Robb VI
296 - AC
Robb adjusted his woolen robes, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a suit of armor too heavy for his frame.
Marriage.
It was his duty, as inevitable as the changing seasons or the defense of the North against wildlings and worse.
He had faced bandits in the Wolfswood, charged into skirmishes with raiders, and even glimpsed the shadowy horrors of otherworldly beings in tales from beyond. Yet none of that had knotted his stomach like this.
Why was he so anxious? Robb couldn't say.
Perhaps it was the finality of it all—the binding of two lives, two houses, in a union that could reshape the fragile alliances of the Seven Kingdoms. Or maybe it was her. Arianne Martell with her sun-kissed skin and eyes that held the fire of the desert sands.
She was of a world away from the stark, snowy North, a flame in the midst of winter.
He had agreed to the betrothal for the sake of politics, brokered by ravens and envoys between Winterfell and Sunspear, but now, standing here, it felt achingly personal.
His eyes drifted to the front seats where Sansa sat with Arianne, their heads bent together in whispered conspiracy.
Sansa's auburn hair caught the light filtering through the high windows, but it was Arianne who drew his gaze like a lodestone. Her hair, a cascade of dark waves with subtle streaks of black weaving through the rich brown, framed a face that was both regal and mischievous.
He hadn't noticed those streaks before—not until this moment, when the sunlight painted them in gold.
The low chuckles from the two women pulled him from his reverie, a reminder that he wasn't alone in his nervousness.
Arianne's eyes met his, lingering for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed. She whispered something to Sansa, who glanced at Robb with a knowing smile before turning back to giggle.
Robb exhaled slowly, steeling himself.
'Face it head-on,' he thought.
He straightened his posture and strode into the hall, his boots echoing softly on the stone floor.
The Sand Snakes, Obara and Nymeria, stood sentinel near Arianne, their lithe forms clad in Dornish silks and leathers that seemed out of place amid the fur-trimmed northern garb.
Tyene, the third, was absent, no doubt off sparring with Arya in some hidden corner of the castle.
Robb could already imagine his mother's disapproval if she discovered Arya skipping her lessons with the septa for swordplay with the Dornish women. But he wouldn't breathe a word; Arya had a fire, and the Sand Snakes were teaching her skills she loved.
"Robb, you grace us with your presence this early," Sansa teased, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "I thought you would still be in the yard, swinging away at dummies. Why are you here?"
"Ser Rodrik was stern, but he had a change of heart after he saw me break a few swords," He replied with a forced chuckle, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. "And I'm here to steal away the Princess from you."
"Oh, the gods, and here I thought you would be the one to save me, but you're here to steal me yourself," Arianne laughed, her voice like the chime of distant bells. She rose gracefully, her long fur robes, regal and colorful, a blend of Dornish reds and golds with northern furs for warmth, shimmering under the sun's rays in a golden glow that made her seem almost ethereal.
"Do not worry, Princess, I will return you in honor," Robb said, extending his hand toward her with what he hoped was courtly poise.
She took it, her fingers warm against his callused palm, and stepped forward. As she drew close, her breath brushed his ear in a whisper meant only for him: "I wouldn't mind losing some of it with you, Lord Robb."
Robb's eyes widened, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson that rivaled the weirwood leaves.
Her lips curved into a cheeky grin, her dark eyes dancing with playful challenge. He swallowed hard, his mind reeling from the bold implication.
"Shall we?" Arianne asked, looping her arm through his with effortless familiarity.
"Yes," Robb nodded, leading her out of the Great Hall.
The doors creaked shut behind them, muffling Sansa's lingering laughter.
They stepped into the courtyard, where the morning sun had begun to melt the thin layer of frost on the cobblestones.
Winterfell's walls loomed high around them, ancient and unyielding, etched with the history of Starks.
Guards nodded respectfully as they passed, but he barely noticed; his focus was on the woman at his side.
Arianne walked with a confident sway, her robes whispering against the stone. The air was alive with the sounds of the castle in work.
"Where are we going, my lord?" Arianne asked, her tone light but curious.
"I thought we might walk the godswood," Robb suggested. "It's quiet there, away from prying eyes and ears. We... we have much to discuss."
She tilted her head, studying him with those piercing eyes. "The betrothal, you mean? Or something more?"
He nodded, his grip on her arm tightening slightly. "Both, I suppose."
The godswood was a sanctuary of ancient weirwoods, their bone-white trunks etched with blood-red leaves that never fell, even in the deepest winter.
