RUYAN
Morning mist clung to the ancient pines of the Wolfswood, transforming the forest into something ethereal—neither entirely solid nor completely ephemeral. Ruyan breathed deeply, filling her lungs with air scented by pine resin, damp earth, and the subtle musk of horses. The chill carried a bite unfamiliar to her Eastern senses, yet she found herself appreciating its clarity—how it seemed to sharpen every color, every sound, every sensation.
She adjusted her position in the saddle, grateful for the riding clothes she'd brought from Yi Ti—practical leather and wool rather than the formal silks expected at court functions. The bow slung across her back was lightweight Yi Tish design; the quiver at her hip contained arrows fletched with her own hands.
"Begging your pardon, Princess," Greatjon Umber's voice boomed through the misty silence, startling a cluster of blackbirds from a nearby branch. "But you sit a horse better than half my men-at-arms. No one told us the Emperor's daughter would be at home in a saddle."
Ruyan turned to regard the enormous Northman, his massive frame somehow appearing perfectly matched to the wild terrain around them. During the formal welcome feast, she had maintained careful composure with Lord Umber during their dance. Here in the woods, she allowed herself a slight relaxation of that rigid control.
"Imperial princesses learn to ride before they learn to walk, Lord Umber," she replied. "Though I admit your Northern mounts have... distinctive temperaments."
The Greatjon roared with laughter. "Stubborn as their riders, these beasts!" He slapped his own horse's neck with affectionate force that would have sent a lesser animal bolting. "No dancing ponies in the North, Princess. Just like there's no dancing in Last Hearth unless it's around a fire or a corpse."
Beside her, Lihua stiffened slightly at the crude humor, her posture immaculate despite the rough riding clothes she wore. Unlike Ruyan, who had adapted her attire completely to the activity, Lihua maintained touches of her station—silver pins securing her hair, embroidered trim on her riding jacket. Her eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, alert for any threat to her princess.
On Ruyan's other side, young Arya Stark pressed her mount forward, seemingly determined to remain as close to Ruyan as possible without actually crowding her. The girl had insisted on joining this hunting party with a determination that had impressed Ruyan—overriding her mother's objections with support from her father, who seemed to understand his younger daughter's wild spirit better than most.
"Is it true you hunt tigers in Yi Ti?" Arya asked, her gray eyes wide with fascination.
Before Ruyan could answer, the Greatjon interjected, "Tigers? Gods, girl, surely they have servants for that sort of thing. Can't have princesses getting their hands bloody."
Ruyan met his gaze directly, a slight curve to her lips that wasn't quite a smile. "The white tigers of the Jade Mountains are sacred animals, Lord Umber. When they grow old and begin threatening villages, it falls to the imperial family to hunt them—a duty, not a sport." She paused. "My first kill was when I was twelve. The tiger had taken three children."
The Greatjon's expression shifted from jovial disbelief to something more complex—reassessment, perhaps, or reluctant respect. His son, the Smalljon, who had been riding silently behind them, urged his horse forward.
"Twelve," he repeated, studying her with careful consideration. "That's Ned's age." He nodded toward his nephew, a boy riding alongside Arya who appeared to be doing his best to seem unimpressed by everything around him, though his eyes repeatedly darted toward Ruyan with poorly concealed curiosity.
"Different worlds require different skills at different ages," Ruyan replied. She turned back to Arya. "But to answer your question—yes, we hunt in Yi Ti. Though differently than you do here."
"How?" Arya pressed eagerly.
"With more ceremony and less joy, I suspect," Ruyan said, finding herself strangely comfortable with this honesty. Perhaps it was the forest—away from stone walls and watchful courtiers, something in her responded to the wild openness of these Northern woods.
The Greatjon snorted. "That's the problem with courts and castles, isn't it? Too much ceremony, not enough joy." He gestured broadly at the forest surrounding them. "Out here, though—this is the real North. No fancy talk, no southern graces. Just us, the wood, and whatever the old gods put in our path today."
