challenge, but a statement of equal standing that would not be missed by anyone within the walls of Winterfell.
Ned studied the approaching riders with the practiced eye of a battle commander. The formation was precise, disciplined—twenty Yi Tish guards in gleaming armor that caught the afternoon sun, moving with the synchronized grace of professional soldiers rather than ceremonial escorts. The captain rode at their head, his posture rigid, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. Six Stark men with Jory whom he sent, identifiable by their gray cloaks, rode at the outer edges of the formation.
And in the center, riding side by side, were his son and the foreign princess who had become his wife.
Even at this distance, the changes in Robb were unmistakable. He sat taller in the saddle, his shoulders broader, his movements conveying a measured confidence that had replaced the eager energy of youth. His auburn hair was longer, tied back in a style that was neither fully Northern nor fully Eastern.
Beside him rode Princess Ruyan of Yi Ti, straight-backed and still as a carved statue despite the movement of her mount. Her dark hair was elaborately arranged atop her head, secured with ornaments that gleamed silver in the sunlight. She wore riding clothes of soft gray—a deliberate choice, Ned recognized, to honor the Stark colors without abandoning the distinctive cut of her homeland's garments.
"Will you welcome her?" Ned asked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the approaching party.
Catelyn's silence was answer enough. When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully neutral. "I will do my duty as Lady of Winterfell."
Duty, not welcome, Ned noted. He would ask for nothing more—not yet. Time might soften what diplomacy could not.
The courtyard below had been prepared for their arrival. The household stood in neat rows—steward, maester, master-at-arms, servants, guards—all in their finest attire despite the practical nature of the Northern court. The other Stark children waited near the entrance to the Great Keep, barely containing their excitement. Only Jon stood apart, his position carefully chosen to be visible to his brother without offending the Lady of Winterfell.
"Come," Ned said, turning from the battlements. "Let us greet our son and his bride."
Our son and his captor, he could almost hear Catelyn thinking, though she said nothing as they descended the stairs to the courtyard.
By the time they took their places, hoofbeats echoed through the gate. Ned straightened, drawing his lord's mantle around himself like armor, shielding the father beneath with the formal dignity of the Warden of the North.
His son had been taken from them, and now returned with a foreign bride. The political necessities were understood—even embraced for the North's benefit. But understanding did not erase the wound of separation, or the bitter knowledge that the choice had never truly been Robb's to make.
The horses entered the courtyard, the formation breaking with practiced precision as they came to a halt before the waiting lord and lady. For a moment, silence reigned—a breath between what had been and what would be.
Then Robb dismounted in a single fluid motion and stepped forward, his eyes finding his father's across the courtyard.
"Lord Stark," he said formally, his voice deeper than Ned remembered.
Something in Ned's chest tightened painfully. Lord Stark, not Father. But he understood the necessity of formality in this moment.
"Robb," he replied, stepping forward. "Welcome home to Winterfell."
They embraced then, the formal distance collapsing as Ned pulled his son close. Robb's arms tightened around him with unexpected strength, and for a fleeting moment, Ned felt the boy beneath the man's exterior—the son who had been taken from them, who had carried the weight of the North's future across distant seas.
When they separated, Robb turned to his mother. "Mother," he said, his voice warming as Catelyn stepped forward to embrace him.
"My son," she whispered, and Ned saw her composed expression falter for just a moment as she held Robb tightly. "You've been gone too long."
"I know," Robb replied softly. "But I've returned."
Changed, but returned, Ned thought, noting the careful way Robb now held himself, the measured quality of his movements that spoke of Eastern discipline layered over Northern strength.
Then Robb stepped back and turned toward his bride, who had dismounted without assistance and now stood waiting, her posture perfect, her expression composed but attentive. She wore her foreign heritage like a second skin—neither flaunting it nor apologizing for it. Not the scholar's modest robes. Not the imperial silks of courtly display. Something between. Measured. Chosen. A statement.
"Father, Mother," Robb said, his voice taking on a formal tone once more. "May I present my wife, Princess Ruyan of the Imperial House of Yi Ti."
Ruyan stepped forward with fluid grace. She did not curtsy in the Westerosi fashion, but performed a different gesture—a slight bow from the waist, her hands folded before her, her head inclining precisely. It was, Ned recognized, a gesture of respect without submission, of acknowledgment without surrender.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark," she said, her voice clear and melodious, her accent present but not obtrusive. "I am honored to stand in the home of your ancestors and to be received by the family of my husband."
