SANSA
The godswood was blanketed in stillness, the kind of quiet that seemed to absorb sound rather than simply lack it. Sansa's breath formed small clouds in the frigid air as she walked alongside Domeric Bolton, their footsteps muffled by the carpet of frost-covered leaves. The ancient trees stood sentinel around them, bare branches reaching toward the darkening sky like gnarled fingers.
Sansa brushed a layer of frost from a low-hanging branch, watching the tiny crystals scatter and disappear.
"I've been learning a lot from Ruyan," she said, her voice soft in the stillness. "Lessons Mother would rather I never heard."
Domeric glanced at her, his pale eyes reflective in the fading light. "What sticks most?"
"The truth," she said softly. "And how much disagreement there is over what that even means." She looked at him, reading his carefully composed expression. "She and mother... clash. About what I'm supposed to learn."
"Then you're learning well," he said, tone even. "It's good to see from both sides. Especially when they contradict."
They walked in silence for several paces, the only sound the occasional crunch of frozen leaves beneath their boots. Ahead, the heart tree loomed, its bone-white trunk and blood-red leaves standing in stark contrast to the grays and browns of the surrounding wood.
A faint smile touched Sansa's lips. "The songs I loved so much were illusions. They wrapped ugly truths in beautiful lies."
"Sometimes that's all they were ever meant to be," he said. "A balm. Something for the ones who wrote them to believe, or forget."
The path narrowed, forcing them to walk closer together. Sansa could feel the careful distance Domeric maintained—close enough for conversation, far enough for propriety. Every movement calculated, just as her own had become.
"I know my hand has become more valuable since Robb's marriage," she said quietly. "Ruyan's made sure I understand that. She's preparing me to make a choice—not just to be given away."
She stopped walking, turning to face him directly. The evening light caught on his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the careful neutrality of his expression.
"So let me ask plainly. Why do you want to marry me? Give me your truth, and I'll give you mine."
Domeric was silent for a moment, considering her with an intensity that might have unsettled her once, before Ruyan's lessons had taught her to recognize assessment rather than intimidation.
"I see the North changing. Winterfell at its center," he replied finally, his voice low and measured. He met her gaze, steady. "I want my house to move forward with that change—not against it. That's the political truth."
He paused, something shifting subtly in his expression.
"And the personal one: I want a partner who can navigate that future beside me. I think you're already doing it."
Sansa absorbed his words, weighing them against what she had learned about House Bolton's history, about the delicate balance of power in the North that had persisted for centuries. After a breath, she spoke.
"Ruyan taught me to see power clearly."
She stepped forward, resuming their slow pace through the godswood. The crisp air carried the scent of pine and snow, familiar and comforting despite the tension of their conversation.
"If I choose you, I give the Boltons something they've never had—standing at Winterfell. People will say it's what your house always wanted."
"Not unfounded," Domeric acknowledged quietly.
"But here's the other truth." She turned slightly toward him as they walked. "If I marry you, you lose the Karstark alliance. The Manderly ties. You lose more power than you gain. I become your limit."
Then she smiled, sharp as the wind cutting through the godswood.
"Isn't that what Starks have always done to Boltons? Made sure you never grow too strong?"
There was a beat of silence, the weight of centuries of rivalry hanging between them. Then Domeric's lips curved in a small, careful smile of his own.
"Then maybe history will call it balance."
They continued walking, following the winding path back toward Winterfell. Nothing had been decided, no promises exchanged. Yet something had shifted between them—an understanding reached, a clarity acknowledged. Not the passionate romance Sansa had once dreamed of, but something perhaps more enduring: recognition.
The old gods watched through carved eyes as they passed beneath the heart tree. Generations of Starks and Boltons had circled each other in careful, sometimes bloody, dances of power and territory. Now, perhaps, a different kind of alliance was forming—one built on clear-eyed assessment rather than conquest or capitulation.
As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky above them, Sansa found herself thinking of her conversations with Ruyan—of power and perception, of choices made with open eyes rather than veiled in pretty illusions.
For the first time, she felt not like a piece in someone else's game, but a player making her own moves.
