Stelsa, the girl crafted from the broken leftovers from the Gods, is far from the expectations of a normal lady. Her father, Aaeron Meryls, and her uncles sought to train her in the way of the blade. Many whisper about her origin - is she bastard li...
"Her features may be cold but THAT FIRE CALLED TO HIM."
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IT HAD BEEN TWO DAYS since Stelsa sent that letter, and not a mention of a response had floated in the wind. She had tossed and turned in bed, found herself standing before the weirwood tree more than normal, and tried to busy herself with tedious tasks around Winterfell. Nothing helps. Perhaps she had been too hopeful. Perhaps such pretty words were all they were meant to be. Pretty words that were never meant to take action. They were simply for her to read, to memorize, and to seal away in the depths of her heart as she had done with everything in regards to Aemond.
Stelsa stared at the cup of water in front of her, seemingly untouched by herself as she remained lost in her thoughts. She did not dare let that slip though, not in front of all the lords of Winterfell. They would be departing on the morrow, returning to their own lands where Stelsa was sure they would write and speak of their titles and options of sons. Letters that her uncle would pass to her, letters she would have to consider. Stelsa would run from it for as long as she could. She might even run to the Wall.
Perhaps that was too bold. Perhaps her letter to Aemond had been too bold for the prince. It was new, freshly blooming, and perhaps she had tried to pluck it before it was ready. Stelsa may have felt ready, but that did not mean he did too. Had she messed it all up before they even had a chance? The lack of response made Stelsa worry that she had. With one letter, she had burnt away any chance she had with a marriage to the only boy she ever wanted such shackles with. Does she even hear herself right now? Stelsa did not need a man, prince or some future lord, to be who she needed to be. Fool, Stelsa hushed herself, you said it yourself. This is a man's realm.
Stelsa fought the urge to deflate as she continued to watch the water, ignoring the conversations happening around her. She watched as a tiny ripple appeared in the water. She glanced over at her uncle to find him speaking. Stelsa hoped he would not call her, nor any of the lords for that matter, for her opinion on a subject. She just wished to sit here and think about a life that could have been, had she not been so... impatient. She had waited years, what was a little more time?
It was a lot, Stelsa huffed. She had been waiting. Years! She was done. She was not some damsel to be played with when convenient. Nor was she a lady whose only desire was to wed and serve the men of this realm. If this realm would crush her attempts of play by its rules, by wedding a man and being a wife, then Stelsa decided she would not try again. She would not wed. She would not be any man's wife. Fuck the realm. Fuck Aemond.
She loves Aemond more than she would dare admit to herself in this moment.
Stelsa released a quiet huff of irritation, watching as the water in her cup began to tremble. She blinked once, twice, but still the water remained as it had. It jumped alongside the edges of the cup, attempting to break free. Her eyes glanced towards the large windows lining the wall, watching as a cloud of darkness began to encompass Winterfell. The lords inside the hall began to slowly rise from their seats, hands coming to rest on their blades as the room darkened and the walls began to shake. Stelsa felt eyes on her and she looked over, finding her uncle staring at her in question. What darkness had come for her home?
