The late afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows of Ned Stark's solar, casting long shadows across the stone floor. A fire burned steadily in the hearth, its warmth a necessary shield against the chill that seemed to permeate Winterfell even in summer. Ned stood before the fire, hands clasped behind his back, his face set in the careful mask of neutrality he had worn since his son's return.
Catelyn sat in the carved wooden chair near his desk, her posture rigid, her fingers working at the embroidery in her lap with methodical precision that spoke more of control than creativity. The solar had always been their refuge—a place for private counsel and family matters beyond the eyes of bannermen and servants. Today, that privacy would serve a different purpose.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence.
"Enter," Ned called, his voice steady.
The door opened to reveal Ruyan, framed in the doorway like a figure from a different world. She was dressed for the feast in a gown that somehow bridged her imperial heritage and her new Northern home—layers of silvery-gray silk beneath an outer robe of deeper gray, embroidered with pale phoenixes that seemed to shimmer when she moved. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that incorporated both Yi Tish ornaments and Northern braiding, secured with pins of smoky quartz and silver. She wore no crown, but needed none to convey her station.
Behind her stood Robb, his own attire a similar blend of cultures—Northern cut in dark Stark gray, but with subtle Eastern embroidery at the collar and cuffs. His hand rested lightly at the small of his wife's back, a gesture of support that did not go unnoticed by either of his parents.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark," Ruyan said, her voice clear and measured. She performed a fluid bow—not a curtsy as a Northern lady might offer, but a gesture of respect from her own tradition. "Thank you for receiving us before the feast."
Ned inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Princess," he replied, then nodded to his son. "Robb."
Catelyn said nothing, but her hands stilled on her embroidery, her eyes fixed on the foreign princess with an intensity that could have carved stone.
Ruyan stepped into the room with precise grace, her movements neither hurried nor hesitant. Robb followed, closing the door behind them. The solar suddenly felt smaller, as if the air itself had compressed with their entrance.
"Please," Ned gestured to the chairs arranged before the fire. "Be seated."
Ruyan took the offered seat with fluid poise, arranging her silk robes with a practiced hand. Robb sat beside her, close enough to offer support but not so close as to suggest he was shielding her. The subtle positioning spoke volumes about their relationship—partners, not protector and protected.
"I have requested this audience," Ruyan began, her accent lending a musical quality to her words, "to offer what I believe is an overdue acknowledgment of the circumstances that have brought us together."
Ned took his own seat, his gray eyes steady as he studied the young woman before him. She met his gaze directly, neither challenging nor submitting—simply present, aware of her position and its complexities.
"When I first came to Winterfell," she continued, "I came as an envoy of my father, seeking a diplomatic alliance through marriage. I failed in that mission." Her voice remained even, neither defensive nor apologetic. "Lord Robb refused my offer, as was his right. My aides acted without my knowledge to secure his presence in Yi Ti after my departure from White Harbor."
Catelyn's fingers tightened around her embroidery hoop, her knuckles whitening with strain.
"I did not order his capture," Ruyan stated clearly. "But I acknowledge that when presented with his presence in Yi Ti, I chose to continue my mission. I used the situation to achieve what diplomacy had failed to secure."
The firelight played across her features, highlighting the careful composure of her expression. There was no defensive posture, no attempt to minimize or redirect. She stated facts with the clarity of someone who had examined her own actions and found them worthy of acknowledgment, if not regret.
"I am aware of the pain his absence caused this family," she said, turning her gaze briefly to Catelyn before returning to Ned. "No diplomatic agreement can justify that suffering. I do not defend it. I merely acknowledge it as a reality we must now move beyond."
Ned watched her carefully, noting the precision of her words. She offered no excuses, made no attempt to diminish the impact of what had happened. Yet neither did she grovel or plead for forgiveness. It was, he realized, the approach of someone trained in the highest levels of statecraft—direct, honest, but maintaining the dignity of her position.
"I am also aware," Ruyan continued, "that my marriage to your son has shifted political expectations throughout the North. The alliances that might have been formed through his marriage to a Northern lady must now be secured through other means. The futures of your other children have been affected by our union."
