Disclaimer: I do not own Robb Stark or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in A Song of Ice and Fire. I do not earn any profit from this.

Author's Note: Hello everyone! I am so delighted that it has not been a year since I've updated this fic! I know that may seem bizarre for you guys who have been waiting for so long, but that's honestly an accomplishment for me. A few announcements:

(1) This will be the penultimate chapter for this story. Half of the next and final chapter has already been written, as it was literally on my New Year's Resolutions to not leave this story unfinished before the end of this year.

(2) I will still post the AUs based on this fic, at later dates from the completion of this story.

I know we're not done yet, but I want to say all the same: thank you, you guys.

Some important notes about this chapter: In view of the ugliness that's been spreading over parts of the fandom lately, I feel like I have to reiterate that what I write is based on my perception of how the One Big Fight will end. This outline was written years ago and I haven't changed it even though I was strongly tempted to when the shipping wars broke out. To an extent, this chapter does reflect my guesses about how the television series will end—but in an alternate universe where Robb kept his promises, didn't die, and other stuff did/didn't happen. If you have other ideas about how the series will end/should end, good for you! This story is just my interpretation.

If you've been away from this fic for a while, it might help to do a re-read. (Lord knows I've needed to do a few, haha.)

A squealing laugh snapped me out of my troubled sleep.

Everything seemed to flood into my mind at once: the pale, bright light from the finally freed windows, the faint smell of soap and lavender, the dress colors of the array of ladies around me, the low murmurs and even fainter sounds of a keep bustling with life. I laid a trembling hand over my face, closing my eyes for a moment more and trying to compose myself.

Six months into the spring and I still had to remind myself that this was my reality, not a dream.

"We didn't want to wake you."

My sister-in-law was leaning forward slightly, her posture impossibly correct even though from her expression I could see that she was trying to be consoling. Her embroidery was set over her lap, fine flowers already finished, and I wondered how long I had been asleep.

"I can imagine how caring for Ned keeps you up," Sansa continued, her blue eyes full of understanding even though she had no children of her own. Her smile was small and soft, a careful thing that she didn't bestow on everyone—not sincerely, at least. She had stayed with us long enough for me to understand her a little, though I sensed that it was only because she let herself be more open with me. "Kyra suggested taking you up to your room, but you looked quite comfortable in your seat."

It was true that I preferred this particular seat, its wide arms almost enveloping me in their curves. Wood was not inherently comfortable, but Lyla had fashioned cushions for it that were so inviting that once I sat down I found it difficult to get up.

Moreover, Lady Catelyn had commissioned the chair for me, and sitting in it helped remind me that, by the grace of the gods, we had survived.

One final, brutal storm had blown over us towards the end—though we had no way of knowing it was the end at the time—and the godswood had been ravaged. When the snows had stopped falling and the wind had fallen silent, we could see the devastation from the ramparts.

My mother-in-law had been uncharacteristically consumed by a frantic sort of fear, by a certainty that the storm and the destruction it left portended something ill for all of us. Maester Osmund had told us later that it was common in the winter for a form of madness to set in, for the gloom to sink into the minds of even the most formidable.

Given what I had felt was happening—and much of it I could only really imagine—I hadn't thought Lady Catelyn to be mad. But someone had needed to keep the people from flinging themselves from the ramparts or taking knives to their hearts, and so I'd ordered Beric to take his men into the godswood and take the dead trees into the keep for heat.

A great many had been horrified by my command, and for a few hours I had feared that the people under my care would mutiny, but Beric and his men had acted so swiftly and decisively that the grumblings had no time to ripen into revolt. With the castle warmed and a fair supply of wood in our possession, the people had quieted. I did not flatter myself to think that people would be pacified by me so easily, but perhaps they had been consumed by the same thought as I: if the end was coming, what did a butchered godswood matter?

There was another reason that sending men into the godswood had been wise. When Beric and his men had returned with the first load of firewood, he had taken me aside to tell me something that had set my heart at ease.

The godswood had been destroyed, but at the very heart of it, the lone weirwood—where my husband's ancestors had sat and prayed for over a thousand years—still stood. A small ring of trees had covered it, their branches snapped and severed, but their trunks had remained unbent.

When a grey dawn had risen and the snows began to melt a week later, we finally managed to shake Lady Catelyn out of her stupor.

My fingers plucked at the intricate woodwork of the chair, wondering idly at how the carvers had managed to shape one of the last warped trunks taken out of the weirwood. It was strange, how such an ordinary thing could concern me when barely a year ago I could not conceive of anything other than a shapeless, nameless, gnawing doom.

It seemed impossible, but we had endured. My gaze found Lady Catelyn at the other end of the solar, crouched down so that her grandchild was within her reach. Ned stumbled towards her, plump little legs still finding their bearing, small fists reaching out as a laugh gurgled out of him. The streaks of silver in Lady Catelyn's hair would likely never darken again, but I could already see the harsh lines that the winter had carved into her face beginning to soften, smoothed away by each day lived in the sunlight and each night spent in a safe, dreamless sleep.

"I just didn't think it would be appropriate for her to be drooling in front of everyone."

