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When Lynn walked out of the main hall, the sky had gone fully dark.
Cold wind swept fine snowflakes against his face.
A small figure leaned against one of the corridor pillars, a slender rapier cradled in her arms. She wore gray leather, hair tied back loosely, a few stubborn strands blown wild by the wind.
Arya.
She stood there quietly, still as Winterfell's gray stone.
When she saw him, those eyes , always burning with something feral , lit up. She didn't scream or rush him. She just walked forward, stopped in front of him, and looked up without a word.
Like she was checking him over. Cataloging every change the days apart had left on him.
"I'm back," Lynn said.
He reached out on instinct, going for her hair.
Arya's head snapped to the side. Dodge.
Then she pulled back her fist and punched him in the chest. Not hard enough to hurt. Not soft enough to ignore.
"Bastard."
The next second she stopped holding back. She buried herself in his arms, both hands locking around his waist, squeezing like she wanted to press herself straight through him.
"If you dare disappear that long again, I'll , I'll go all the way to King's Landing and drag you home."
Her face was pressed against his chest. Her voice came out muffled, thick with something she was trying not to show.
Lynn smiled.
He could feel her trembling. He could feel her heart hammering against him, wild and fierce and entirely his.
He brought his hand up and patted her back, slow and steady. Like settling a young wolf that had finally found its way home.
At the far end of the corridor, Ned Stark stood still and watched.
He'd just come from Catelyn's room, heading for the study to work through a pile of backed-up correspondence. But his feet had stopped moving the moment he saw his youngest daughter , the troublemaker, the one who'd never sat still a day in her life , curled against another man's chest like a tame kitten.
Something seized his heart.
It knocked the breath out of him.
Bitterness. Relief. A loss he couldn't name and couldn't argue with.
He knew Arya loved Lynn. He knew Lynn was worthy of her. He knew all of it, and it didn't matter, because the ache was already there, spreading through his chest like a bruise.
He'd spent over a decade watching over that treasure. And now it had someone else's name on it.
He thought of Lyanna.
She'd been the same , bright, untameable, a wild horse that refused every fence. And then she'd met Rhaegar Targaryen.
Ned leaned back against the cold stone wall. Even the North wind couldn't touch what was happening inside him.
His daughter was grown. He couldn't hold on.
He let out a long breath, turned, and walked away down a different corridor.
Some things were better left unseen.
Out of sight, out of mind.
...
Late at night. Catelyn Tully's bedroom.
The fire crackled in the hearth, pushing back the cold. It couldn't touch the grief and worry sitting in Catelyn's chest.
She sat on the edge of the bed. Ned pressed a warm, damp cloth gently to her swollen eyes.
"What's done is done, Cat. Grief won't change it."
His voice was soft.
"I just , I can't believe it." Catelyn's voice was still raw. "Lysa. How did she become this? Father loved her so much..."
"Power and hatred can break anyone."
Ned sighed.
"You're not so different. You saw Hoster in danger, you knew it was a trap, and you walked straight into it."
"That's not what matters now. We need to get Edmure out and avenge Lord Hoster."
"Lynn already has a plan."
At the mention of Lynn, something in Catelyn steadied. That young man had a way of doing that , making the ground feel solid again.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she looked up.
There was something decided in her blue eyes.
"Ned."
"Hmm?"
"Since all the North's bannermen are coming to Winterfell — why not..."
She drew a slow breath.
"Why not hold Lynn and Arya's wedding while they're here."
Ned's hand went still.
"Now?"
He stared at her.
"At a time like this?"
"Especially at a time like this."
Catelyn's voice didn't waver.
"War is coming. No one knows what tomorrow looks like. Arya chose Lynn from the very beginning , you know it, I know it. So why let her keep following him without a name to stand on? Give her a proper place. A real one."
"Lysa's alliance is three factions strong. If Lynn dies in this fight, Arya will carry that regret for the rest of her life." Her jaw tightened. "I won't let that happen to my daughter."
"And there's more."
Catelyn's eyes sharpened with a mother's clear-eyed calculation.
"Lynn is King-Beyond-the-Wall. The fact that he's willing to fight means he believes he has the strength to change the outcome of this war. This wedding isn't just about Arya. It's a declaration — to the entire North, to the entire Seven Kingdoms — that House Stark and Lynn stand together. Permanently."
"This is family business. It is also the North's business."
"Let the bannermen with their private schemes see it. Let the Lannisters in King's Landing see it. Let the Freys in the Riverlands see it. Lynn is not someone they can pick apart at their convenience."
"Anyone who moves against Lynn moves against the North."
Ned said nothing.
She was right. He knew she was right. Emotionally, strategically , every way he turned it, this was the right call. He agreed with it.
But the thought of his wild girl, his Arya, becoming someone's wife ,
His old father's heart, which had barely settled, started aching again.
"I know what you're thinking."
Catelyn took his hand.
"I can't bear it either."
"But children grow up. We can't shield them forever. Especially Arya , she can only be herself when she's with Lynn." She held his gaze. "Do you want to see your sister's tragedy play out again? On her?"
Ned looked at his wife. At the resolve in her eyes that left no room for argument.
He nodded. Slowly.
"Alright."
One word. It cost him everything he had.
Fine. Let that kid Lynn have her.
He'd wanted to keep Arya close a little longer. That was all.
A moment passed. Ned spoke again, hesitant.
"But , Lysa is still your sister. Can you really..."
Catelyn cut him off.
"She stopped being my sister the day she killed Father. I have no sister who would do that." Her voice was flat and final. "When I weigh an outsider against my husband and my children, I know exactly where the scales tip."
