As the frost melted off the tips of the trees and the butterflies started flying again and the winter roses started to shrivel, the Queen in the North's babe was born. All of Winterfell rejoiced as the announcement of their new Princess came to their ears. The babe's face was small, with blue eyes and a tuft of curled tawny hair. She had a small nose and thin lips for a babe, and her skin was white as milk and cream. The Queen and King in the North named their child Jessamine, and the Northerners danced and cheered to Jessamine, their new Princess in the North.

The guests from the South have stayed in Winterfell for more than a moon's turn now, and it was evident they would be summoned to their own city anytime soon. The Heir spent his days either attending court, in the blacksmith, in the practice field helping the Lords of Winterfell train, or with his own promised Lady. It wasn't a secret that Arya and Gendry have grown closer than when they arrived. Few whispers and words of gossip seemed to spread from lips of those who witnessed their affections; words of either disbelief that their Lady has grown fondly to the Prince, or that she was already no longer a maiden. If Arya ever heard those words herself, she'd only laugh at how oblivious they were. Truthfully, the only time they spent together was in the Godswood during bleak moments of the day, watching the ice slowly melt as winter seemed to end and summer was born.

He would tell her stories of growing up in King's Landing with his brothers and sister, and of how Joffrey was a prick since birth. Arya would laugh, and she'd tell him of how she and her sister would fight and argue of stupid matters, and not stand down until their mother was forced to step in. Then he told her of life in King's Landing. Then she told him the story of when her father found her first sword. Then he reminded her that ladies don't swordfight. She called him an idiot prince, and he called her his lady.

A raven was sent to the Capitol with word of Jessamine's arrival, and a week's time later, two ravens returned. One was from the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark. He wrote of his and Catelyn's happiness and joy with the knowledge that their grandchild was born as a healthy babe. The second letter was written from the King himself, with summons to his city for the wedding of his son to the Hand's youngest daughter. When Robb told his sister, his eyes were wide with shock and equal disbelief.

"No, that's not true." Arya shook her head as she paced back and forth in her chambers. "No, they said they would give me… give us time. They said we would wait."

"Arya…"

"No, I can't get married! Not now…" Arya's head was spinning. "No, not now! I have to stay here, at home, with you and Bran and Rickon! I can't just leave. No, I still have to visit Jon… I still have to perfect my water dance, I still have to travel Westeros and across the Narrow Sea and back… and live, Robb!"

"Arya, marriage isn't like that. You're not caged."

Arya shook her head again. It felt as if spiders of ice were crawling on her skin, and she could almost hear roaring through her ears. "You're the King in the North. Nobody could cage you." Arya muttered.

"Arya, you would've had to marry one day. You can't just live like this. This is the best match you'll get; you already know him, you're already close to him. When I married, I barely even knew Margaery, only her name and that our families would benefit from our marriage." Arya could hear her brother's temper starting to rise with his sister's childish acts, but she only frowned again and her eyes were of utter loss and despair.

"They're going to make me Queen, Robb." She paused now, and her brother was silent. "This is Sansa's dream, not mine. She's always dreamt of being Queen and marrying a prince like in her songs. I… I'm not meant to be… to be Queen!"

"The Queen… Cersei wouldn't step down so soon, Arya." Robb's voice was sober, and his gaze was to the floor. "You'd still have time."

Silence fell upon the room.

"Wolves don't survive in the South." Arya whispered now.

"You won't be a wolf. You'll be a stag."


"You'll be leaving soon." Bran spoke to her in soft gentle words.

"Yes, I know." They both gazed from the tower and to the never-ending skies around them. The last of the winter wind sent a chill through the Princess's bones, and she shivered. Both the Lord and the Princess were silent now, only listening to the soft song of the wind and the low voice of Summer in his slumber.

"Will my sister be happy?"

"I think so. Lady Arya seems to enjoy my brother's company. I'll be with her as well." Myrcella continued to gaze out from the tower's window. She liked to spend her days in the tallest tower, and it was routine now for him to climb up to meet her. The first few days they only talked and she would applaud his bravery and skill of climbing, and he would act humble and shy. The next week's worth they only talked until, the Princess acted on impulse and kissed the Lord of the North. He held her close, and she welcomed his embrace. Every night would usually end at that, but now they sat at a distance apart, with Myrcella by the edge of the window and Bran leaning on the wall.

They were silent again, and even the wind seemed to stop dancing. Summer perked his ears up with the sudden change of environment, but paid no mind and returned to sleep.

Myrcella's shoulders were shaking now, and the silence was broken as she whimpered and hastily wiped tears away before they could drop from her eyes.

"Cella…"

The Princess's cries of despair only continued and grew.

A third raven arrived at the castle that morning, one addressed to the Princess herself. The Queen in the North smiled as she handed it to her, and acted as if it was something of great prosperity and joy. With a final smile for good luck, the Queen departed from Myrcella's chambers and danced away to her own child. As soon as Margaery left her room, Myrcella tore open the letter to read of her father's summons to her for the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Trystane Martell. Tucking the letter in her sleeve, she ran to the towers. When Bran found her, all she had to do was hand him the note from the South.