Ruyan observed him carefully. In the imperial court, such plainspoken declarations would be layered with meaning, calculated for effect. Here, she detected no artifice in Lord Umber's words—only a genuine pride in his identity that required neither apology nor embellishment.
"We're the North's big, dumb hammers, Princess," he continued with a self-deprecating grin that somehow didn't diminish his dignity in the slightest. "Not clever like the Manderlys or ancient like the Starks or sharp like those flaying Boltons. But by the gods, when the North needs something smashed, they know who to call."
Instead of appearing ashamed of this characterization, he seemed to relish it. There was something almost liberating in his comfort with who and what he was—a stark contrast to the careful self-monitoring Ruyan had practiced since childhood.
"There's wisdom in knowing one's nature, Lord Umber," she replied, surprising herself with the genuine acknowledgment.
The Smalljon's eyes narrowed slightly at her words, studying her as if trying to detect mockery. Finding none, he nodded once—a small gesture that carried the weight of provisional acceptance.
"Tracks here," called one of the huntsmen, dismounting to examine the forest floor. "Fresh. Deer. Big one."
The party gathered around as the man pointed out the distinctive prints pressed into the damp earth. Arya slipped from her horse with practiced ease, kneeling beside the tracks with serious concentration.
"Buck or doe?" she asked, looking up at the huntsman.
"Buck," the man replied, a flicker of approval crossing his weathered features at her question. "And a large one at that."
"Can I track it?" Arya asked, turning to Ruyan with an eagerness that caught her off guard. Not Lord Umber, not the huntsman, but her—as if Ruyan's permission was what mattered most.
Ruyan glanced at the Greatjon, who shrugged as if to say the decision was hers. She considered the girl before her—not the lady her mother wished her to be, nor the warrior she perhaps dreamed of becoming, but something caught between worlds. In that moment, Ruyan recognized something of herself in Arya Stark.
"If you lead, I will follow," she said simply.
Arya's face lit with surprised delight before settling into determined concentration. She moved ahead with the huntsman, her small form navigating the underbrush with natural grace.
"The wild wolf of Winterfell, that one," the Greatjon commented, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Lady Stark keeps trying to turn her into a proper southern lady. Might as well try to tame a shadowcat."
"Not all women are meant for the same path," Ruyan observed, watching as Arya pointed out another track to the huntsman, receiving a nod of confirmation.
"Aye," the Greatjon agreed, surprising her again with his easy acceptance. "The North remembers that better than most, though we don't always show it. Had warrior women among the First Men. Still have Bear Island's shield-maidens."
They continued deeper into the forest, following Arya and the huntsman as they tracked the deer. The mist began to burn away as the sun climbed higher, revealing the full majesty of the Wolfswood—ancient trees stretching toward the sky, undergrowth dense and wild, occasional clearings where sunlight transformed the forest floor into carpets of green and gold.
Ruyan felt a curious lightening within herself as they rode. Here, far from the watchful eyes of Winterfell, away from the careful diplomatic performance required at every meal and gathering, she could simply... be. The freedom was as unfamiliar as it was welcome.
"You ride well," the Smalljon commented, breaking his long silence as he guided his mount alongside hers. Unlike his father, his words were measured, considered. "Not what we expected."
"And what did you expect, Lord Umber?" she asked, curious rather than offended.
His massive shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. "Southern ladies ride in those wheelhouses, or on gentle palfreys led by servants. Eastern princesses..." He trailed off, seemingly unwilling to voice whatever stereotype he had harbored.
"In porcelain palanquins, perhaps?" Ruyan suggested. "Carried by slaves, hidden behind silk curtains?"
A flush of embarrassment colored the Smalljon's bearded face. "Something like that," he admitted gruffly. He hadn't expected honesty from her. But here it was.
"We do have bound servants in Yi Ti," she acknowledged, surprising herself with her candor. "But not as you might imagine. They have rights, earn wages, can purchase their freedom, and some rise to high positions. Still, I would not pretend we are without fault." She studied his reaction, then added, as if reading his thoughts, "Those who came with me have different statuses, but none are slaves."
