RUYAN
Ruyan watched Robb from the doorway as he moved through the chamber like a ghost. His movements were mechanical, a soldier's routine stripped of purpose. The water basin splashed as he washed his face, rivulets streaming down his neck, darkening the collar of his tunic.
Robb had walked into the woods without a word after the news. Now, as night fell, he had returned—eyes hollow, hands steady but somehow lost.
His hands fumbled at the leather knots, jerkin half-undone, like a boy dressing blind.
She moved without a word. One hand replaced his. The other stilled his shaking fingers.
She stepped forward without speaking. Her hands replaced his, working the knots with practiced efficiency. He stood motionless, breath uneven against her forehead.
"Thank you," he said, voice raw.
She nodded, focusing on the task. The last knot gave way, and she helped him shed the heavy material from his shoulders. His tunic followed, her fingers careful not to linger.
She felt his eyes on her—tracking her movements, studying her face as if searching for something he couldn't name.
She stepped back, giving him space to remove his breeches without her assistance. "I'll have water brought—"
His hand caught her wrist, sudden and firm. Not painful, but undeniable. He pulled her closer, one step and then another, until the heat of his bare chest pressed against her robes.
"We're grieving," she said quietly, her voice steady despite the tension flooding her body. "This isn't... appropriate."
His jaw tightened. "Don't. Not your rules, not your traditions. Not with me. Not now."
Before she could respond, his mouth found hers. The kiss was hard, desperate—tasting of salt and anger and something deeper. She didn't yield to it, but she didn't refuse it either. His hands moved to the sash of her robe, fingers working to unravel the knot at her waist.
"Robb," she murmured against his mouth, "we can't—"
"I need you." His voice broke on the words, his forehead pressed against hers. His lips traced her jaw, down to her neck, each kiss a plea. "I need to feel something more than this pain."
"Please, don't deny me now." His eyes found hers, blue and shattered. "Ruyan."
He took her hands and placed them behind his neck, his gaze never leaving hers—asking, waiting. The vulnerability in his eyes made something shift inside her chest. Strategy and calculation had no place in this moment. Only grief, only need.
She let her fingers curl into the hair at his nape, and it was all the permission he required.
His kiss was different now—still hungry, still desperate, but with purpose. His hands slid beneath her robe, pushing it from her shoulders, impatient with the layers that separated them.
He lifted her with unexpected strength, carrying her to the bed. His mouth claimed hers again, hard and demanding. The furs were cool against her back as he followed her down, his weight pinning her to the mattress.
His hands tore at her undergarments with urgent desperation, ripping fabric in his haste. The sound of tearing silk barely registered before his weight settled fully between her thighs, forcing them apart. He removed his clothes whilst his lips never leaving hers.
She wasn't ready—not fully—but it didn't matter to him, not now. His cock pushed into her with rough insistence, the intrusion bringing a sharp pain that made her inhale sharply. She kept her face composed, absorbing his fury and grief, accepting the invasion without resistance.
His movements were savage, almost feral—driven by rage more than desire. His teeth grazed her neck, not quite biting but threatening. She held onto his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, steadying herself against the onslaught.
"I feel nothing," he growled against her ear, voice raw and broken. "Make me feel something other than this."
He drove deeper, harder, each thrust a punishment—though whether for her or himself, she couldn't tell. His hands bruised her hips, holding her in place as he took what he needed. His breathing turned ragged, grief driving every motion.
She said nothing, offering her body as vessel for his pain. This wasn't about pleasure. Not connection. Just release — violent, necessary, and not hers. Her discomfort was irrelevant in the face of his need.
His pace grew erratic, desperate. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped onto her chest. When he finally shuddered above her, his release pulsing inside her, he didn't soften or withdraw. Instead, he remained buried within her, breathing hard against her neck, his body still tense with unresolved fury.
She felt the wetness on her skin—tears he would never acknowledge, mingling with sweat. His weight crushed her into the mattress, then pulled her on top whilst still connected to her. Physical discomfort was nothing compared to the storm raging within him.
His breath gradually slowed, but the tension in his body remained. There were no apologies, no gentle words—only the harsh reality of grief transformed into physical dominance.
"Stay still," he commanded roughly when she shifted slightly beneath him. Not a request. A demand.
She nodded, remaining still beneath him. His body was hot against hers, his cock still inside her, softening but present—a physical claim that matched the desperate possession in his eyes.
But even after his release, his breath stayed ragged. His body didn't ease.
She felt it—his cock still hardening inside her again, his hands restless against her ribs.
He wasn't done.
Without a word, he rolled her beneath him once more. This time there was no pleading—just need.
His pace quickened again, rougher than before, as if one release had only sharpened what he tried to bury.