Ned studied her with careful scrutiny. This was not the demure bride some might have expected, nor the imperious foreign princess others might have feared. She stood with quiet confidence, meeting his gaze directly yet respectfully—the posture of someone accustomed to power and conscious of its proper exercise.
"Princess Ruyan," he replied, inclining his head in return. "Winterfell welcomes you."
Catelyn said nothing for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough to be noticed. Then she inclined her head slightly. "Princess," she acknowledged, offering nothing more.
If Ruyan noticed the coldness in the greeting, she gave no sign. Her expression remained composed, her dark eyes revealing nothing of her thoughts as she accepted the minimal courtesy with a graceful nod.
Before the awkward moment could lengthen, a commotion from the side of the courtyard broke the formal tableau. "ROBB!"
Arya—never one for patience or protocol—broke from the line of waiting siblings and flew across the courtyard. Ruyan recognized her immediately. The girl who had once pestered the Yi Tish scholars with questions about fever cures and foreign script. The first, perhaps, to suspect she was more than a guest., a wild blur of dark hair and boundless energy. She collided with her brother, who caught her with practiced ease, lifting her off her feet in a spinning embrace that drew the first genuine smile Ned had seen from his son since his arrival.
"Put me down!" Arya demanded, though her wide grin belied her protest. "You've gotten stronger."
"And you've gotten taller," Robb replied, setting her down and ruffling her hair in a familiar gesture that seemed to bridge the gap of years and distance.
Sansa approached next, her movements graceful and controlled—every inch the lady she had been trained to be, though her composure cracked when Robb opened his arms to her. "Brother," she said simply, stepping into his embrace.
"Little sister," he murmured, holding her close. "Not so little anymore."
Bran followed, his face alight with curiosity and excitement, and even Rickon—who barely remembered the brother who had left when he was a toddler—approached cautiously before being swept up in Robb's arms.
Ned watched as his son greeted each sibling in turn, noting how Robb's formal bearing softened with each embrace, how the careful control he had maintained seemed to melt away in the presence of his brothers and sisters. Only Jon remained apart, waiting for the family reunion to complete before approaching.
When Robb finally turned to Jon, something passed between them—a silent communication born of the special bond they had always shared. "Brother," Robb said simply, embracing Jon with fierce affection.
"Welcome home," Jon replied, his voice rough with emotion.
Throughout these greetings, Princess Ruyan stood slightly apart, observing with calm attention. When her gaze found Jon Snow, she did not flinch or avert her eyes. He knew, after all—knew what had happened to Robb. And so she regarded him not with warmth, but with awareness. Recognition without concession. Her face revealed nothing beyond polite interest, yet Ned caught something in her eyes as she watched Robb with his siblings—a flicker of something he could not quite name.
When the initial flurry of greetings had subsided, she stepped forward and addressed Robb in a voice meant to be heard by those nearby. "My husband, I would like to freshen up before the evening meal, if that would be acceptable."
Robb turned to her immediately, his attention shifting with practiced ease. "Of course," he said, then looked to his mother. "Have chambers been prepared for us?"
"In the east wing," Catelyn replied, her voice neutral. "As you requested in your letter."
Ruyan inclined her head gracefully. "Thank you, Lady Stark. With your permission, I will retire there now."
It was, Ned realized, a diplomatic withdrawal—giving Robb time alone with his family while allowing herself to settle into their new home without the weight of Stark scrutiny. The gesture spoke of political awareness, yes, but also of a certain emotional intelligence that he had not expected.
Maester Luwin stepped forward to escort the princess, along with several servants who would show her Yi Tish attendants to their quarters. As Ruyan departed, her movements remained measured and graceful, her back straight, her head held high—not in arrogance, but in the practiced dignity of one who had been trained from birth to represent an imperial bloodline.
"She will join us for the evening meal," Robb said, watching his wife depart. Something in his voice—a mixture of pride and protectiveness—caught Ned's attention.
There is more between them than political necessity, he thought, though whether that "more" was positive or negative remained to be seen.
"Come," Robb said, turning back to his siblings with visible eagerness. "I want to hear everything I've missed."
Ned nodded to Catelyn as their children swept Robb away toward the godswood, their voices raised in excited questions and overlapping stories. For now, they would give their son this time with his brothers and sisters. The more difficult conversations—about alliances, about the future, about the truth of how he came to be in Yi Ti—would come later.
