𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 & 𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙨, 𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘣 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬

𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢 | 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖔𝖑𝖉 𝖌𝖔𝖉𝖘

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ＲＨＡＥＮＥ ＳＴＯＯＤ ＢＥＦＯＲＥ ＴＨＥ ＡＮＣＩＥＮＴ ＷＥＩＲＷＯＯＤ， staring at it with a mixture of confusion and wonder. Her family, in secret, followed R'hllor, sometimes called the Red God. She'd never had the opportunity to learn about the other cultures of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her mother kept the Seven, and oftentimes Rhaene could hear her praying in her room, but it was always when Father was away.

Sighing, Rhaene traced the face carved into the white bark, and gently hummed to herself.

"I remember you coming here as a child," a voice said from beside her.

Rhaene gasped softly, jerking in surprise.

"- I didn't mean to frighten you, my Lady, I only wanted to inquire about your absence at the feast." Robb's eyes twinkled with mirth, though he did not laugh.

The Velaryon noble bowed her head. "I offer apologies, my Lord, I only wanted to find a moment of tranquility before indulging in the, no offense, frenetic feast of the North." She allowed her eyes to move back to the Weirwood tree. "How old is it?" she asked in awe.

"It's been here for thousands of years," he responded softly, "the face was carved by the Children of The Forest. There used to be millions of them before the Andals invaded and cut them down."

Rhaene bent down and plucked a blood-red leaf off of the forest floor, turning it over in her hands. "A shame," she sighed, "it is beautiful."

"Aye," Robb responded, "it is."

Rhaene smiled to herself as she walked out of the Godswood, briefly glancing at her old friend.

"And what is it?" Robb asked impatiently, wondering if his bride-to-be was laughing at him.

She giggled softly. "Do you remember when the little Robb Stark used to chase me, a proper little lady, around in the Godswood," she smirked at him. "all because he hoped to gain her favor."

Robb smirked to himself. "I'm not little Robb Stark anymore," he reminded her, "and you're not a proper little lady anymore." His lips split into a smile as he caught her eyeing him demurely.

"And what am I, Lord Stark?" she asked, her hands joining at the waist of her blood-red gown. "If I'm not a lady, the epitome of grace and kindness, then what am I?"

"You're the future Lady of Winterfell," he responded, "and soon-to-be Rhaene Stark." He eyed her a moment. "I meant no offense, my Lady."

She ignored his last statement. "Not for a while, I gather," she said.

Robb sighed, "I suppose not. I suspect Father will want to wait until after your sixteenth nameday."

"Not long off, then," Rhaene thought to herself, though she spoke no more as they walked back to the castle.

≽ ∗ ≼

The festivities of Winterfell could be described in one word; hectic.

Rhaene had to fight a grimace as another spoonful of pie was thrown across the room, narrowly missing Lady Sansa and instead, hitting the girl who sat next to her.