She folded her hands in her lap, the perfect picture of composed awareness. "I wish to offer my assistance in navigating these new political realities. My diplomatic training and the resources of my household are at your disposal, should you choose to accept them."
The offer hung in the air between them—unexpected, pragmatic, and impossibly complicated.
Catelyn's voice cut through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel. "So you are aware that you didn't just steal Robb's future, but that of my other children too."
The words were not a question but an accusation, laden with the bitterness of a mother whose family had been irrevocably altered.
Ruyan turned toward Catelyn, her expression unchanged. "Yes, Lady Stark. I am aware."
The simplicity of the response seemed to fuel Catelyn's anger rather than soothe it. Her eyes flashed, and the embroidery hoop was set aside with controlled force. "And you offer this... 'assistance' as if political maneuvering could heal what your family has broken."
"Cat," Ned said quietly, a gentle warning in his tone. Whatever his own feelings about the situation, escalating tensions before the feast would serve no one.
Ruyan remained still, her composure unruffled by Catelyn's anger. "I offer what I can, Lady Stark. Not as recompense, but as acknowledgment of new realities we all must face."
"New realities," Catelyn repeated, her voice cold. "Such a diplomatic phrase for upending the future we had planned for our children."
A flicker of something—awareness, perhaps, but not quite remorse—passed through Ruyan's dark eyes. "The future is rarely what we plan, Lady Stark," she replied, her tone remaining measured. "We can only adapt to what comes."
Catelyn leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing. "Even in apology, you show no emotion. No regret, no sorrow. Only this... calculated acceptance. Is this what they teach imperial princesses in Yi Ti? To speak of pain as if it were a trade agreement?"
Robb shifted in his chair, tension evident in the set of his shoulders, but Ruyan placed a hand lightly on his arm—a subtle gesture asking him to let her respond.
"My training," she said carefully, "is to separate personal feeling from diplomatic necessity. It is not absence of emotion, Lady Stark, but control of it. In my culture, this is considered respect—allowing others their dignity rather than burdening them with one's own feelings."
The explanation did nothing to soften Catelyn's expression. If anything, it seemed to harden it further. "How convenient."
A moment of silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Then Ruyan rose with fluid grace, her silks rustling softly with the movement.
"I believe I have said what needed to be said," she stated calmly. "The feast will begin soon. With your permission, I will take my leave."
She bowed again, the gesture as precise as everything else about her. "I look forward to working with you, Lady Stark, as I acclimate to Winterfell. And with you, Lord Stark, in matters concerning the North's future."
The formal courtesy, delivered without a hint of irony despite the tension in the room, could have been interpreted as either genuine respect or subtle defiance. Ned suspected it was, deliberately, both.
Ruyan turned to Robb. "I will wait outside."
With that, she crossed to the door, her movements as measured as her words had been. The door closed behind her with a soft click that seemed to release some of the pressure in the room.
Robb remained seated, his face set in lines that reminded Ned painfully of himself at the same age—determination mixed with duty, personal feelings subsumed beneath political necessity.
"She's trying," Robb said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. "In her own way."
Catelyn shook her head, disbelief evident in the gesture. "That was not trying, Robb. That was... performing. A diplomatic dance without a hint of genuine remorse."
"You mistake composure for lack of conscience," Robb replied, not harshly but with a certainty that brooked no argument. "She was raised to control her expressions, to separate her personal feelings from her public duty. It doesn't mean she feels nothing."
"And you believe that?" Catelyn asked, her voice softening with concern rather than sharpening with anger. "After everything that's happened?"
Robb met his mother's gaze steadily. "I've had two years to learn who she is beneath the imperial mask, Mother. She has depths you haven't seen yet."
The simple statement carried weight beyond its words—an implicit alignment with his wife, a quiet declaration that he understood her in ways his parents could not yet comprehend.
Ned watched his son, noting the subtle changes that two years in a foreign land had wrought. Robb sat straighter, spoke with more measured consideration, observed before responding. He had learned the lessons of Eastern diplomacy well.
"She offered to help," Ned observed quietly. "With the political consequences of your marriage."