She straightened slightly. "And imperial princesses learn many skills. Riding, hunting, calligraphy, poetry, mathematics, strategy." She paused. "We are not ornaments, Lord Umber."
"No," he agreed, studying her with renewed interest. "I can see that now."
Ahead, Arya had stopped suddenly, her hand raised in a signal that immediately silenced the hunting party. She pointed ahead, where the trees thinned into a small glade filled with dappled sunlight.
Ruyan dismounted silently, moving forward on foot with a practiced stealth that seemed to impress the Northmen around her. She took position beside Arya, bow still unstrung across her back.
"There," Arya whispered, pointing toward the far edge of the clearing.
Ruyan felt her breath catch.
Standing in a shaft of sunlight was a stag unlike any she had ever seen—not the golden-brown creatures common to these woods, but a beast of pure white, its coat gleaming like fresh snow. Even its antlers, magnificent and broad, seemed carved from pale bone or ivory. The animal browsed peacefully, seemingly unaware of their presence, its breath forming small clouds in the cool morning air.
"A white hart," the Greatjon murmured behind them, his usual booming voice reduced to an awed whisper. "By the old gods. Not seen one in thirty years."
Lihua had moved to Ruyan's side, her expression betraying rare amazement. "Lingzhi Lu," she whispered in their native tongue. "The spirit deer."
Something ancient and profound resonated within Ruyan. In Yi Ti, such creatures were considered manifestations of cosmic harmony—living bridges between the mortal world and the realm of spirits. To encounter one was a blessing; to harm one, a sacrilege.
She sensed movement beside her as one of the huntsmen slowly raised his bow. Without thinking, she placed her hand gently on his arm, guiding it back down.
"No," she said quietly. "This one is not meant for our arrows today."
The man looked toward Lord Umber, clearly uncertain whose authority prevailed in this moment. The Greatjon nodded once, his usual bluster subdued by the rare sight before them.
"The princess is right," he confirmed. "Some creatures are meant to be seen, not taken."
Ruyan felt Arya's questioning gaze and turned to meet it. The girl's gray eyes were wide with wonder, but also curiosity.
"We came to hunt," Arya whispered. "Why not take it? It would make the finest trophy."
"Some things have value beyond what we can possess," Ruyan explained softly. "In Yi Ti, we believe white animals are touched by the gods—messengers between worlds. To kill such a creature without dire necessity would be to silence a voice we were meant to hear."
Instead of dismissing this as foreign superstition, Arya nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "Like the heart trees," she said. "You don't cut them down because they're how the old gods speak."
Ruyan felt a flicker of surprise at the girl's quick understanding—the immediate leap to find common ground between their different worlds.
"Yes," she agreed. "Very much like that."
For several long moments, they remained still, watching as the white hart grazed peacefully in the sunlit clearing. Then, as if sensing their presence at last, the creature raised its majestic head, dark eyes seeming to look directly at Ruyan. A shiver ran through her—not of fear, but recognition. It pulled at her—soft as breath, old as prayer. Not memory. Something deeper.
The hart held her gaze for a heartbeat, then two, before bounding away with effortless grace, disappearing into the dense forest as silently as a ghost.
The spell broken, the hunting party stirred back to life around them. The Greatjon clapped a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Good fortune to see such a beast," he declared. "but our cooks still expect venison for the feast. Let's find more mundane quarry, eh?"
As they prepared to resume the hunt, Ruyan noticed Arya still staring at the spot where the white hart had stood, a strange expression on her young face.
"What are you thinking?" Ruyan asked her.
Arya looked up, her customary boldness momentarily replaced by something more vulnerable. "I'm trying to remember everything about it," she admitted. "So I can tell Jon. He'll believe me, even if no one else does."
"I believe you saw it," the Ned Umber said unexpectedly, his voice gentler than before.
"But not everyone will understand why we didn't shoot," Arya persisted. "Mother will say we should have. For the honor of Winterfell. To show our skill."