My sister's voice snapped my wandering mind back into my body. Kyra was seated to Sansa's left, still a vision to my eyes even in her plain green gown and with her glorious hair scraped back and away from her face. There was a sulky jut to her full lower lip, but mirth sparkled in her gaze as she winked at me. "I've seen her do it—it's not becoming."

I grinned, overcome by the urge to stick my tongue out at her. "Oh, I wouldn't challenge me to a retelling of our childhoods. I have as much ammunition as you, if not more."

One of Kyra's brows lifted in open insolence. "Yes, but I am not a queen and therefore have much less dignity to lose."

It had been another wonder in the winter, how the sister who had hated me for nearly half our lives had turned out to be my champion. The winter had frozen nearly everything, had taken my blood from me as I had feared it would, but it had also managed to build a bridge between me and the sister I had always considered lost.

Sansa was giving Kyra what I thought was a chiding glance, even if her lips were curved into a smile. Kyra's eyes lowered, her impish expression smoothing out into studied composure, and I marvelled anew at the power of the woman seated across from me that she could still command my sister's deference even after her crown had been taken from her head.

When we had first met, shortly after the dawn of spring, I had been overwhelmed by Sansa's presence—this tall, striking creature who had swept into Winterfell like it was her own, who seemed to be every bit the Northern lady despite her Tully coloring and the coterie of Southern subjects who had accompanied her. I had been envious, and more than a little resentful of her presence. After all, where had she been when the snows had fallen thickest, when the sun had hidden itself away for months, when her people and I had huddled together in uncertainty and fear?

Where had she been when my child had come screaming into the world, when the joy I had felt at first holding him in my arms had been immediately crushed under the weight of grief and dread? There had been no smiles at Ned's birth, only tears and grim faces. I had held myself together, held my keep together as best as I could, though it often felt like I was living inside a stranger's body.

A Stark had certainly saved me from despair, but it hadn't been Sansa. My mind wandered again, as it often did these days, to the unearthly sister who had simply appeared at my side when I was caught in the throes of childbed fever. Maester Osmund said that my ordeal had lasted over ten days. I barely remembered a day of it, were one to string all the glimpses left to me together, but the first moment I had was her. I had never seen her or her likeness, but one look into her blue-grey eyes and I had known her.

Arya's smile at that first meeting had been small and fleeting—much like Sansa's—but the grip of her cool hand had been solid. She had pulled me from my stupor, anchored me when I had appeared set to drift, and slipped away just as I had gotten my bearings.

She had gone further north, I was told. Then, when news of the great wonder had reached us, I was told that she had met her god and joined him. No one could or would explain beyond that; she was not dead, but she was not coming back.

It was a strange feature of my life that I often seemed to part with sisters just as I gained or regained others. I met Alys' eyes as my own did one more sweep over the room. She smiled at me, the curve of her mouth as sweet as it had been when we were growing, though the winter and grief had ravaged her more than it had all of us. She had been the one at my father's side when the chill air had marked his crossing from this life to the next, and the shadow of that moment still lingered in her eyes.

"Perhaps I should rest," I remarked to the room in general, gathering the unfinished fabric in my lap. I felt Lyla's warmth already at my side, ready to assist me even though it had been months since my legs had found their strength. I handed her the embroidery—Ned's new clothes would have to wait—and rose, wincing when everyone else stood as well.

The return of the strict enforcement of court manners was another jarring reminder that fragments of our old lives still existed. There had been more pressing things to pay attention to during the winter, but with the flowering of hope had come the return of order—in all forms.

"Mama!" Ned screamed, the terror in his voice jolting us all before we realized its cause. I grinned openly as he tore towards me, hands flailing, his distressed grandmother at his heels. I sank to my knees, opening my arms to him in time for him to barrel into my chest, tiny fingers clutching.

The heir to Winterfell was the only one who could fling aside social rules, and we all bent to his whims. He snuffled noisily into my neck and I gathered him close, shushing him. I gave Lady Catelyn an apologetic smile, having heard enough of her lectures to know that she did not approve. Yet until it was absolutely necessary, I did not have it in me to put an end to my son's dependence.

We had not been parted for more than a few hours since the day he was born, though of late Ned seemed determined to do away with any kind of separation altogether. He was the most jovial, sweet, and even-tempered boy—as long as I was in the room. Fara had taken me aside one night shortly after their arrival to speak to me about some matters at the Twins; I had but rounded the corner into a quiet alcove when I had heard Ned's fearful wail.

"Mama is just going to rest in her room, dearest," I whispered to him when he quieted. "Are you sleepy, too?"

Ned nodded emphatically into my neck and I smothered a smile at the way Lady Catelyn's brows lifted. He would likely fall asleep even if he wasn't tired and be refreshed enough to be an unholy terror again come supper time.

"He'll have much more than Her Grace to occupy him once his father arrives," Sansa pointed out in response to her mother's unspoken reprimand.

My stomach flipped at the mention of my husband and my arms tightened around my son, who giggled and returned the gesture by locking his own arms tighter around my neck. Perhaps that was why it was suddenly harder to breathe.