Robb nodded. "She means it. Whatever you may think of her, she understands politics better than most. Her assistance would be valuable."
"At what cost?" Catelyn asked, the question layered with maternal concern.
"No cost," Robb replied simply. "She sees it as her duty now—to the North, to our house, to me. In Yi Ti, duty is... everything."
Ned understood that concept better than most. Duty had shaped his entire life, had driven decisions both painful and necessary. Perhaps in that, at least, there was common ground between Northern and Eastern values.
"The feast begins soon," he said finally, rising from his chair. "We should prepare."
Robb stood as well, understanding the implicit dismissal. He hesitated, then spoke again, his voice carrying the gravity of the heir to Winterfell rather than a son addressing his parents.
"She will be the future Lady of Winterfell one day," he said quietly. "Not in place of you, Mother, but after you. She knows this, respects it, and seeks to learn from you. Her offer was genuine, even if her manner seems foreign to our ways."
Catelyn's expression softened slightly, not with acceptance, but with recognition of her son's maturity. "We will speak more of this later," she said, neither rejecting nor embracing the possibility.
"Thank you for receiving her," Robb said with a nod, then turned to leave.
After a moment, Ned and Catelyn followed. As they stepped into the corridor, they saw Robb and Ruyan walking ahead of them, making their way toward the feast.
Robb turned to his wife, offering his arm—a simple courtly gesture that would be second nature to any Westerosi noble couple.
Ruyan paused, her eyes flickering from his offered arm to his face. A moment of hesitation crossed her features.
"This is Winterfell," Robb said quietly, his voice carrying just far enough for his parents to hear. "I am your husband. This is more than expected."
Something shifted in Ruyan's expression—a brief flash of understanding. "I see," she replied simply.
She placed her hand on his arm with careful precision, adjusting to the unfamiliar gesture as if it were a new diplomatic protocol to be mastered rather than an act of intimacy. Yet there was something in the way her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his sleeve—a small, unconscious gesture that spoke of trust beneath the formality.
Ned glanced at Catelyn, finding her watching the couple with the same careful attention.
"Did you see?" she asked softly.
"The hesitation?" Ned nodded. "And how he guided her."
"He knows her well enough to anticipate her uncertainty," Catelyn observed. "And she trusts him enough to follow his lead, however unfamiliar it might be."
A small revelation, but not insignificant. Whatever else had developed between them in Yi Ti, there was at least this—a functional partnership, a willingness to learn from each other.
Catelyn sighed. "She's exactly what I feared," she said softly. "Composed, controlled, calculating."
"And yet," Ned replied thoughtfully, "she came to apologize when imperial pride might have prevented it. She acknowledged the pain caused without defending it. She offered assistance without demanding gratitude in return." He paused. "There is more to her than we have yet seen, I think."
Together, they followed their son and his foreign bride toward the Great Hall, where the North awaited the presentation of its future Lady—a princess from the distant East who had brought their heir back changed, but not broken.
As they stepped into the corridor, they saw Robb and Ruyan walking ahead, silent at first. The hush of Winterfell's stones wrapped around them like the cold—ancient, expectant.
Robb paused near the turning to the Great Hall. He extended his arm.
A simple gesture. Courtly. Expected.
But Ruyan hesitated.
Not out of defiance. Out of unfamiliarity.
Her eyes flicked to his hand, then to his face. Her expression remained unreadable, but not empty—beneath the stillness, there was calculation, curiosity, the quiet strain of someone trying to interpret new protocol.
"This is Winterfell," Robb said, his voice low and even. "I am your husband. This is more than expected."
A beat.
Then, something subtle shifted in her eyes. Not warmth—understanding. She reached out, carefully, and placed her hand on his offered arm. The motion was precise, almost ceremonial.
But when her fingers settled, they curled slightly—just enough to anchor, just enough to trust.
From behind, Ned and Catelyn saw it all.
"She hesitated," Catelyn murmured, unreadable.
"She adjusted," Ned said quietly. "To him."
"She trusts him," she replied. Not praise. Not forgiveness. But a beginning.