The Songs of Winter | Robb Stark

Chapter 1

Sitting beside Arya, I lean over to help her with the tangled sewing pattern that's spread across her lap. She's furrowing her brows in fierce concentration, tongue poking out as she tugs the needle through with pure determination. I nod along encouragingly, hoping to ease some of her frustration. Finally, with a triumphant little huff, she places her hands in her lap to reveal... a mess. Threads are all knotted and twisted in every direction, barely clinging to the fabric. I can't help it—a little laugh slips out.

She scowls, crossing her arms defiantly. "Don't laugh! It's still useful."

I cover my mouth to stifle another laugh. "Yes, it would make a perfect rag to... clean with."

Arya's face scrunches up as if debating whether to be mad or amused, then she grins reluctantly. "Not everyone can be good at everything like you, Aida."

I roll my eyes and nudge her playfully. "I'm far from perfect, Arya. There's plenty I can't do."

Before I can finish, laughter and the unmistakable sound of arrows whizzing through the air fill the room. The boys are at target practice outside, their voices echoing with shouts of encouragement and playful teasing. Arya's attention shifts instantly, her eyes lighting up. She's out of her seat and halfway to the door before I even have a chance to react.

Sighing, I shake my head with a small smile, just as Septa Mordane gives me a pointed look from her place at the front of the room.

"I thought I told you to keep an eye on the girl," she says with that familiar sternness.

"Our lesson ended early," I reply innocently, trying not to laugh. She gives me a long, knowing sigh and turns away, and I seize my chance to escape.

On my way out, I pass Sansa, who's stitching away with the kind of grace that Arya would probably trade for archery skills. "Lovely work, Sansa. That's a beautiful stitch."

Stepping into the yard, I spot Arya just in time to see her release an arrow—and hit the bullseye. Bran immediately chases after her in mock offense, and soon they're both running, laughter spilling into the chilly air. I can't help but join in, their energy infectious, a rush of warmth in the cold Northern yard.

Robb notices me from where he's standing, giving me one of his classic smirks. "What brings you out here? These grounds aren't exactly suitable for a lady."

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. "We both know this lady could lay you flat on your back, Robb Stark."

He rolls his eyes, laughing. "I wouldn't mind that actually," he says, tapping my chin lightly before strolling off.

I shake my head, watching him go, but my gaze then drifts up, catching Lady Catelyn on the balcony. She's watching us all below, but her eyes settle coldly on Jon, who's trying his best to pretend he hasn't noticed her.

Crossing the yard, I tap Jon's shoulder. He turns, his expression immediately softening.

"Snow," I say, giving him a playful look.

"Song," he replies, a smirk breaking his usual quiet reserve.

I slip my arm through his, leaning in with a glint in my eye. "If I recall, you still owe me a stroll through the woods."

He arches a brow but catches on quickly realizing my rescue attempt. "Shall we, my lady?"

"We shall," I reply, giving his arm a gentle squeeze as we walk off together, his spirits lifting with each step away from the disapproving eyes above.

As we walk through the winding paths of Winterfell, headed toward the peaceful Godswood, a warmth fills my chest. Though I was born into House Song, I've always felt like I belong to the Starks—my real family.