Lady Catelyn's lips pursed. "So will Her Grace."

"I should get him to bed," I said to no one in particular. I appreciated Sansa taking my side whenever her mother chided me, but it was still uncomfortable to witness two women whom I respected testing their wills against each other. I often wondered: was this how people had felt the handful of times that Robb and I had tense moments in public? "We all have an exciting day tomorrow and I should like us all to be well-rested for it."

It was one of the few perks of being Queen that I could leave without anyone's permission.

Alys stroked her finger gently over Ned's lashes, smiling when the thick black curls fluttered. "Remember how we used to wonder what it would be like to be boys?"

I hummed as my sister began drumming her fingertips onto my son's little nose, chuckling when it twitched.

It had been an elaborate pastime as we'd been growing, wondering how different life could have been for all of us if we'd been boys to be valued rather than the wretched girls that our father had been forever scheming to marry off.

"Now you don't have to wonder," Alys remarked, lifting her hand away when Ned, eyes still closed, swatted grumpily at his nose. "He looks remarkably like you."

"Does he?" I peered down at my son, at the shock of dark hair against his pale skin, the fine bones and small mouth. He did look rather girlish, and my stomach—which had been knotted since earlier that afternoon—tightened further. "I don't think I was ever this pretty, but you're right that he doesn't resemble his father at all."

Ned growled and his eyes finally flew open in time to catch his aunt tickling his chin. Alys swooped him up into her arms and his sharp intake of breath blew out of him in laughter rather than fury.

"Except for his eyes." Alys set my son on her hip just as the aforementioned eyes peered around, crinkling when they set upon me. "I don't think anyone in our family was ever so fortunate to have those eyes."

It settled something inside me to be reminded of that. Maester Osmund had remarked that the moment my son's eyes had opened he'd been struck by the image of Robb.

Except Robb had never looked at me like that; like a lost pup. I stepped forward to take my son from my sister just as his hands stretched out. Alys shifted, keeping him away, and I tried not to scowl.

"He needs to be bathed and fed," she said in her quiet, reasonable way, heading off my displeasure. "You need to eat as well. You've been on your feet most of the day."

It occurred to me to lie just to be contrary, but Alys knew me too well, and for someone who had never set foot outside of the Twins before coming to see me, she had acclimated to Winterfell even faster than I had. If I had considered myself adept at keeping tabs on what was happening in my own keep, I was nothing to Alys. Perhaps it was her sweet face and unthreatening manner, but people told her everything. I had no doubt that she knew that I had just put Ned down for his nap before I'd gone back to overseeing preparations for the king's return to the North.

Moreover, there was no lying to her about me resting when she had been in my room when I'd returned. Lyla—Ned's appointed guardian for that afternoon—had actually been smiling when I'd entered, face bereft of its usual wreath of nerves. She had hastily excused herself upon my arrival, and I had been too bemused to stop her. I saw now that she had lingered in the hall—Alys had but to open the door for her to step forward.

"Will you take him to his nurse, Lyla?" Alys asked, forestalling any argument from me a second time by handing my son off to my handmaiden. When Ned looked to cry, she tapped him gently on the nose. "Can you be a good boy for half an hour, sweet one? Aunt Alys needs to take care of Mama."

Ned's lower lip still managed to wobble. "Mama is sick?"

"No darling, only tired," I interjected, though I did not want my son out of sight either. "After you go to Ireyne, you can come back and see Mama will be feeling better."

It was difficult to deal with the pang of resentment that still cut through me whenever I thought of the wet nurse that Lady Catelyn had engaged for me a few months prior. I knew that she had meant well, given the state of my health and Maester Osmund's insistence that I stop giving milk because of it. The evidence of her wisdom was before my eyes every time I looked into the mirror: my sunken cheeks had filled out, my eyes were brighter, and some rosiness had returned to my skin. Moreover, I no longer felt like I was about to keel over at the slightest spring breeze and the painful heaviness in my breasts had gradually abated.

And yet . . .

But Alys had something to say to me, and I knew I was better off hearing it sooner rather than later. My sister was a woman of few words, so when she had something to impart it behooved me to listen. So I smiled brightly at my son, waving in what I hope was reassurance, knowing that he would be returned to my side soon enough in any case.

As soon as door shut behind Lyla, Alys turned towards me, her sweet face solemn.

"Everything will be all right, you know."

The quiet assurance was not what I had expected, yet it was apparently what I needed to hear. My breath left me and my eyes stung.

"You don't know that."

None of my sisters did. I had told no one of the state of my marriage when Robb had left. It had seemed a stupid thing to worry about, when the question of whether we were to survive the winter was on everyone else's minds.

And truly, there was nothing to worry about, if I could bring myself to examine my situation impartially. My husband had been faithful to me throughout our marriage, and despite our disagreements and our jealousies, we had parted on amiable terms. I had watched him ride away, convinced that it would be the last time we would see each other, and had told myself that it did not matter that he did not love me when he was facing death simply to try and keep me alive.

By some grace of the gods, he still lived, and I had him still. In name, surely, if not in truth. I had never had him in truth, which meant I had even less cause to be grieved. There was no reason to feel torn between terror and sadness at the prospect of seeing him again.