"True honor lies in knowing when not to act as well as when to act," Ruyan said, the words emerging from some deeper place than her usual careful diplomacy. "Your father will understand that, I think."
Arya nodded, seemingly reassured. "Yes," she agreed. "Father will understand."
As they remounted and continued their hunt, Ruyan found herself reflecting on the unexpected connections forming in this wild place—with the straightforward Umbers, with young Arya, even with the land itself. These Northerners, whom she had expected to find blunt and perhaps hostile, instead moved through their world with a complex mixture of pride, pragmatism, and surprising spirituality.
This is why they are loyal, she realized suddenly. Not blind faith. Identity.
The Umbers knew exactly who and what they were—their place in the North, their relationship to the land, their duty to their liege lords. There was no artifice in it, no calculation. Simply a bone-deep certainty that Ruyan, raised in the labyrinthine politics of the imperial court, found both baffling and strangely enviable.
By midday, they had tracked and taken two deer—ordinary brown creatures that would grace the wedding week feast tables. Ruyan had made a clean kill with her Yi Tish bow, earning appreciative nods from the hunting party. Even Lihua had relaxed somewhat, though her watchful eyes never strayed far from her princess.
As they prepared to return to Winterfell, the Greatjon approached Ruyan, his usual boisterous manner subdued into something more thoughtful.
"Never thought I'd spend a morning hunting with a foreign princess," he said, rubbing his bearded chin. "Expected you'd be... different."
"Different how?" Ruyan asked, genuinely curious.
He gestured vaguely. "Soft. Frightened of the woods. Too grand for bloodying your hands." A sheepish grin broke through his serious expression. "Shows what I know."
Ruyan allowed herself a small but genuine smile—the most natural expression she had worn since arriving in the North. "Perhaps we are all more than what others expect us to be, Lord Umber."
"Aye," he agreed, looking out across the Wolfswood with evident fondness. "That's the thing about the North, Princess. Looks simple from the outside. Cold, harsh, unchanging. But there's depth here for those willing to see it."
As they rode back toward Winterfell, Ruyan felt Arya pull her mount alongside hers once more.
"Will you teach me to shoot like you do?" the girl asked, direct as always. "Your bow is different. Faster."
Ruyan considered the request. Such lessons would certainly provoke disapproval from Lady Stark, perhaps even from Lord Stark himself. Yet there was something in Arya's determined gray eyes that spoke to her—a hunger not just for skill, but for understanding, for connection.
"Yes," she decided. "But in return, you must teach me something of the North. Something not found in formal lessons or diplomatic scrolls."
Arya's face broke into a wide grin. "I know all the secret passages in Winterfell," she offered eagerly. "And the best places to find shadowcats in the woods. And how to talk to the smallfolk so they tell you the real stories, not just what they think lords want to hear."
Ruyan nodded seriously, accepting these treasures for what they were—genuine offerings of knowledge valued by this unusual child. These were truths no scroll ever held. She would remember them.
"Then we have an agreement," she said. "A fair exchange."
As they emerged from the Wolfswood, Winterfell came into view in the distance—gray stones stark against the horizon, smoke rising from countless chimneys, banners snapping in the wind. Her new home, still foreign despite her efforts to adapt.
Yet something had shifted during this morning's hunt. Some rigid part of herself had softened, not in weakness but in recognition. These Northerners—rough, proud, straightforward—carried a wisdom she had not anticipated. Their connection to their land, their traditions, their identity... it was something she could learn from, perhaps even admire.
Lihua moved closer, her expression questioning. "The hunt was satisfactory, Princess?" she asked in their native tongue.
Ruyan looked back toward the distant trees of the Wolfswood, remembering the white hart, its dark eyes meeting hers across the sunlit clearing.
"Yes," she replied softly, still in Yi Tish. "I believe I found what I needed to find."
And as they rode toward Winterfell, Ruyan carried with her the memory of that moment—the messenger between worlds, the recognition of something sacred, and the unexpected harmony of understanding shared across the boundaries of language and culture.
Perhaps, she thought, there was a place for her here after all.