She braced herself. He wasn't asking. And she wasn't refusing.
Her body yielded again, wordless, as grief found its second form.
In Yiti, grief was sacred. Even a wife could not offer her body until the mourning rites passed.
To couple in sorrow was to mix life with death. To open the body while the spirit mourned risked taint—of blood, of legacy, of luck.
A Grand Princess Royal should have refused. Not with words. With distance. With the ritual silence expected of her station.
And yet she had yielded. Twice.
She could claim she did her duty. That she soothed a grieving husband. That she offered comfort as a wife must.
But the truth was quieter, crueler.
She had not resisted him because part of her wanted it.
She had not stopped him because part of her needed to be broken open.
Her body was trained to hide desire. But tonight it had betrayed her.
And when the ancestors turned their faces from her—she would not blame them.
She had given herself to a wolf while the North howled in mourning.
That was no wife's duty.
That was a choice.
And one she would answer for.
ROBB
Robb woke to golden light filtering through the narrow window. For one blessed moment, he remembered nothing—not the raven, not the news, not his father's head on a spike in King's Landing.
Then it all rushed back, a tide of grief he barely managed to keep at bay.
He turned his head. Ruyan lay beside him, still asleep—a rare sight. She was always awake before him, composed and dressed by the time he opened his eyes. But now she slept, her black hair spread across the pillow, her body uncovered to the waist.
The furs had slipped down during the night, revealing her naked form. In the harsh morning light, he saw what darkness had hidden: purplish marks bloomed across her pale skin. Finger-shaped bruises on her hips where he had gripped her. Red marks on her breasts where his mouth had been too rough. A bite mark at the curve of her neck that he had no memory of leaving.
Shame washed through him. He had been an animal, lost in grief and rage, taking what he needed without thought for her.
Three times, he remembered. Three times he had claimed her body last night.
The first in blind fury, barely aware of her beneath him, only seeking to drown his pain in the most primal way possible.
The second was no better.
And the third...hadn't waited for dawn.
He'd stirred in the dark, hard and aching. Not with grief. With want.
Not the desperate, grief-fueled need from before, but something that had been building for months. A longing for the woman who shared his bed but remained a mystery.
She had been beautiful in sleep. One arm flung above her head, the clean lines of her body exposed in the half-light. His body had hardened instantly at the sight.
"Ruyan," he had whispered, hand sliding up her thigh.
She woke quickly, eyes clear even then. "Again?" she asked, not displeased, merely observant.
"Again," he'd answered, already settling between her legs.
This time, he hadn't tried to be gentle. He knew now that she wouldn't break. His hands had found her breasts, kneading them roughly as he entered her with a single hard thrust. She was still slick from before, her cunt accepting him more easily. He had watched her face as he moved—the widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips.
He'd seen her like that once before—on their wedding night. She'd allowed pleasure then. Gracefully. Quietly.
But this… this had been something else.
Her breath had grown fast. Her hands had clutched at him—not in poise, but in need. Her voice had broken into soft, involuntary sounds she hadn't meant to make.
And for the first time, he knew she wasn't just allowing pleasure.
She was losing to it.
And he couldn't look away.
He'd remembered every detail now. Every gasp. Every shift of her hips. Every time she tightened around him, trying and failing to stay quiet. His blood stirred again at the memory. Desire rose fast, unwanted. And yet his body betrayed him. Even now—after everything—it stirred. He hated himself for it.
He swore under his breath and shifted slightly, the morning air cool on his skin—but his body didn't care. The ache between his legs returned with maddening clarity. He clenched his fists against the impulse.
Not now. Not after seeing the marks he'd left.
She stirred. Not to leave. Not to dress. Just to look at him.
And for once, she let him see her undecorated. Her gaze found his, assessing him with that uncanny perception that always made him feel transparent.
"You're troubled," she observed, voice calm.
He gestured to the marks on her skin. "I hurt you."
She glanced down, seeming to notice the bruises for the first time. Her expression didn't change. "These are nothing."
"They shouldn't be there at all," he said, guilt sharp in his tone. "I was rough with you."
"You were grieving," she replied simply. She sat up, unconcerned with her nakedness. "Grief takes different forms in different cultures. In the North, it seems, grief is physical."
Her pragmatism might have amused him once. Now, it only made him feel more unworthy.
"The last time..." he began, unsure how to say what he meant.
"You saw me lose control," she finished for him. Not embarrassed—just stating fact.
"Yes."
She gave a slight nod. "It happens. The body has its own wisdom."
Such a clinical description of what had passed between them. Yet beneath it, he sensed something else. A shift. A concession, maybe.