Alys did not move to hold me. She understood that gentleness would only make me shatter—and what I needed, as always, was to keep myself together. She simply watched and waited as I composed myself.

"He may be different when he gets back," I said, speaking the thoughts that had poisoned my joy when I had first heard the reason why we were all still alive.

Alys' lips curved as she returned my words to me. "You don't know that."

I grinned, despite myself, even as it felt like my heart would burst from agony. My husband had desired me, to be sure, but desire was a fleeting thing—conjured in an instant and dissipated just as quickly; perhaps he would take one look at my changed body or the lines under my eyes and find that any fire he had for me had cooled.

Desire was not love, and my husband had never loved me.

That much I did know.

The spring sky was a shade of blue so light it was almost white. Fat clouds shielded the hundreds who were gathered from the harsh noonday sun. A cool wind was blowing and I forced myself to take deep breaths even though it felt as though no air was reaching my lungs. I knew they were coming—I could already see a few boys clambering up the trees and nearby turrets, trying to get a better look at the remnants of the army that was thudding its way towards us.

Sansa's long-fingered hand closed around mine and I turned to look up at her. She was smiling again, but in a way that told me she was concerned. "You look beautiful, Your Grace."

"Only because you took the time to dress me," I replied, doing my best to smile in turn, if only to assure her.

I could not tell her how strange it felt, donning a new gown after years of thrift. Sansa had chosen the white silk and laid it over with the fine gray gauze that she had embroidered herself. She and Kyra had deliberated for what had felt like hours over my hair, agreeing that plaiting it and weaving in blue winter roses made for great effect. I had donned the cloak that my husband had given me in what felt like a lifetime ago, resisting the urge to bundle it tightly around me. It was a temperate day, but my palms were wet and my hands were shaking. I looked around on both sides of me, from Sansa's calm visage to Lady Catelyn's overly bright eyes, and could not decide which posture was more appropriate. All I knew was that either was preferable to my current state.

"Here they come!"

I looked up, trying to see who had called out, and Sansa's hand squeezed mine.

Later, I would wonder at how I had managed to stand still on my feet when I couldn't feel anything except the clattering of my heart and my sister-in-law's tight hold. There was an odd murmur around me that was rippling into a dull drone as our champions rode in through the North Gate—the voices of people who did not cheer, as a rule, but were slowly being moved to it. There were three soldiers in white cloaks, one of them bearing a tattered banner, and my gut clenched as I realized that they were all that was left of my husband's Kingsguard.

Then they steered their horses to the side, and the King in the North rode through them to the front of the assembly—and the crowd roared.

I look at that moment now and again, when I have the time to go through my memories, and something fresh will always return to me as I sift through. How Sansa's arm had come around me as I'd swayed, how my throat had tightened painfully as I'd watched my husband dismount. The way his eyes had met my own, bright and blue, how my eyes had burned as I'd comprehended how much he'd changed.

Like all of us, he was a gaunt shadow of what he had been before the winter, the proud bones in his face too sharp under his pale skin. There was silver along his temples now and a scar running from the high point of his right cheek to his jaw.

And as I had expected, his beautiful blue eyes were cold and dead.

Someone—Kyra would later take credit for it—pushed me forward and it was as if we were meeting for the first time as I stood across from my husband, trying to stand tall while he sized me up. When he walked towards me I could see only the desolate look on his face.

"My Queen." His lips were, incredibly, still soft and warm against my cold hand when he raised my fingers to his mouth.

For one painful heartbeat, I could not respond—not while I was waiting for more. Once, he might have hauled me into his arms and kissed me, spectators be damned. I might have chastised him for his public display, even though a part of me would have been reluctantly warmed. It was that part that kept me motionless until he released my hand and stepped back.

The rest of me took over the moment I could no longer feel his touch. I knotted my fingers in my skirts to keep from wringing my hands and made my lips move into what I hoped was a smile.

"Welcome home, Your Grace."

There had been too many greetings, too many bittersweet reunions after that for me to be alone with the strange grief and bizarre disappointment that had lodged itself in my chest since Robb had arrived. I had expected him to be changed and had found him so. It was stupid to be upset when things were as I had anticipated.

Moreover, the honoured guests had to be shown their quarters, the steward and his assistants had to see to the housing of the soldiers and the supplies that were to be ferried out to the encampments that held those who would not be staying in the keep. Ravens had to be sent out to inform those waiting in the South that their surviving ruler had arrived in Winterfell and would be setting off for King's Landing with the remaining southern lords and army within a fortnight. There were special requests for certain rooms and refreshments, already, and veiled complaints about this and that.

In the hubbub, it took me a while to recall the need to see my son. We had all agreed that the excitement of the assembly and meeting his father in public for the first time would be too much for him, and so we had left him in the care of Lyla and Ireyne. There had been much crying—and a great deal of silent disapproval on Lady Catelyn's part—but I had managed to stanch the flow of tears on the condition that I return to Ned's side by noon.

I hurried to my chambers only to find that it was already occupied by someone who was decidedly not Lyla or Ned's nurse.

