RUYAN
Ruyan watched the blade fall, its polished surface catching the weak northern light like a mirror. The deserter's head separated from his body with a single clean stroke, rolling once before settling on the frosted ground. She kept her face perfectly composed, as she had been trained since childhood. No flinching, no visible reaction—though she noted the quiet shift in her breathing.
Death was not unfamiliar to her. In Yi Ti, executions were performed with similar efficiency, though with far more ceremony and at the hands of specialized executioners. What fascinated her was not the act itself, but Lord Stark's direct participation in it.
The man who passes the sentence swings the sword.
There was something deeply Northern in that philosophy—something raw and honest that contrasted sharply with the elaborate layers of delegation and ritual that characterized imperial justice. In Yi Ti, the Emperor's will flowed through many hands before reaching its final implementation. Here, responsibility remained personal, immediate.
She studied Lord Stark as he cleaned the massive blade, noting the solemn precision of his movements. Not a man who enjoyed killing, but one who accepted its necessity with grave dignity. In his weathered face, she saw echoes of his son—her husband—in the set of his jaw, the steady gaze, the careful restraint of emotion.
The deserter's words lingered in the air like smoke. Eyes like ice. Dead things walking. Ruyan had studied the Northern tales during her preparation for this diplomatic marriage—ancient stories of the Long Night, of creatures that hunted in the darkness. Stories remarkably similar to certain forbidden texts in the imperial library that spoke of the Five Forts and what lay beyond them.
Her gaze shifted to her husband. Robb stood tall against the gray sky, his auburn hair the only spot of vivid color on the bleak hillside. In the two years since their wedding, he had grown from boy to man, his frame filling out, his bearing more assured. No longer the angry captive she had first encountered, but neither was he fully comfortable in her presence. They had found a careful balance, like two skilled dancers maintaining precise distance while moving in harmony.
The journey back to Winterfell began in silence, the execution party forming a small procession across the rolling moors. Ruyan rode beside Robb, their horses matching pace naturally. Behind them, Jon Snow—the bastard son with Lord Stark's long face and somber eyes—rode with Theon Greyjoy, ward of Winterfell and heir to the Iron Islands. The dynamics between the three young men remained complex, shifting like sand since Robb's return with a foreign bride.
"The deserter believed what he saw," she observed quietly to Robb, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "Whether real or imagined, his fear was genuine."
Robb's eyes met hers briefly. "Many things can drive a man mad beyond the Wall. Cold. Hunger. Isolation." He paused. "Or perhaps he saw something that should not exist."
"You believe the old stories?" she asked, curious.
"I believe we built a wall seven hundred feet high for a reason," he replied. "And it wasn't just to keep out wildlings."
Before she could respond, a shout came from ahead. The procession halted as Lord Stark dismounted, moving toward something in the snow-dusted grass beside the road. Ruyan remained on her horse, watching as the others gathered around what appeared to be a large animal carcass.
"What is it?" she asked as Robb returned to her side.
"A direwolf," he answered, his voice carrying a hint of wonder. "Bigger than any normal wolf. They haven't been seen south of the Wall in hundreds of years."
Her interest sharpened. Direwolves—the symbol of House Stark, creatures of legend as much as reality in the North. In Yi Ti, such an encounter would be documented, analyzed for omens and meaning. She dismounted with fluid grace, moving toward the gathered men with measured steps.
The beast was massive, even in death. Larger than any hunting hound she had seen, with thick gray fur now matted with blood and snow. An antler protruded from its throat—the cause of death evident and oddly symbolic. Ruyan noted the details clinically, her mind cataloging the scene with practiced precision.
Then she heard it—a small, plaintive sound from nearby.
Jon Snow was kneeling in the snow, cradling something in his hands. "Here," he called. "They're still alive."
Ruyan approached carefully, maintaining appropriate distance as the Stark men gathered closer. In the blood-stained snow lay six tiny direwolf pups, their eyes not yet open, their fur soft and unmarked by the violence that had claimed their mother.
Ruyan watched Lord Stark's face, reading the conflict there. The practical ruler versus the father. The pragmatic Northerner versus the man who saw the symbol before him as clearly as she did.
"Better a quick death," Ned said quietly. "They won't last without their mother."
Theon scoffed. "They'll die anyway. Give it here."
Bran stepped forward, his voice cracking. "No! They're ours!"
Jon stepped forward, his voice quiet but certain.
"Lord Stark. There are five pups. The direwolf is the sigil of your house. They were meant to have them."
Ned's jaw flexed. Not in hesitation—in recognition. Ruyan saw it in the shift of his stance, the weight behind his silence. Jon's words hadn't surprised him. They had confirmed something he already felt.
"You will train them yourselves," Ned said. "Feed them. And if they die, you will bury them."
The boys moved quickly, relief passing between them in glances and half-smiles. Robb lifted his pup with care. Bran crouched, already speaking softly to his. Jon stood last, watching, until something in the snow drew his eye...
Relief washed over the younger Starks' faces as they eagerly gathered the pups. Ruyan observed the careful way Robb lifted two of the tiny creatures, cradling them against the cold. There was something instinctively gentle in his handling—a tenderness she rarely glimpsed in their private moments together.
"What about you?" Robb asked Jon, who stood empty-handed as the pups were distributed.
"I'm not a Stark," Jon replied, his voice carrying the weight of that truth.
As they prepared to continue their journey, Jon paused, turning back toward the dead direwolf. "What's that?" he asked, moving toward a drift of snow.