The fire in Lord Stark's solar crackled steadily, casting warm shadows across the stone walls and illuminating the faces of her family. Sansa stood before them—her father seated behind his desk, her mother beside him, and Robb standing near the hearth. Their expressions were carefully neutral, though Sansa could read the subtle tension in her mother's posture, the watchful assessment in her brother's eyes.
She had requested this meeting herself. The time for contemplation had passed.
"I've made my decision," Sansa began, her voice calm and clear in the quiet room. She met her father's gaze directly, drawing strength from his steady presence. "I know what the marriage brings, what it prevents. Domeric has shown initiative—he sees the North's future clearly, and his position could benefit both our houses."
She paused, considering how best to express the complexity of her choice. The past weeks of deliberation had sharpened her understanding of the political landscape in ways she had never imagined before her lessons with Ruyan.
"I see what it means for our house and what it means for the Bolton alliance. I know the weight of it."
Her father's expression remained measured, neither approving nor disapproving. He had promised her voice in this decision, and true to his word, he had allowed her the space to reach her own conclusion.
"The Boltons have been... complicated allies through the centuries," he observed. "This would create a more direct bond than our houses have ever shared."
"And that is precisely what makes it significant," Sansa replied. Her hands were folded before her, still and composed despite the gravity of the moment. "If I choose him, I give the Boltons something they've never had—standing at Winterfell. People will say it's what their house always wanted."
Her mother shifted slightly, concern evident in the subtle furrow of her brow. "And you believe this is wise? After everything we know of their history?"
"I believe it creates balance," Sansa answered. "The eastern houses have watched our focus turn westward since Robb's marriage. This shows them they remain valued in our considerations."
She watched understanding dawn in Robb's eyes—recognition of the political calculation behind her choice. He had been making similar assessments since his return from Yi Ti, weighing Northern stability against the inevitable changes that had begun with his own marriage.
"And what of Lord Bolton himself?" her father asked. "What do you make of his heir?"
Sansa considered this carefully. Her conversations with Domeric in the godswood had revealed layers to the Bolton heir that went beyond the whispered reputation of his house. His intelligence, his measured approach to power, his clear-eyed assessment of the North's changing landscape—these were qualities she had come to appreciate.
"I find him forthright," she said simply. "Without pretense or false courtesies. He does not disguise his ambitions, nor does he pretend our marriage would be based on romantic notions from songs."
She straightened her shoulders, meeting each of their gazes in turn.
"I've made my judgment. I will accept Domeric's suit."
The words hung in the air between them—not a question, not a request for permission, but a decision made and declared. Her mother's expression tightened slightly, concern warring with pride at her daughter's composure.
"And Domeric's real reason for seeking your hand, Sansa?" Catelyn asked, her tone gentle but probing.
Sansa's gaze didn't waver. "I think he knows what he wants for the future—as do I. This marriage has both political advantages and consequences, but I've weighed them." Her expression hardened slightly as she turned to Robb. "You'll have my support. You know I am doing this for the future of Winterfell."
Something passed between them then—an understanding that transcended their childhood bond. Robb nodded, acknowledging not just her decision but the maturity behind it. She was no longer merely his little sister dreaming of knights and tournaments, but a player in the same complex game that had shaped their father's generation.
"You've made your judgment," he said, his tone carrying respect rather than the indulgence he might once have shown her.
"I have," Sansa replied simply.
Lord Stark rose from behind his desk, his movement drawing all eyes. "Then it is settled. I will inform Lord Bolton that we accept his heir's suit, with the formal betrothal to follow." He looked at his daughter, a mixture of pride and something like nostalgia crossing his features. "You have considered this carefully, Sansa. I trust your assessment."
That recognition meant more than any title or compliment.
As her parents discussed the practical arrangements to follow, Sansa found herself reflecting on how much had changed in so short a time. The songs and stories she had once cherished still lived within her, but alongside them now existed a clearer understanding of the world's workings—of power and perception, of choices made with open eyes rather than veiled in pretty illusions.