I had not made separate arrangements for my husband—there had been no apparent need to. If I was honest, a part of me still hoped that there would truly be no need to, despite what our earlier meeting had confirmed.

Still, I found myself hesitating outside the half-opened door—thankfully free of the guards I had assigned elsewhere since the winter had broken—absorbing the spectacle of my husband in our quarters again.

Again, I told myself that the remoteness I felt from him was to be expected.

I had wondered, in my most secret thoughts, what would happen if he survived. If he came home after years of being away, after the horrors he had seen and lived and done.

Our union had been a strained, uncomfortable thing for much of the time we had spent with one another. There had been golden moments, to be sure, but far too few and far too fleeting. There had been no time for our bond to grow, to be tempered before it was tested. Perhaps I had nursed some small hope that if he lived, we would be too overjoyed by the improbable victory to think too hard on what had been before.

Now I knew that such hopes were folly, and it was another reminder that indulging in such foolishness would only result in me being hurt.

I managed to keep my eyes dry as I watched my husband play with our son, my heart full at the sight even though it was breaking apart. Ned knew his father as if Robb had carried him himself, clinging to my husband's surcoat and warbling with delight when Robb tucked him under his chin. The harsh planes of Robb's face softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he laughed aloud when Ned began to shriek in delight at being tossed in the air.

I finally brought myself to step into the room, knowing that our sweet babe could very well regurgitate the contents of his stomach all over my husband, and the precious moment shattered as Robb became aware of my presence. His face froze, his eyes went cold and flat, and I steeled myself against the wave of longing and regret that threatened to bring me to my knees.

"You shouldn't," I said in a whisper. "He might fall ill."

"Mama!" Ned began to squirm in my husband's arms. "Play!"

I grinned, relieved that my darling apparently did not realize how I had broken my promise to him. I cleared my throat to free it of its tightness. "Later, dearest, when you've had your nap." I risked a careful look at my husband. "Have you eaten?"

He had disappeared in the rush of people being led into the keep earlier and I had been grateful to him for the reprieve, though I wondered if it would not have been better to seek him out as soon as I had noted his absence.

Robb nodded. "Your handmaid brought up something that I gather was meant for you."

I wondered if there was any dryness in his tone, but it was far too measured and his face too expressionless for me to be sure. Still, I did my best to smile. "I said I would eat with Lady Catelyn and bring Ned. Perhaps you would like to join us?"

"No."

As resigned as I told myself I was, the terse reply still cut deep.

Robb stepped forward to push Ned gently, if firmly, into my arms. "I must have a word with some of the men out in the encampment and I'd rather have it before they're too deeply in their cups."

"Of course." I cradled my son close, anchored by the sweet smell of his hair and the plump arms he again threw around my neck.

I did not ask whether I would see my husband later that night.

There was no need to.

"I cannot believe you let him just leave like that!" Kyra admonished, poking aggressively at the logs in the hearth. I imagined that she thought she was skewering my husband, and I found myself grinning despite the sharp ache in my chest. It was easy to stay calm when you weren't the most dramatic person in the room. "Why couldn't you just jump him and be done with it? You're his wife!"

"None of us having been married, I don't think any of us are qualified to tell her what to do on this score," Fara said with only half the usual scorn she reserved for Kyra. We had all been mellowed by the winter, it seemed.

Margaret underscored that observation by agreeing with Kyra. "True enough, but standing around waiting for him to do something could be why you're with your sisters tonight instead of rolling around the furs with your husband."

Alys coughed on the wine she was sipping. It was her way of having an excuse to be quiet. "Thank you for that," she said with a slight grimace. "And here I thought we were all having a nice time."

"Of course we are," I said, slipping my arm around her shoulders. I could not say how difficult it was going to be for me again once they left. Returning to what was and rebuilding meant that very few nights were left for us to live together as we once had in our old room at the Twins. I was still torn between whether Kyra was a welcome addition or not; she had a way of swinging my regard for her in different directions every other moment.

Kyra dusted her hands off and straightened, planting her dainty fists on her hips and fixing her steely blue eyes on me. "We didn't come here for a nice time, we came to discuss Morgan's marriage and how to fix it. We won't do that by dancing around the subject."

It was strange, seeing militant practicality in another person. Perhaps this was what so many people found annoying about me.

Though I was certain that I was a great deal more delicate than Kyra was when she wanted to manage something.

"I've told you, it's fine," I said with forced calm. "In fact, I called you all here so I could tell you to stop bringing it up."

It was a source of continuing wonder, how all my sisters had managed to glean that something might be amiss with my marriage though I had spoken to none of them about it. Ironically, it was Kyra who seemed to know it the most. I surmised that she knew something from her time at King's Landing and her status as Sansa's lady-in-waiting. We had barely called a truce between us upon their arrival when she had attempted to discuss Jeyne Westerling with me.

The argument that had followed had not gone well for her—another benefit of possessing a rank over one's sister—and yet it seemed Kyra was determined to keep trying. She looked at me now with a distinctly unimpressed smirk.