As the courtyard emptied, Ned found himself alone with his thoughts. His son had returned—not unchanged, but unbowed. The boy who had left was now a man, carrying the weight of two worlds on his shoulders.
And the princess... she was not what Ned had expected. There was steel beneath that silk, strength behind that composure. Whether that strength would serve the North—or challenge it—remained to be seen.
For now, it was enough that Robb had come home.
The rest would come with time.
CATELYN
Catelyn Stark stood in the empty courtyard long after the others had gone, the echo of hoofbeats and greetings fading into the ancient stones beneath her feet. Her hands, clasped tightly before her, were the only outward sign of the tumult within.
Her son had returned to Winterfell a married man.
Not just married—changed. The shift went beyond the physical; it was in his bearing, his speech, the watchfulness in his gaze. The eager boy who left was gone. In his place stood a young man molded by a distant empire.
What else have they changed in him? The thought pierced like a blade. What else have they taken besides two years?
The Yi Tish princess had been as Catelyn feared—composed, self-assured, unreadable. She made no apologies, offered no acknowledgment of the pain her marriage had caused. She stood in Winterfell's courtyard as though it belonged to her.
She took my son, Catelyn thought, bitterly. And now she walks these stones as if it were her due.
Yet despite her resentment, Catelyn could not deny the girl's poise. Ruyan had met their cool reception with calm grace, navigating the tension with unnerving precision. Her withdrawal had been measured, offering Robb space without ever conceding ground.
That, perhaps, unsettled Catelyn most.
She had expected arrogance or fear. Instead, she saw a diplomat.
That makes her more dangerous, not less.
Back in her solar, Catelyn paced. This room had been her sanctum, the seat of her authority as Lady of Winterfell. Now it held uncertainty.
The princess was not what she had imagined.
A knock broke her reverie.
"Enter."
Maester Luwin stepped in, his chain rustling softly. "My lady. Princess Ruyan has been settled in the east wing."
Catelyn turned from the window. "Did she find it acceptable?"
"She expressed appreciation for the warmth and asked several questions about the hot springs."
Of course she had. The Yi Tish were no strangers to comfort. The east wing was simple by southern standards—by imperial ones, likely spartan.
"Any other requests?"
"She inquired about a space for meditation. I offered the unused solar adjacent to their chambers."
Catelyn gave a tight nod. "Have it cleaned."
"She also presented several medical scrolls.She thought they might benefit the North."
Another offering. Another well-placed gesture. One that could not be refused without seeming petty.
"She came prepared," Catelyn murmured.
"She did."
"And her attendants?"
"Few in number. A scholar—Master Wei—two handmaidens, a guard. Most of her household and guards remains in White Harbor or Winter Town. A gradual integration, she said."
Political savvy again. Fewer eyes to resent, fewer customs to resist.
"Thank you, Maester. That will be all."
He bowed and departed.
She returned to the window. Robb sat with his siblings in the courtyard, laughter echoing faintly upward. A moment that could have belonged to another time.
But the east wing's rising smoke reminded her—nothing was the same.
She will not find it easy here, Catelyn thought with grim certainty. The North does not open its arms to outsiders.
And yet, Ruyan had not arrived to be embraced. She had come prepared, careful, deliberate.
A knock again.
"Enter."
Robb. Alone. Older. Still hers.
They embraced. Her composure cracked.
"I've missed you," he murmured.
She held him tightly. "The castle's been too quiet."
They sat. They spoke. And when at last she asked what he wanted of her, he answered plainly:
"Give her a chance. For me. For the North."
Catelyn felt the old fury rise. "She is the daughter of the man who took you."
"And a woman who left her own world behind," Robb replied. "She made sacrifices, too."
"Not the same ones."
"No," he agreed. "But real."
And then—an apology. Not yet made, but promised. Not for her father's actions, but for the pain they caused.
It was more than she had expected.
"Will you accept it?" Robb asked.
Catelyn's voice was low. "I will consider it."
He nodded. Rose. "She'll want me back soon."
"Why come to me first?" she asked.
He smiled. "Because you're the harder one to convince."
When he left, Catelyn remained by the window, watching the last of the light fade over Winterfell.
Not welcome, she thought. Not yet. But I will listen. I will judge.
It was not forgiveness.
But it was a beginning.