She thought of Domeric's measured smile in the godswood, his quiet acknowledgment of the balance their union would create. Not a passionate love match from the songs, but perhaps something more enduring: a partnership founded on clarity and mutual purpose.
The fire continued to burn steadily in the hearth, casting warm light across the room where the future of the North was being decided not with swords and battles, but with carefully chosen words and strategic alliances. In that moment, Sansa felt the weight of her name—Stark of Winterfell—and knew she had honored it with her choice.
NED
The godswood stood in the bright afternoon light, the stark contrast of bare branches reaching into the sky as the wind whistled through the empty boughs. The ancient trees loomed around them, the heart tree standing like a silent sentinel, watching the negotiations of the present as it had done through countless generations of Starks.
Ned Stark stood beneath it, the rolled parchment of the official betrothal documents in his hand, his eyes focused on Domeric Bolton. There was a quiet reverence in the air, but it was not for Domeric—it was for the legacy of Winterfell, of the Starks, and for what this conversation meant for his daughter.
"This is the heart of Winterfell," Ned began, his voice quiet but resolute, carrying the weight of ancient responsibility. "This godswood is where we make our decisions. Our ancestors are watching."
Domeric glanced around at the trees, his eyes scanning the hollow spaces where generations of Starks had knelt in reverence, but his face remained composed, betraying little. He had walked these grounds before, but the meaning of this place was not lost on him now.
Ned took a step forward, holding the rolled parchment firmly in his hand. "If you marry my daughter, Domeric, it will not just be a bond between our houses. It will be a bond that echoes through the legacy of Winterfell, the North. The godswood will bear witness."
Domeric straightened, understanding the significance of Ned's words. Ned was making it clear: This was not just about a political match. This was about becoming part of a lineage, a legacy, and a tradition that ran deeper than any alliance.
"You will have her hand, but she is a Stark. You must respect that," Ned added, his voice steady and firm. "This union will not erase our history with the Boltons. It will create something new, something built on the old ways, and it will be judged by them."
Domeric nodded, acknowledging the weight of the words. "I understand, Lord Stark. I don't seek to erase her legacy—but build with it."
Ned studied him for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. He had been many things in his life—a warrior, a father, a lord—but standing here in the godswood, he was a Stark. And Winterfell was his to protect, just as it had been for his ancestors. Sansa's future would shape that legacy.
"You say you seek to move forward with what is to come," Ned replied, his tone measured. "But understand this—my daughter is not a pawn. She will make her own choices. I will not stand by and watch anyone try to manipulate her."
"I would never," Domeric said quietly. "I respect Sansa. I respect the Starks. I see her as a partner, not a tool."
Ned held his gaze for a long moment, measuring his sincerity. After a long beat, he slowly extended the betrothal documents to Domeric.
"Then it's settled."
Domeric accepted them without hesitation, his expression carefully composed. He knew what this meant—it was the first step toward formalizing the bond that would change the face of the North.
As Domeric made his departure toward the gates of Winterfell, Ned stood still for a moment, the cool wind rustling the leaves around him. He felt the weight of his decision, but there was something still gnawing at him — a sense of unease he couldn't shake.
Then he heard the soft crunch of snow underfoot. Catelyn appeared, stepping out of the shadows, her face pale, a hint of urgency in her eyes.
"Ned," she said, her voice low and urgent. "There is news."
Ned turned toward her, his heart tightening as she handed him a sealed raven scroll. Her eyes were sharp, her brow furrowed with the weight of what she had come to tell him.
"What is it, Catelyn?" he asked, his voice calm but tinged with concern.
She didn't speak immediately, her eyes scanning the godswood, as though weighing her next words carefully. Finally, she met his gaze.
"It's from King's Landing," she said, her voice steady but strained.
Ned's fingers tightened around the parchment as he read the raven's contents. Jon Arryn was dead. And the King was coming to Winterfell.
He exhaled slowly, turning his gaze to Catelyn.
Catelyn's voice was barely above a whisper:
"The King is riding north."
Ned paused, the weight of the words settling over him.
"There could only be one reason he comes here."
They looked at each other, understanding the storm that was about to break. A storm of change was coming.