"Your mother wouldn't let you marry. She treasures you far too much to let you go."

"I am nearly five-and-ten. Lord Varys and Lord Baelish along with my father might have finally forced her to give me up. Maybe even my uncle was involved in this as well."

"I'll go with you." Bran's words were filled with hope, but Myrcella shook her head.

"It's only going to delay the inevitable."

"Arya is the bride, and I should be going anyways. It's my sister's wedding." He sat next to her now, and they both looked out from the tower's window. "Everything will be okay."

"And if it won't?"

"Then we'll find a way."


As the time for the party's departure grew closer, word of a deserter came to the castle. Robb was sent for the execution, and Bran and Rickon obediently accompanied him. Gendry followed as well, as he saw it was appropriate. The man had wiry brown hair and accumulated dirt on his face. His eyes constantly darted around him, as if expecting something to jump at him any second. When Robb reminded him of his Oath he took in the Night's Watch, the man nodded solemnly.

"I know I'm a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall and warned 'em but… I saw what I saw. I saw White Walkers." His voice was bleak, and only the howl of the wind and the flapping of the Stark banners were heard as the man paused. Each Northern Man looked to each other with wide eyes. "If you can get word to my family… tell them I'm a coward. Tell them I'm sorry."

Robb hesitated for the slightest second before nodding towards the men behind him, signaling for them to bring him down to the block. The deserter didn't struggle, but willingly let them grab his shoulders and push his head down into the little notch. With Ice, Robb bowed his head and recited his oath. When it was finished, Ice was brought down and the man's head dropped to the grass.


"My brother is looking for you." Joffrey leaned against the barn fence, where he woke his uncle of his slumber. "We leave for King's Landing today."

Tyrion yawned and stretched his arms before getting up and pointing to Joffrey. "Before you go, you will call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer your congratulations."

"What good are my 'congratulations' to them?" Joffrey scoffed as his uncle pushed him aside from the fence so he could start walking towards the castle.

"Nothing," Tyrion yawned again, "but it is expected of you. Your absence has already been noted."

"Their child means nothing to me." Joffrey shrugged while placing a hand on his sword. "And besides, I can't stand the wailing of babies-"

Before another sound could be muttered from his mouth, Tyrion's hand met his nephew's cheek in a sharp slap. The sound resonated through the field, and Joffrey screamed.

"One word and I hit you again."

"When we return, I'm telling-" Tyrion was practically laughing now as he slapped his nephew again. Joffrey screamed again and rubbed his cheek in pain. "You can't-" Another slap hit the prince's cheek.

"Now go!" Tyrion ordered his nephew. Joffrey glared a thousand swords at his uncle, but the Imp simply did not flinch. He stood as tall as any other man, and as brave as a true lion.

With a final groan of disgust, Joffrey stomped away from his uncle and to Robb and Margaery Stark.


With a string of goodbyes and prayers for luck, Myrcella Baratheon, the two Lords and the Lady of Winterfell, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, and the Heir to the Iron Throne were on the Kingsroad for the marriage of Arya Stark and Gendry Baratheon. The journey to King's Landing was even more tiresome than to Winterfell, with the heat of the impending summer on their shoulders, yet without Margaery stopping the party every hour or so, they made it to the city in due time.

Arya sat alone now, next to Nymeria. She was in her designated tent for the night, and she was already in her night slip with her hair pleated on her shoulder. They have been travelling for almost a moon's turn, and were expected to arrive the following morning. Her heart beat unsteadily, and her mind was swimming for some escape.

They can't force her to marry… her father certainly wouldn't let them, would he? There were so many things wrong with the betrothal. She thought of Gendry as a friend, maybe even a brother. Now he was going to be her husband, her lover even. It was an impossible thought, but it still made her heart flutter the slightest. From the anxiety, of course. She shouldn't even be betrothed at all. This is all the King's fault. Arya started to curse the King in her head.

"May I come in?" Arya's thoughts were interrupted when she heard Gendry's voice from outside her tent. It was the exact voice she dreaded to hear.

"Suit yourself." Arya didn't move her head up from her knees when the Prince entered her tent. His leather armor was removed, and now he wore his tunic and cloak. He sat down next to Arya, and neither of them dared to speak to each other until Gendry was fed up.

"I see you've been avoiding me." He said. Arya didn't reply because it was true. Every chance that he had to be with her, she'd always claim she's busy, or run off to her tent saying she was too tired. "We should be arriving tomorrow."

"I know," Arya said. She still didn't dare to look at Gendry. She felt betrayed. She knew it wasn't exclusively his fault, but her walls were already built. "Do you know when the wedding will be?"

"I'll try to ask my father to postpone it… if you wish." Gendry looked at her again. She still didn't raise her head, but she could still define his tone. Now, he was speaking to her as Prince Gendry Baratheon, the Heir to the Iron Throne, her betrothed. He wasn't speaking to her as just Gendry, her friend. He was doing her what he thought as liberties, his "duty".

"Do you think he would if you ask?" Arya questioned.

"I'm not sure." Something in Gendry seemed to deflate upon Arya's answer, and his gaze finally flicked away from her, and to the tent's entrance. "But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try."