...
Myrcella sat by her window.
Outside, the snow was coming down harder. The whole world had gone white.
She held an embroidery in her lap , Lynn's three-headed dragon, rendered in gold thread. The last stitch was still unfinished.
She'd heard.
Word had reached her that Lynn and Arya Stark were to be married.
She'd known this day was coming. Back in King's Landing, she'd understood exactly what Arya meant to him. That wild girl, fierce as a young leopard, had been the first one to break into Lynn's world. Before Myrcella. Before any of it.
Knowing hadn't made it easier.
When it became real, the bitterness rose anyway, slow and unstoppable, flooding up from somewhere she couldn't seal off.
She loved Lynn. Loved him enough to walk away from her title, her family, everything she'd been raised to be , and follow him to this frozen corner of the world.
She'd thought that here, she could have him fully.
Now she was gaining a sister.
A sister to share him with.
The needle slipped. It pricked her fingertip, and a bead of bright red welled up and fell onto the gold thread, a small, dark bloom against the embroidery, like a bad omen.
She brought her finger to her lips. The faint taste of blood spread across her tongue.
She didn't hate Arya.
She almost envied her. The freedom. The courage. The parents who loved her and let her be exactly who she was.
Myrcella was none of those things. She was a canary in a gilded cage, pushed from one perch to the next by forces she'd never controlled, grateful for whatever scraps of warmth came her way.
A knock at the door.
"Come in."
She smoothed her expression and kept her voice even.
The door opened.
It was Arya.
She was carrying a tray , a steaming cup of milk, a few honey cakes. She crossed the room and set it on the table without ceremony.
"You barely touched dinner. I had the kitchen make this."
Her tone was clipped. Like she was checking off a duty.
"Thank you."
Myrcella managed a smile.
Silence settled over the room.
Arya didn't leave. She stood there, fidgeting with Needle at her hip, fingers working the hilt in restless little movements.
"Are you... unhappy?"
It was Arya who broke it. Blunt as a blade, straight to the center of the thing.
That was Arya , no hedging, no circling, no softening. Whatever she thought, she said.
Myrcella's heart clenched.
She looked up into those clear, direct eyes.
She wanted to say No, I'm happy for you. The words were right there.
But in front of those eyes, every lie turned hollow before it left her mouth.
Myrcella looked down. A quiet sound escaped her. Confirmation.
"I'm sorry," Arya said.
Myrcella's head came up fast. She stared.
She hadn't expected that. An apology , from Arya, of all people. When by any measure, Myrcella was the one who'd come second.
"You don't have to apologize. This is , this is my problem."
"No. I do."
Arya stepped closer and looked at her squarely.
"I know this is hard. If I were you, I'd be hurting too. Someone just appears out of nowhere and you're supposed to share the person you love most with them , who would be fine with that?"
The honesty of it left Myrcella without words.
"My sister Sansa," Arya said, and something shifted in her voice , complicated, the way it always got when she said that name.
"She used to tell me that women's lives are built on jealousy and competition. That it never stops. That women will tear each other apart over a man, a dress, a single compliment , scratch each other's faces bloody over nothing."
The noble ladies of King's Landing rose in Myrcella's mind. Their smiles. Their eyes.
Arya wasn't wrong.
"But Sansa also told me," Arya continued, and the corner of her mouth curved, a sly, sharp little smile, something she'd borrowed from her sister and made entirely her own, "that truly smart people don't make enemies. They make allies."
She reached out and took Myrcella's hand , the one with the needle prick. Her palm was rough, years of sword work worn into the skin as thin calluses. But it was warm.
"Myrcella. You're beautiful. You're refined. You're a golden rose in full bloom."
"And I'm a weed from the northern wilds."
"But Lynn , the bastard , he loves roses, and he can't bring himself to pull up the weeds either."
"We both fell for the same bastard. That's just what we are now."
"So we have two choices."
Arya's gaze went sharp.
"First: we do what those foolish women in King's Landing would do. We make each other miserable. We fill Winterfell with poison and suspicion until it becomes another arena. We both suffer. Lynn suffers. And in the end, some other woman walks in and takes everything while we're too busy bleeding each other dry."
"Or second ,"
She tightened her grip on Myrcella's hand.
"We become allies."
"You're a princess. You know how to move through noble politics, how to win loyalty with grace, how to play the game I have no patience for and no interest in learning."
"And I have a sword. I'll use it — for Lynn, and for you — to cut off every hand that reaches for what's ours."
"One of us in the light. One in the shadows."
"One guards his honor. One guards his back."
"Together, we become the shield nothing can break."
Myrcella stared at her.
She couldn't speak. Arya's words had gone through her like a current, rearranging something she hadn't known was loose.
She had never once thought to look at it this way.
"Lynn has too many enemies," Arya said, her voice dropping. "Lannisters. Baratheons. The madmen in the Riverlands. War is nearly here, and he's going to be in real danger."
"He needs us."
"Not two women fighting over him behind his back. Two women who give him nothing to worry about."
"So." Arya held her gaze. "Will you, Myrcella?"
No performance in those eyes. No calculation. Only the plainest, most unguarded sincerity , and an open hand.
Myrcella looked at her. Looked at her own reflection in those clear gray eyes.
The bitterness was still there. The ache of it. But something larger had moved through the room, and it had shifted the weight of everything.
War was coming.
Lynn needed them.
Why burn from the inside when the fire was already at the gates?
Slowly, Myrcella turned her hand over and closed her fingers around Arya's.
"I am."
Soft. Unshakeable.
➤ Next: The Northern Lords Gather
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