FIRE AND ICE - ROBB STARK X TARGARYEN OC

Winterfell part2

Jon was visiting Winterfell's godswood, and while standing in front of the heart tree, his sister Arya appears seemingly out of nowhere and startles Jon.

She says that he used to be taller. Jon turns and asks how she was able to sneak up on him, prompting Arya to ask how he survived a knife to the heart. Jon responds, "I didn't".

Arya runs to Jon and they embrace, Jon lifting her in his arms. Jon remarks that she still has Needle and Arya unsheathes it. He asks if she's ever had to use it and the wild Stark wolf quietly responds, "Once or twice." After a silence, Jon shows her Longclaw, facetiously asking her if she’s jealous. Arya smilingly admires it but remarks it's too heavy for her.

Jon then confides that Robb could have used her help with Sansa in the Great Hall only for Arya to surmise that Sansa doesn't like Rhaenya nor Daenerys. She also states Sansa is the smartest person she knows and is only defending her family. Arya tells him not to forget he's family too and hugs him.
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The Red Keep has learned to stare without speaking.

Cersei Lannister walks the length of the gallery as if the stone were laid for her alone, one hand resting lightly, almost lazily, against the curve of her belly. Seven months now. No lacing can deny it, no courtly fiction can smooth it away.

So she has stopped trying.

Gold gleams at her throat. Lion-headed clasps bite into crimson velvet. The fabric falls clean over her form. The courtiers bow as she passes. They are careful with their eyes. Not too long. Not too quick.

Curiosity flickers anyway. It always does. A queen who no longer bothers to hide what everyone whispers about is a dangerous thing.

Qyburn falls into step beside her, soft-footed as a shadow.
“Your Grace,” he murmurs, “the council awaits.”

“They can wait,” Cersei replies, voice smooth as poured wine.
She pauses before a tall window overlooking King’s Landing. The city spreads below, restless, unaware, breathing smoke and rumor in equal measure.

Her reflection stares back at her in the glass. She studies it for a moment, then smiles, not warmly, but with quiet satisfaction.
“Let them talk,” she says.
Qyburn inclines his head. “They always will.”

Cersei’s fingers trace the curve of her belly, slow, deliberate.
“Good,” she says. “Fear grows best in silence… and in certainty.”

A movement beneath her hand.
She stills.
Then laughs softly, something sharp and private in the sound. “They think this weakens me,” she continues, turning from the window. “That it makes me fragile.” Her gaze cuts toward the corridor, toward the unseen court beyond. “It makes me inevitable.”

Far below, a bell tolls. The city shifts.
Cersei moves again, unhurried, unstoppable.
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Tyrion encounters Sansa in the courtyard, whom he hasn't seen since Joffrey's wedding, during which Joffrey was assassinated and she was whisked away by Littlefinger during the chaos.

"Last time we spoke was at Joffrey's wedding. Miserable affair." Tyrion recalls.

"It had its moments." She says and they both glance at each other, remembering the murder of Joffrey.

"Apologies for leaving like that." She tells him and Tyrion agrees. "Yes, it was a bit hard to explain why my wife fled moments after the king's murder"

"We both survived."  She states and Tyrion points out that many underestimated her and many are now dead.

"I'm sure you weren't thrilled to hear the Lannister army's marching north. You have every right to be fearful of my sister. No one fears her more than I do. But I promise, you'll be safe..." Tyrion tells her but is cut off by Sansa. "Cersei told you her army was coming north to fight for you?"

"She did." He confirms.

"And you believed her?" She asks skeptical.

"She has something to live for now. I believe she wants to survive." Tyrion infoms her, referring to Cersei's pregnancy.

"I used to think you were the cleverest man alive." Sansa points out and leaves Tyrion alone.
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The bedchamber at Winterfell is warm by northern standards, but the cold still lingers in the stone.
Firelight flickers against the walls, painting everything in gold and shadow. Outside, the wind presses against the shutters like something trying to be heard.
Rhaenya stands near the hearth, one hand resting at the curve of her belly, now unmistakable beneath her dark gown. The weight of it changes how she moves, but not how she holds herself.
Robb watches her from the edge of the bed.

"Your sister doesn't trust me. Nor Daenerys." She states while caressing her bump.

"She has been through a lot. From Joffrey, Cersei, the Boltons, Littlefinger. It's normal that she is reluctant to trust new people from the south." He says while getting up, Robb crosses the chamber boots echoing through the room as he comes to stand on front of his wife.

He places his hand on her stomach and feels the kick his child gives.
Robb lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, something breaking into a quiet laugh. “Gods…”
Rhaenya leans slightly into him, her voice softer than he has ever heard it. “Impatient already.” Another kick answers, as if in agreement.
Robb’s hand stays where it is, no longer tentative. Certain and alive. For a moment, he closes his eyes, forehead brushing lightly against her own.