"You'll thank us when things are well again," she said blithely, as if I had not said anything. "I think we should have a more aggressive approach to this. We did well to present you so enticingly earlier, but in the next few days you have to do more to remind him about how much he is missing. Don't let him run off to do useless things—"

"Seeing to our lords in the encampment is hardly useless—"

"—and chase him down if you have to," Kyra insisted, speaking over me and keeping her eyes on my other sisters. Fara and Margaret were nodding in mortifying agreement. "You'll never mend the breach between the two of you if he's never in the same room as you."

"There is no breach," I hissed through gritted teeth, my cheeks burning. It was apparently enough to give even my irreverent sisters pause. "This is simply what marriage is when you wed for duty rather than love. The king is still my husband and he still treats me with honor. To go on and on like this is disrespectful to us both."

Silence filled the room for a full minute as I gave each of my sisters what I hoped was a quelling look. Alys met my gaze with clear-eyed scrutiny; Fara and Margaret had the grace to look abashed. For her part, and for the first time in our entire lives together, Kyra looked at me with something akin to pity. When she spoke again, it was the gentlest I had ever heard her.

"I've told you before that the King loves you. Why is that so difficult for you to accept and fight for?"

It has never been easy to answer that question, even with years of contemplation. Kyra had indeed found the opportunity—despite my reluctance to hear it—to tell me about my husband's time at King's Landing and Riverrun. I had steeled myself for the account, knowing that my sister would surely take a great deal of malicious delight in my pain, despite our reconciliation.

Instead she'd spoken at length about Jeyne Westerling's quiet suffering—with impatience, true to form—and her consequent conviction that things truly were at an end between her and my husband.

I could not tell Kyra—or anyone, really—that as welcome as Robb's fidelity was, I wanted more. I wanted him to be true because of love rather than honor, and even though I could admit it to myself I hated myself for it.

My reply felt like it was being strangled out of me. "Because you're wrong. I would know."

"Would you?" There was a mulish cast to Kyra's jaw that I knew well. "You're my cleverest sister in all matters—save one. I think you refuse to use your head in this because you're too afraid to risk your heart."

I stared at her as I tried to parse through the mix of praise and insult while unknotting the feelings that tangled up inside me as a response to it. Kyra's gaze softened in that moment, and she did not continue to speak.

My other sisters did that for her.

"None of us have had as great an opportunity as Kyra to study your husband," said Fara, "but from what little I've seen since you two first met, there is something there beyond duty. Whatever it is, I do think you would be wise to nurture it."

Margaret—fierce, brash Margaret—was nodding in thoughtful agreement. "And Kyra is right—you're far too critical of yourself and too wary of being hurt to see clearly. Which is why you should trust us to see for you."

Alys was silent, but she did not need to add to that. As I met her steady gaze, I knew they were right. My sisters would never seek to hurt or disgrace me—even Kyra, who was so open in her loves and hatreds that it would never occur to her to gain my confidence only to find an opportunity to strike.

"I do trust you," I said at last, scrubbing at my eyes. "This is just not easy for me to do."

"Hence: the need for our help." Before, I might have found Kyra's condescension infuriating. Now I found her briskness bracing. "And you should know that we're not the only ones trying to help you. Even your mother-in-law supports our cause." Kyra's grin was distinctly cat-like. "Why do you think she insisted your son sleep in her bedchamber tonight?"

As I flushed and sputtered—how was it that my sisters, whom I was certain were all still maids, could be more frank about sexual relations than I myself?—Kyra returned to her plans.

"I truly think that once he's in your arms again, half the battle will be won. You just need to put a bit more effort into bringing him to your bed. Standing around looking like you're about to cry at any moment is not a flattering look on you."

"I think he's near to surrendering already." Alys' observation had my mouth dropping. "I saw how he looked at her earlier. I think her standing around looking sad and beautiful is more effective than if she chased him around." Her lips curved as she caught my expression. "The flowers were inspired, by the way. I thought the King meant to pluck one straight from Morgan's hair when her back was turned to him."

Kyra preened, as oblivious as they all were to the way my heart leapt into my throat. "What are Winterfell's glass gardens even for if you won't use the flowers there?"

I pursed my lips, trying not to be annoyed. Flowers had always, always been Kyra's strong suit. It had never occurred to me to pay attention the glass gardens. They had always been Lady Catelyn's haunt, while I had found my peace and strength in the godswood.

"We should weave a crown of the blue roses for her tomorrow," Margaret suggested, fingers fluttering with excitement. "Hair up, yes?"

Kyra was nodding. "My Lady Sansa has some fine silver chains we could pin in a pattern over her bodice and around her waist. Any gemstones would only compete with the roses."

"Do you still have that attar of orchid you so loved? There are some other sweet-smelling flowers in the gardens, but I don't know if we have time to create scents for tomorrow night . . ."

As our other sisters discussed what was to be done with me, Alys' slender arm looped around my waist and she rested her chin gently on my shoulder.

"Just remember: you lose little but your pride by going along with this," she pointed out. "And you owe it to both you and your husband to try."