Ruyan watched as he returned with a sixth pup, smaller than the others, its fur white as the snow it had been nestled in. Unlike its siblings, this pup's eyes were open—red as blood against its pale coat.
"An albino," Theon observed with a smirk. "That runt of the litter—that one's yours, Snow."
Ruyan's gaze moved between the silent Lord Stark and the peculiar scene before her—five pups for the trueborn children, one white outcast for the bastard. The symbolism was almost too perfect, too deliberate, as if some unseen hand had arranged the tableau for maximum significance.
In the imperial court, such signs would have been dissected by scholars, interpreted as divine communication. Here in the North, they were accepted with solemn acknowledgment but little discussion. These practical, stoic Northerners experienced their own mysticism differently—without fanfare, without elaborate ritual, but with a bone-deep acceptance of portents and patterns. For her, it maybe the awakening of Stark wolfblood. She will have to observe the Starks and their direwolves fo see for magical abilities being activated.
As they mounted their horses to continue homeward, Robb rode close beside her, the small bundles of fur nestled in a makeshift sling across his chest.
"Does this satisfy your imperial sense of symmetry?" he asked, a rare hint of humor in his voice.
Ruyan regarded him carefully. "It is... fitting," she acknowledged. "Though the pup with blood-eyes is an interesting variation."
"Jon always was the exception," Robb replied, his expression softening when he spoke of his half-brother.
"And do you believe it means something?" she pressed, genuinely curious about his perspective. "Six direwolves appearing precisely when the Stark children could find them?"
Robb considered this as their horses picked their way along the frozen path. "I believe the North remembers things the rest of the world has forgotten," he said finally. "Whether that's the gods speaking or simply the land itself... does it matter?"
The question lingered between them as Winterfell appeared on the horizon, its ancient stones gray against the grayer sky. Ruyan found herself contemplating the strange land she had married into—its harsh beauty, its stoic people, its traditions that ran as deep as the crypts beneath the castle.
A land where men looked into dying eyes before taking life. A land where ancient sigils appeared in the snow when needed. A land preparing, always, for the coming of winter.
The direwolf pups whimpered softly against Robb's chest, and Ruyan watched how naturally he soothed them with a gentle hand. For all the calculations and diplomatic maneuvers that had brought her to this place, there were elements she could never have anticipated. Moments of strange beauty and resonance that defied the neat patterns of imperial strategy.
ROBB
The courtyard of Winterfell bustled with activity as they returned from the execution. Stable boys rushed forward to take their horses, servants moved with practiced efficiency, and the direwolf pups were carefully handed over to an excited Bran and Arya, who immediately began arguing over naming rights. Ruyan had disappeared with quiet grace toward the east wing, leaving Robb momentarily alone with his thoughts.
The gray afternoon light was already fading toward dusk, the short autumn days growing ever shorter. Robb adjusted his cloak against the biting wind, his mind still on the symbolic weight of what they'd found in the snow. Six direwolves. One albino. The Stark sigil appearing after centuries of absence south of the Wall.
Theon fell into step beside him as they crossed the yard, his familiar swagger undiminished by the day's grim events. "Those wolf pups won't last a fortnight," he predicted with casual certainty. "Though watching your sisters fight over them might be worth the mess they'll make."
Robb shrugged. "They're stronger than they look."
"Like the Starks themselves?" Theon's grin was sharp in the fading light. "Speaking of which—heard Bolton's coming again. Third visit in as many months." He paused, watching Robb from the corner of his eye. "Really? You're letting a Bolton sniff around your sister? Real noble of you."
The smirk that followed hung between them, expectant. Waiting for Robb's usual indulgent chuckle, the familiar rhythm of their years of back-and-forth.
It didn't come.
The silence stretched, growing heavier with each heartbeat. Theon's smile faltered slightly.
"Domeric is a good match," Robb said finally, his voice cool and measured. "Father and I have discussed it thoroughly."
Theon blinked, thrown by the response. "Come on, Stark. They're Boltons. You know—flaying people? Secret rooms? Your bannermen for about five minutes whenever it's convenient?" He forced a laugh. "Does your sister know she'll be sleeping with one eye open for the rest of her life?"
Robb turned to face him fully, the easy humor that might once have softened his expression notably absent. "Watch your mouth. Especially when it's about my sister."
Something shifted in Theon's eyes—a momentary flash of hurt quickly masked by practiced indifference. "Gods, when did you get so serious? Is that your wife's influence? All those Yi Tish lessons in looking down your nose at everyone?"
"We're not children anymore," Robb replied simply.
Theon rolled his eyes, his posture shifting into deliberate carelessness. "Right. Well, I promised your brother I'd help with his archery. Unlike some people, I still know how to enjoy myself." He clapped Robb on the shoulder, the gesture slightly too hard to be entirely friendly, then strode away toward the practice yard.
Robb watched him go, a strange heaviness settling in his chest. There had been a time when Theon's jests had seemed clever and daring, when his irreverence had been a welcome counterpoint to Jon's solemnity. Now they felt shallow, revealing more about Theon's insecurities than anything else.
He found himself comparing the exchange to his conversations with Domeric Bolton during the eastern lord's recent visits—discussions of trade routes, harbor developments, ancient histories. Talks that held substance and purpose beyond momentary amusement.
The direwolf pups' cries echoed across the courtyard, new voices in an ancient stronghold. Change was coming to Winterfell, as surely as the winter itself.
Some bonds would strengthen. Others, perhaps, would need to be reimagined—or allowed to quietly fade.