"Did I... was it..." He couldn't form the question.
Her lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "Yes," she said. "It was pleasure."
The relief hit him harder than he expected. He'd taken her in grief, but by the end, he had given something too. That mattered.
He reached for her hand, curling his fingers around her wrist—light this time.
"Ruyan," he said, quieter now. "Will you kiss me?"
She tilted her head, studying him. He leaned in slowly, giving her the choice.
She didn't pull away.
So he kissed her—long, slow, unhurried. This time, he wasn't chasing escape. He was asking forgiveness.
Her mouth opened to him, soft and willing, and he deepened the kiss, his hand cradling the back of her head. He held her like something precious—something fragile he'd nearly broken.
When he drew her down into the furs, it wasn't to take. It was to give.
His lips trailed to her throat, brushing over the bite he didn't remember leaving. He kissed it gently. Then lower, to the swell of her breast, where marks had faded but memory lingered.
He worshipped each inch—his mouth slow, his touch reverent.
When his tongue circled her nipple, she drew in a sudden breath. The reaction was small, but unmistakable. He stilled for half a heartbeat, then did it again, slower this time—watching her, learning her. Her body tensed in response, a quiet shiver running through her.
So that was where she was sensitive.
He lingered there, dragging his tongue across the hardened peak, then gently closed his lips around it, drawing another breathy sound from her. Her hands slid over his back—not to push him away, but to steady herself.
She didn't stop him. Her hands moved over his shoulders, down his back, not guiding, but accepting.
When he slid lower, his palms curved around her thighs and parted them carefully, his gaze flicking up to meet hers.
He didn't speak. Words would only cheapen what he needed to do.
He bent his head and kissed the inside of her knee.
Then the other.
Then higher, warm breath ghosting across her skin.
Her body tensed—but not with fear. With anticipation. With trust.
He tasted her like prayer, slow and deliberate. His tongue traced her softly, carefully, learning what made her breath hitch and her hips lift. He didn't rush. Didn't press. Every movement was measured, devoted. This wasn't a man lost in need.
This was a man learning how to worship.
She was quiet—always quiet—but he felt the change in her body. The way her fingers slid into his hair, not to pull but to anchor. The way her thighs trembled beneath his palms. The small sounds that escaped her throat—surprised, unwilling, then surrendered.
She was letting him have this. Letting him give this.
Her pleasure bloomed slowly, like dawn breaking over ice.
And Robb—Robb clung to it like absolution.
Only when she was ready—her body relaxed, her eyes steady—did he rise and settle between her thighs.
He didn't move at first. Just looked at her. At the flush spreading across her chest. The softness in her gaze. The way her fingers curled in the furs.
His voice came rough, low. "Let me?"
She nodded once.
He kissed her breast again—then closed his mouth gently around her nipple.
She gasped, her back arching, cunt clenching around nothing. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until her body welcomed all of him.
When he stilled, her hands slid to his back, pulling him close.
He moved—slow, deep, reverent strokes.
"Ruyan," he whispered against her skin.
Her eyes flicked to his, lips parted. She nodded—but it wasn't the nod of ceremony or consent.
It was permission. Real.
He angled his hips and thrust again—hitting that spot—and she gasped aloud.
"Robb…"
His name left her lips, soft and shaken. Like she didn't mean to say it. Like it broke free on its own.
It made his hips stutter.
He flicked his tongue across her nipple, then suckled again, firmer now—and felt her clench around him hard.
She turned her face away, breath trembling.
"You don't have to silence yourself," he said, his voice hoarse. "Not with me."
He rolled his hips again, hitting that same spot. She cried out, voice fuller now—his name again, louder.
"Robb—ah…"
And then—he saw it.
Her hand slipped between them. Not like before, not like their wedding night, when she'd done it only to ease the pain.
No. This was different.
She touched herself now because she wanted more.
Her fingers moved over her clit, slick and sure, and his cock throbbed at the sight of it—her writhing beneath him, her chasing pleasure, not resisting it.
His rhythm deepened, and he kissed her harder, his thumb brushing her other nipple while his mouth teased the one already swollen from his tongue.
"Gods," he groaned. "You're driving me mad."
She moaned again—louder this time—as her hips bucked under his.
"Robb—there… more—there—"
Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, pupils blown wide. Her fingers worked faster, breath coming in stuttering bursts. Her cunt clenched around him again and again, body rising to meet his every thrust.
Her pleasure overtook her like a wave, no longer held back, no longer quiet.
She let herself be seen.
And he watched her fall apart—calling his name as she came.
He spilled inside her moments later, lost in the wet heat and the way she held him tight, like she didn't want to let go.
And maybe, for the first time, she didn't.