My sisters had settled one of my older blue gowns. It was tighter now—which they assured me was to be expected after my pregnancy—and decidedly indecorous given its original cut. My mind turned to Winfred and that long-ago fitting in my room at the Twins. I said a prayer for her—another who would never again see the snows melt—and pulled myself back to the moment before the memory could take me.

Sansa was once again at work on my attire, her nimble fingers stitching a fringe of mohair over the bodice to form a collar. There was no avoiding the way that the gown clung, but with Sansa's help there would at least be less skin to see. It had been my sisters' grudging concession—they would have had to drag me out of my room without it.

Unlike my sisters, who had departed my chambers to get ready, my sister-in-law was already dressed in a similar blue gown. On her, however, the muted hue served only to emphasize the fire in her hair and the light playing under her alabaster skin. It was a marvel that this woman was hunched over playing seamstress for me, when to my mind she was the kind of woman who ought to be attended to thus.

I wondered if people would reach similar conclusions when we walked into the Great Hall together, one of us the Lady of Winterfell and the other more closely embodying that title.

"I won't hurt you, you know," Sansa said mildly. She was smiling one of her rare smiles. Unlike Robb's, her lips were thin and her mouth small, but Sansa's beauty was in her coloring and the fine bones of her face—and the cleverness that sparked in her eyes. Her smile widened when I only blinked at her. "You've been staring at my hands and shaking for at least a minute now."

I felt heat blooming on my cheeks. "No, I was only thinking. There haven't been festivities here in a long time, and there are so many people . . . "

"They won't hurt you, either. This is your home and your celebration. You should enjoy it."

"I'll try."

It was an honest statement of my resolve. I had spent so long in what had felt like interminable darkness—anxiety, doubt, and a fear of hope had kept me from truly living. What real cause did I have to be still mired in my miseries when the worst, despite all odds, had not happened?

With that thought in mind, I allowed myself to be intoxicated by the heady excitement in the air when it was time to head down. We were alive, by the grace of all the gods, and that was what was important.

Thankfully, there were apparently no formalities for this evening; no one had lined up for a procession to mark the beginning of the feast. As my sisters and I approached the Great Hall, the din told us that the festivities were well underway.

"What is that song?" Kyra asked, her nose wrinkling in clear disapproval.

"A song of the freefolk, I think." Alys was smiling. "Who else would sing about the last of the giants?"

True enough, when the doors to the Great Hall were pulled wider to allow our entry, there were Wildlings standing on tables, roaring with their cups held high. My head wheeled around as far as my neck would allow as I tried to put together who were present. My sisters pushed and pulled me into the throng towards the dais where I spotted Lady Catelyn. What remained of the men of the Night's Watch mingled alongside Northern and Southern lords, smallfolk, freefolk, and—

"Oh gods, they let that thing in!"

I barely heard Kyra's exclamation as I did my best to rush forwards. Fortunately, even under such circumstances most men were wary of being too close to a Dire Wolf, and soon I was kneeling down, face buried in Grey Wind's fur. He smelled like pine and snow, and my eyes watered as I comprehended how much I had missed him.

No one had told me how our wolves had fared and when I had not seen him in the procession the day before, I had found it too painful to ask.

It took the sharp pinches along my legs and back—reminders that I had been crouched down too long—to recall me to my manners. When I stood—not without some protest from my muscles—I found with great relief that no one was really paying attention to the Queen in the North's outburst of feeling. Margaret was already drinking out of a goblet in her hand, for some reason, and Fara was engaged in a conversation with a handsome Dornishman. Alys and Kyra were no longer in sight, and the singing, drinking, and eating proceeded around me.

Only Sansa had remained to watch over me, it seemed, and she brushed carefully at my face to dislodge what I assumed were tufts of Grey Wind's fur. She carded her fingers over the tops of the Dire Wolf's ears when she finished.

"We should get to you to my mother before someone else claims your seat," she said wryly. "At the rate they're drinking, her stare won't hold them off for much longer."

I laughed because I could see Lady Catelyn employing said stare with great effect, even from the distance we were at. Then I caught something in what Sansa had just said. "Won't you be sitting with us?"

"Unfortunately not. My husband has taken his seat with the Southern Lords, and I should join him."

I looked again and realized that beneath the chaos, there had indeed been lines drawn. To the left of the dais, most of the seats were occupied by Northerners. To the right, King Aegon, sixth of his name, had assembled his most loyal surviving lords. Tyrion was seated far from his king, deep in conversation with Lord Varys and a young Martell woman whom I was told was the new Princess of Dorne.

It was a curious distance to sit for two of the king's most trusted advisers and his Dornish cousin.

I frowned, disliking the division even if I understood it. Tonight was meant to be a celebration of life, a great toast to the gods and to each other in light of what we had achieved. When Sansa left me at her mother's side after an exchange of kisses and quiet words, the excitement I had allowed myself to feel was swallowed up by disquiet as I comprehended a new threat.

It was a consequence of that winter, I would soon learn—none of us would ever again let ourselves feel safe too soon. Ours was a generation that would be constantly on the lookout for danger, in all its forms.

I watched the great lords and ladies as they watched each other and I prayed to the Seven, the Old Gods, and the Lord of Light—to any benevolent force that was listening—that we had not survived only to kill one another.