The heart tree stood sentinel in the center, its carved face solemn and watchful. A small stream bubbled nearby, its waters dark and reflective.
He led her to a secluded spot beneath the canopy, where the air smelled of earth and sap. They sat, the space between them charged with unspoken words.
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.
He stared at the heart tree, gathering his thoughts.
"Princess-," he began.
"Arianne." She said. "If all goes well we would be marrying Lord Robb, it is only right you use my name."
Robb took a breath and nodded. "Then please call me Robb, it is only fair."
Arianne nodded back.
"Arianne." He began once more, using her name without title for the first time, "This betrothal... it's more than just a pact between houses. At least, it feels that way to me now."
She turned to face him, her expression softening. "And how does it feel to you, Robb? Truly?"
He met her gaze, his grey eyes earnest.
"Like a storm on the horizon, exciting, terrifying. I've always known I'd marry for duty. My father wed my mother to seal an alliance with the Tullys, and it strengthened the North. But this... marrying you, a princess from Dorne... it's not just about armies or borders. It's about us." He paused, his voice dropping. "I want to know how you feel. Why did you agree to this? Dorne is yours by birth, you could have chosen anyone, or no one at all."
Arianne's laughter was soft, almost wistful.
"Ah, Robb, ever the honorable Stark, asking the questions that burn in your heart." She reached out, tracing a finger along the direwolf embroidery on his sleeve. "In Dorne, we do things differently. Women inherit, love freely, and marriage is as much a choice as a strategy. My father proposed this alliance to bind the North and South against common threats and common interest, but I agreed because... well, because I saw something in it for me."
Robb leaned closer, intrigued. "What do you mean?"
She sighed, her eyes distant as if recalling memories from Sunspear's sun-drenched halls.
"I've always been ambitious, Robb. As the heir to Dorne, I dream of a realm where my people thrive, unbowed and unbent. But Dorne is isolated, our sands protect us, but they also keep us apart from the greater game. Marrying you unites us with the North's strength, its vast lands and loyal bannermen. Imagine it, Starks and Martells, sand and snow forging a bond that could challenge anyone, it's brilliant. The North gains Dornish spears and cunning, while Dorne gains northern resilience and trade routes through the Neck."
"But that's the politics," Robb pressed gently. "What about you? Personally?"
Arianne's smile turned genuine, vulnerable.
"Personally? I was wary at first. Tales of the North painted it as cold and grim, full of stoic men who speak little and fight much. But then I came here and I saw it for myself." She spoke as if she was in a song.
"And I saw you, Robb, You're not just the heir, you're kind, brave, with a fire in your eyes that rivals any Dornish sun. I've seen how you lead your men, how you care for your siblings. It's... appealing. In Sunspear, I've had suitors, knights and lords who saw me as a prize or a path to power. But with you, it feels different. Like we could be partners, equals. I believe this could be the best thing for me because it offers not just alliance, but companionship. A chance to build something real, away from the intrigues that have shadowed my life."
Robb's heart swelled at her words, a warmth spreading through him despite the chill.
"I feel the same," he admitted. "When the ravens first came from Sunspear, I saw it as duty, a way to honor my father's wishes and secure the North. But I'm worried that I do not know you well."
"I see you are fierce, intelligent, with a wit that cuts sharper than Valyrian steel. And beautiful," he added, his voice husky. "Gods, you're beautiful."
Arianne raised her brows with a mischievous grin, cheeks flushed, a rare sight on her composed features. "Flattery from a Stark? I must be dreaming."
"No dream," He smiled, taking her hand in his. "But tell me more—why do you think this is best for you?"
She squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing his knuckles. "Because in Dorne, I've felt trapped by expectations. My father is cautious, always plotting in shadows, and my uncle Oberyn pushes for vengeance against the criminals for my aunt's fate. I've been caught in that web, scheming for my own inheritance when rumors swirled of my father favoring my brother Quentyn. This betrothal? It frees me. As your wife, I'd be Lady of Winterfell, but also a bridge to Dorne's power. I could influence councils, advise on southern matters, and perhaps even temper the North's isolationism. And with you... I see a man who values honor but I can make sure you are not blinded by it. We could rule together, Robb—make decisions that benefit both our peoples. Imagine northern timber flowing to Dornish shipyards, or Dornish wines warming Winterfell's hearths. Politically, it's a masterstroke against any who threaten our lands."
He nodded, his mind racing with visions of unity. I understand but I worry too... Dorne and the North are so different. Our gods, our customs. Will it work?"
