Maybe it's all the wine she's had. Or the fact that these men are swearing fealty to her, drinking and dining with her and singing her praises. Either way she can't seem to shut out the buzzing in her ears. Robb..Robb…Robb; amplifying and echoing, drowning out everything else. The rest of her body follows suit, turning on her, the glass in her hand starts to slip as her palms become slick with sweat, her throat constricts till she's choking on unshed tears.She stands up a little too quickly and has to be steadied by Ser Podrick, stood ever so dutifully behind her. She mutters a quick apology, excuses herself and tries not to rush out of the hall.

She makes it out to the woods without attracting much attention and collapses onto the ground next to her favourite oak tree. The previous chant in her head is replaced by a new one. Robb. Bran. Rickon. Arya. It should have been one of them on this throne. Not her, anyone but her. But all her brothers are dead and Arya, well Arya hasn't quite been herself since the end of the war, even though she's on the mend and that bastard boy seems to be helping. It's all fallen on her. It wasn't supposed to be this way; she was supposed to have her songs and tales, her handsome knight and lemon cake.

Thoughts of a childhood never lived and future never to be had envelop her and all but crush her before her mind is silenced by a gentle kiss on her collarbone and a whisper against her ears "Winter is coming, we must grow stronger". She doesn't need to open her eyes to know who it is, the smell of roses and peaches fill her senses, a salve to her aching heart. She whips around and throws her arms over the older woman, letting the tears flow fast and easy. She presses her lips against Margaery's, hungry and insistent, tasting the salt anew on her lover's tongue. They've been careful for long enough, tonight the need for contact and solace overrides the fear of being discovered. They tumble onto the grassy beds in a tangle of arms, hearts frantically beating, hands exploring; equal parts giving and receiving.

As they lay spent afterwards, their arms still around each other, the Queen and Warden of the North smiles to herself. She may not have had her fairytale but maybe she had found her knight after all.