That night, I could already see another conflict brewing, though I would not see it play out for many years.

Sansa met King Aegon's lingering gaze squarely, her hand on her husband's sleeve, blue eyes cold. Jaime Lannister was watching Aegon in turn, the sharp smile on his mouth not reaching his eyes. Tyrion seemed oblivious to the interplay, laughing uproariously at whatever joke the wildling chieftain who had inserted himself in their midst was saying.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Lady Catelyn remarked, speaking for the first time beyond our exchange of pleasantries. Her eyes were weary, but amused. "It never feels like a victory, even when it is. We move far too quickly into the next moment, the next great conflict. I've seen three in my lifetime, have you realized?"

"Yes, of course." I did not say how much it showed. Instead, I took her hand, so much more weathered in the last few years. A fine trembling had set into her limbs the year before and it had never left. "And you lived through them all."

She smiled, squeezing my hand. "Sometimes I doubt whether that was my good fortune, but you have a way of reminding an old woman that the gods have blessed her."

"We all need reminding, sometimes," I said, and as if to punctuate my remark the first strains of a flute carried over the din of the crowd. I lifted my head, straightening as the notes formed a melody I recognized, the slow roll of the drums marking the beat that would command the dance.

Who would have thought that we would dance again, when winter had first come?

I got to my feet, forgetting my mother-in-law as my eyes scanned the crowd for her son. Things were not yet mended between us, but surely he realized that we were meant to lead the dancing. My neck craned and my toes lifed as I tried to find him. The crowd surged around me, others already looking for their own partners, and I fought the terrible urge to simply start screaming for my husband the way Ned screamed for me when he could not find me.

We had danced before, on more than one occasion, in public and in our own quarters. The memories sparked something under my skin that felt like a frenzy; I felt the blood rush to my face and my fingers tingle as I remembered the feel of Robb's arms around me, the sturdiness of his chest against my own, the way it felt to sway against him as he led me through the steps.

Perhaps if we danced, he would remember, too.

It seemed the gods had other things in store, and I would later be proud of how I did nothing but watch as my husband led Sansa into the open space for dancing.

They were a striking pair, standing almost shoulder to shoulder, auburn hair gleaming in the light. Sansa's arm lifted as she dipped into a curtsy that was an embodiment of grace that I would never be able to match, and I consoled myself with the thought that the better dancer would be leading the dancing.

At the other end of the hall, Lord Tyrion caught my eye, and it was a further balm for my wounded soul when he smiled, his head inclining meaningfully to his left.

When I finally saw King Aegon to the side, consternation written plainly over his handsome face, it became easier to stand tall, to direct my attention to the dancers now that I knew that I had not been spurned. My husband had other things to consider than my feelings and my fingers knotted together in frustration at how stupid I was constantly being.

"Would you do me the honor, Your Grace?"

The deep, familiar voice brought me up short and dispelled every other feeling inside me except shock and a budding delight. I took a moment to compose myself, but in hindsight I needn't have bothered. I could not have hidden my relief at seeing him—and if I was truthful, I did not want to.

Still, when I turned, it was to ask him to repeat himself. Surely Jon had not asked me to dance. Jon did not dance, by all accounts, and even if he did, he surely knew better than to ask me after all that had happened between us before.

Yet when I looked into his ravaged face, the hollow eyes and the resigned set of his mouth, I found myself taking the hand he held out to me.

I knew very little of what had transpired in the frozen North, but I knew how much it had cost him to survive.

This was so even though he and I had yet to speak. He had been nowhere in the procession the day before, though I had been told that he would be coming down to Winterfell with everyone else. What little I had heard about what had happened—what he had done—meant that I had not been surprised by his absence.

As I stepped into his arms, I said what was in my heart.

"I am so glad to see you, Jon."

His fingers tightened around my waist. "And I you, Morgan."

Author's Note #2: Yes, this is really where I'm ending this chapter. Don't be mad! Trust me, it will all work out. You'll get it when you read the next chapter, I promise! (Incidentally, if you want to see my thoughts as I cut and edited this chapter, I will be posting a discussion on my writing blog, foodaddictfanfiction. It's on Tumblr and you're all free to check it out.)

And now, for the last time, a thank you to the readers who left a review without logging in:

SaderiaGreen: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Thank you for leaving a review! GuestOne: Hahaha, as was I after the Wall crumbled on Game of Thrones last season. GuestTwo: Yes, there are a number of you who do! I think they are more compatible in terms of temperament. They'd make the kind of couple who would be friends as much as they are lovers. GuestThree: I'm assuming you're the same one, since your comments are similar. Not sure if you read further, but I appreciate you taking the time to leave feedback, so thank you! GuestFour: Like I said, exactly how I felt last season! Thanks for dropping me a line! GuestFive: The moles on every hot person's face disagree, lol. Thank you! ITACHI: Thank you for waiting and for letting me know what you think! GuestSix: Here it is! So sorry for the wait!

Hang in there, guys. It's just one more chapter and then we are done!

Thank you for the (literally) years of patience!