Arianne leaned in, her breath warm on his face. "Differences make us stronger. Your old gods in these woods, my septons in the Water Gardens—they can coexist. And as for us..."
Her voice trailed off, her eyes locking onto his.
The political undertones wove through their words like threads in a tapestry, each admission laced with the weight of houses and kingdoms.
Yet beneath it, a tentative spark igniting into flame. Robb felt the pull, the desire to bridge the gap not just for strategy, but for the woman before him.
"I want this to be more than duty," he confessed. "I want to know you, Arianne. Not as a princess, but as... my wife."
Her lips parted in a soft smile. "Then let's make it so."
Before he could respond, Arianne closed the distance, her hand cupping his cheek. She kissed him—gentle at first, then deepening with the passion.
Her lips were soft, tasting of sweetwine and promise, sending a jolt through him like lightning. Time seemed to freeze in the godswood, the heart tree's face watching impassively as worlds collided in that single, electric moment.
When she pulled back, her eyes gleamed with mischief and affection.
"Something to think about, my lord," she whispered, rising gracefully and smoothing her robes. With a final, teasing glance, she turned and walked away, her hips swaying in that confident rhythm.
He sat there, stunned, his lips tingling, his mind a whirl of emotions.
The kiss lingered like a brand, leaving him in a stupor—heart racing, cheeks flushed, utterly captivated. Duty had brought them together, politics bound them, but this... this was something more.
As the sun climbed higher, casting dappled light through the weirwood leaves, Robb remained under the tree, replaying the conversation in his mind.
Arianne's words about alliance resonated deeply. The North had always stood apart, its bannermen loyal but insular. House Karstark, Umber, Bolton—they followed the Starks out of tradition, but threats loomed.
Dorne, on the other hand, had its own grievances. The murder of Princess Elia and her children during the Sack of King's Landing still burned in Martell hearts. Prince Doran's patient plotting but Arianne's marriage to Robb could accelerate those plans—providing northern swords to back Dornish spears in any future conflict.
Robb imagined joint campaigns: Stark heavy infantry clashing alongside Martell skirmishers, turning the tide against common foes. Trade would flourish too—Dornish fruits and spices exchanged for northern furs and iron, enriching both realms.
Politically, it was a bulwark against division, a statement that the edges of the kingdom could unite.
Yet, as romantic as the notion was, doubts crept in. Would his bannermen accept a Dornish lady? The North remembered the southern excesses, and Dorne's liberal ways might clash with the Northern honor.
His mother had already voiced concerns about them, her Riverlands piety wary of Dornish freedoms.
And Arianne? Would she endure the long winters, the endless snows that buried the land in white silence? He pictured her in Winterfell's halls, her golden robes a splash of color against the gray stone, bringing warmth to the cold.
And her kiss... gods, that kiss. It had shattered his reservations, igniting a fire in his veins.
Robb touched his lips, a smile breaking through his stupor.
She had agreed not just for power, but for the promise of partnership.
'This could be the best thing for me,' she had said, and he believed her, should he truly? He didn't know.
Rising at last, he made his way back to the castle, the godswood's peace lingering in his soul.
The courtyard bustled now, servants hurrying with baskets of bread and ale for the midday meal.
He spotted Jon practicing in the yard, his half-brother's dark hair matted with sweat as he parried blows from a squire.
Jon caught his eye and raised a brow, no doubt noting his dazed expression. But Robb only grinned, waving him off.
In the solar later that day, as he pored over plans with Ser Rodrik.
"The second steads would be here in half-a-moon, we need to train our archers to stay on target with a mount."
"It is not an easy task, my lord," Ser Rodrik said. "The movement of the mount makes them lose stability, while there is some success, I would put my coin on it being luck."
"We shall try better then." Robb said.
"We will, my lord."
That evening, at supper in the Great Hall, Arianne sat beside him now, her presence a constant distraction.
Sansa chattered about lemon cakes and southern fashions for her coming nameday, but Robb and Arianne shared secret glances.
The memory of the kiss hanging between them like a shared secret. When her hands brushed his under the table, he felt a spark jumped, promising more.
As the meal ended, Arianne leaned close.
"You have been thinking about the kiss?"
He nodded with smile.
"I have killed cutthroats and fought the wildlings but I don't think my heart can't handle one more of those for you."
She smiled. "Then maybe I just have to keep giving them until your heart begans to know it is the norm."
He blinked, still in that pleasant stupor, watching her retire with the grace of a desert wind.